Original Poem
More Than I Thought I Got
My father, standing in front of his boat
holding a large trout, is smiling
as four of his friends look on
admiringly.
I used to be jealous of my father’s
friends, because
I could not develop the kind of relationship
he had with them.
Things he enjoyed, I was never interested in; probably because
never took the time to expose me to any of them.
Time passes and our interactions devolve into one blow-up
after another.
I move out and focus on my own life;
But I’m still bitter at all the things I felt
he never gave me. We go months without
saying a word to each other.
Gone. My anger has diminished since
his passing. My love of learning,
my passion for things I enjoy, my sense of humor.
All came from him. Thanks Dad.
Instructor Feedback
Some thoughts while reading your poem, Jim: 2nd stanza, last line: "he" is needed; your last stanza is powerful and raw!! That's how it's done!! Every word counts 100% and nothing else is needed. That said, how can you get the other stanzas to be as chiseled and perfect?? --Gary
What I Modified
1. Corrected grammar errors
2. Modified stanzas 1 - 3 in an attempt to give them more power. I tried to do this by focusing more on the relationship between me and my father and less on his relationship with him and his friends.
More Than I Thought I Got
My father, looking very happy,
is standing with his friends in front of
his boat; I never once rode on it.
My father enjoyed the company
of others,
as long as that company was not me.
We never developed any kind of relationship; probably because he never exposed me to
anything he was interested in.
Every conversation we had was just one
blow-up after another.
It almost became an involuntary reflex for us to
put each other down; the goal
seemed to be to make ourselves feel
superior over the other person.
Months would go by with no interaction between us whatsoever;
I got nothing from him but an inferiority complex.
Gone. My anger has diminished since
his passing. My love of learning,
my passion for things I enjoy, my sense of humor.
All came from him. Thanks Dad.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Final Blog - Revised Short Story
Original story
Giving and Receiving
“How can people live with this stench?” Kevin thought to himself as he walked into the lobby of the Xavier Springs Nursing Facility. He couldn’t identify the source of the smell, but the feeling of nausea was overpowering. Despite being twenty-three, he’d never been in a place like this before. In addition to the odor, which he finally decided smelled like a combination of turnips and Lysol, he also was uncomfortable with the way so many of the patients just seemed to be sitting in wheelchairs doing nothing. He went to front desk and asked what room his Aunt Rita was in. While his she was his favorite aunt, Kevin couldn’t wait to get out of this place.
As he walked down the long corridor of towards his aunt’s room, he heard someone asking for tapioca pudding. The odd thing was she kept asking for it over and over again. He looked in the room where the sound was coming from and saw there was no one in there but a small woman in a big bed. “Just ignore her,” said a girl who looked much younger than Kevin, “that’s all she says all day long.” “Wow, that must be annoying.” “Well, you get used to it after a while.” Finally, he got to his aunt’s room and knocked on the door. A very weak voice beckoned him to come in. Despite the low volume of the voice, he recognized it and walked in. He was immediately struck by how sad she looked. Rita had tried really hard to stay in her apartment, but after a fall her niece Carol (Rita had never married and had no immediate family) had decided that she couldn’t take care of herself anymore and the only place she could afford was this facility. As soon as he came toward her, she started to cry. “Please get me out here Kevin, I hate this place.” Kevin immediately wished he’d never come. What was he going to say? She went on to tell him that while everyone was very nice to her she felt like she was in prison. He could certainly see what she meant. The cinder block walls were barren, and the room was very dark, even with the lights on. People had come to visit her, but she wondered how long that would last. “People have their own lives; they don’t want to come see a decrepit old woman.” Kevin asked where all the stuff from her apartment was. “Carol put it in storage for me.” “Well, maybe it might be more like your apartment if you had some of your things in here.” Rita agreed and gave him a list of things she’d like to have in her room. Kevin promised to return the following week with the items.
Week after week Kevin came; he even began to tolerate the smell, though he never got used to the “tapioca woman”. One time he was asking Rita about her life when she was little. He found himself fascinated by things that happened when she and her brother (Kevin’s father who had died a few years earlier) were growing up. He’d never been particularly close to his father, and was both sad that he didn’t know much of what she told him, but happy to finally be getting so much insight into his father’s life when he was little.
Kevin continued his periodic visits to see his aunt until she contracted pneumonia and died after three days. At Rita’s funeral, his cousin Carol handed him a package. She told him that she had found it in a drawer at the nursing home. He opened the package and saw that it was pages that she had taken out of one of the photo albums he had brought her from storage. They were all pictures of his father growing up. In addition, she had included several pages of reflections on each of the pictures. It appeared that she had been working on it for some time, but hadn’t finished it before she got sick. Paper clipped to the first page was a note that said “Kevin, I know you miss your father. Hopefully these pictures and my ramblings about them will bring you a little happiness. Goodness knows your visits have brought me more joy than you can imagine. Think fondly of me whenever you have tapioca pudding! Love, Aunt Rita.”
Instructor feedback on story (includes corrections in italics)
Giving and Receiving
“How can people live with this stench?” Kevin thought to himself as he walked into the lobby of the Xavier Springs Nursing Facility. strong opening line He couldn’t identify the source of the smell, but the feeling of nausea was overpowering. Despite being twenty-three, he’d never been in a place like this before. In addition to the odor, which he finally decided smelled like a combination of turnips and Lysol, he also was uncomfortable with the way so many of the patients just seemed to be sitting in wheelchairs doing nothing. He went to the front desk and asked what room his Aunt Rita was in. While his she was his favorite aunt, Kevin couldn’t wait to get out of this place.
As he walked down the long corridor of towards his aunt’s room, he heard someone asking for tapioca pudding. The odd thing was she kept asking for it over and over again. He looked in the room where the sound was coming from and saw there was no one in there but a small woman in a big bed. “Just ignore her,” said a girl who looked much younger than Kevin. “That’s all she says all day long.” “Wow, that must be annoying.” “Well, you get used to it after a while.” Finally, he got to his aunt’s room and knocked on the door. A very weak voice beckoned him to come in. Despite the low volume of the voice, he recognized it and walked in. He was immediately struck by how sad she looked. Rita had tried really hard to stay in her apartment, but after a fall her niece Carol (Rita had never married and had no immediate family) had decided that she couldn’t take care of herself anymore and the only place she could afford was this facility. As soon as he came toward her, she started to cry. “Please get me out here Kevin, I hate this place.” comma splice Kevin immediately wished he’d never come. What was he going to say? She went on to tell him that while everyone was very nice to her she felt like she was in prison. He could certainly see what she meant. The cinder block walls were barren, and the room was very dark, even with the lights on. People had come to visit her, but she wondered how long that would last. “People have their own lives; they don’t want to come see a decrepit old woman.” Kevin asked where all the stuff from her apartment was. “Carol put it in storage for me.” “Well, maybe it might be more like your apartment if you had some of your things in here.” Rita agreed and gave him a list of things she’d like to have in her room. Kevin promised to return the following week with the items.
Week after week Kevin came; he even began to tolerate the smell, though he never got used to the “tapioca woman”. place period inside the qmarks One time he was asking Rita about her life when she was little. He found himself fascinated by things that happened when she and her brother (Kevin’s father who had died a few years earlier) were growing up. He’d never been particularly close to his father, and was both sad that he didn’t know much of what she told him, but happy to finally be getting so much insight into his father’s life when he was little.
Kevin continued his periodic visits to see his aunt until she contracted pneumonia and died after three days. [ later. omit] At Rita’s funeral, his cousin Carol handed him a package. She told him that she had found it in a drawer at the nursing home. He opened the package and saw that it was pages that she had taken out of one of the photo albums he had brought her from storage. They were all pictures of his father growing up. In addition, she had included several pages of reflections on each of the pictures. It appeared that she had been working on it for some time, but hadn’t finished it before she got sick. Paper clipped to the first page was a note that said, “Kevin, I know you miss your father. Hopefully these pictures and my ramblings about them will bring you a little happiness. Goodness knows your visits have brought me more joy than you can imagine. Think fondly of me whenever you have tapioca pudding! Love, Aunt Rita.” funny and perfect last line!
Instructor Feedback
Hi Jim: Your Kevin's certainly an ordinary character in a very ordinary setting (though I'd like to see the setting be a bit more symbolic of what he discovers or learns) who finds something extraordinary that changes his life in a small but very significant way. Your story has a strong sense of plot, characters, and setting. Overall, strong work. But review how to handle / format dialogue. Notice models in our text. See how each exchange of dialogue typically gets its own line. Dialogue is handled as though it's a new paragraph, which means line breaks. Contact me if you need help. The revision module is activated so that you can start thinking about how you'd like to re-see this piece for your portfolio / blog. Oh, and about the two page limit: well, that's to make sure students don't ramble and say a lot of nothing:) Two pages means you really have to think about what goes into your story and what doesn't belong. Word economy and purpose are very important. W/out them your readers may get the sense you're wasting their time. Make sense? --Gary
Suggestions incorporated into revised story:
1. Split up dialogue so each speaker was a new paragraph
2. Made the setting more symbolic by having Kevin reflect on the last time he was in this nursing home; visting his father who ultimately died there.
3. Cleaned up grammatical errors (incorrect pronouns, comma splice, period outside of quotation marks.
Modified story
Giving and Receiving
“How can people live with this stench?” Kevin thought to himself as he walked into the lobby of the Xavier Springs Nursing Facility. He couldn’t identify the source of the smell, but the feeling of nausea was overpowering. Despite being twenty-three, he’d never been in a place like this before. In addition to the odor, which he finally decided smelled like a combination of turnips and Lysol, he also was uncomfortable with the way so many of the patients just seemed to be sitting in wheelchairs doing nothing. He went to front desk and asked what room his Aunt Rita was in. While his she was his favorite aunt, Kevin couldn’t wait to get out of this place.
As he walked down the long corridor of towards his aunt’s room, he heard someone asking for tapioca pudding. The odd thing was she kept asking for it over and over again. He looked in the room where the sound was coming from and saw there was no one in there but a small woman in a big bed. “Just ignore her,” said a girl who looked much younger than Kevin, “that’s all she says all day long.” “Wow, that must be annoying.” “Well, you get used to it after a while.” Finally, he got to his aunt’s room and knocked on the door. A very weak voice beckoned him to come in. Despite the low volume of the voice, he recognized it and walked in. He was immediately struck by how sad she looked. Rita had tried really hard to stay in her apartment, but after a fall her niece Carol (Rita had never married and had no immediate family) had decided that she couldn’t take care of herself anymore and the only place she could afford was this facility. As soon as he came toward her, she started to cry. “Please get me out here Kevin, I hate this place.” Kevin immediately wished he’d never come. What was he going to say? She went on to tell him that while everyone was very nice to her she felt like she was in prison. He could certainly see what she meant. The cinder block walls were barren, and the room was very dark, even with the lights on. People had come to visit her, but she wondered how long that would last. “People have their own lives; they don’t want to come see a decrepit old woman.” Kevin asked where all the stuff from her apartment was. “Carol put it in storage for me.” “Well, maybe it might be more like your apartment if you had some of your things in here.” Rita agreed and gave him a list of things she’d like to have in her room. Kevin promised to return the following week with the items.
Week after week Kevin came; he even began to tolerate the smell, though he never got used to the “tapioca woman”. One time he was asking Rita about her life when she was little. He found himself fascinated by things that happened when she and her brother (Kevin’s father who had died a few years earlier) were growing up. He’d never been particularly close to his father, and was both sad that he didn’t know much of what she told him, but happy to finally be getting so much insight into his father’s life when he was little.
Kevin continued his periodic visits to see his aunt until she contracted pneumonia and died after three days. At Rita’s funeral, his cousin Carol handed him a package. She told him that she had found it in a drawer at the nursing home. He opened the package and saw that it was pages that she had taken out of one of the photo albums he had brought her from storage. They were all pictures of his father growing up. In addition, she had included several pages of reflections on each of the pictures. It appeared that she had been working on it for some time, but hadn’t finished it before she got sick. Paper clipped to the first page was a note that said “Kevin, I know you miss your father. Hopefully these pictures and my ramblings about them will bring you a little happiness. Goodness knows your visits have brought me more joy than you can imagine. Think fondly of me whenever you have tapioca pudding! Love, Aunt Rita.”
Instructor feedback on story (includes corrections in italics)
Giving and Receiving
“How can people live with this stench?” Kevin thought to himself as he walked into the lobby of the Xavier Springs Nursing Facility. strong opening line He couldn’t identify the source of the smell, but the feeling of nausea was overpowering. Despite being twenty-three, he’d never been in a place like this before. In addition to the odor, which he finally decided smelled like a combination of turnips and Lysol, he also was uncomfortable with the way so many of the patients just seemed to be sitting in wheelchairs doing nothing. He went to the front desk and asked what room his Aunt Rita was in. While his she was his favorite aunt, Kevin couldn’t wait to get out of this place.
As he walked down the long corridor of towards his aunt’s room, he heard someone asking for tapioca pudding. The odd thing was she kept asking for it over and over again. He looked in the room where the sound was coming from and saw there was no one in there but a small woman in a big bed. “Just ignore her,” said a girl who looked much younger than Kevin. “That’s all she says all day long.” “Wow, that must be annoying.” “Well, you get used to it after a while.” Finally, he got to his aunt’s room and knocked on the door. A very weak voice beckoned him to come in. Despite the low volume of the voice, he recognized it and walked in. He was immediately struck by how sad she looked. Rita had tried really hard to stay in her apartment, but after a fall her niece Carol (Rita had never married and had no immediate family) had decided that she couldn’t take care of herself anymore and the only place she could afford was this facility. As soon as he came toward her, she started to cry. “Please get me out here Kevin, I hate this place.” comma splice Kevin immediately wished he’d never come. What was he going to say? She went on to tell him that while everyone was very nice to her she felt like she was in prison. He could certainly see what she meant. The cinder block walls were barren, and the room was very dark, even with the lights on. People had come to visit her, but she wondered how long that would last. “People have their own lives; they don’t want to come see a decrepit old woman.” Kevin asked where all the stuff from her apartment was. “Carol put it in storage for me.” “Well, maybe it might be more like your apartment if you had some of your things in here.” Rita agreed and gave him a list of things she’d like to have in her room. Kevin promised to return the following week with the items.
Week after week Kevin came; he even began to tolerate the smell, though he never got used to the “tapioca woman”. place period inside the qmarks One time he was asking Rita about her life when she was little. He found himself fascinated by things that happened when she and her brother (Kevin’s father who had died a few years earlier) were growing up. He’d never been particularly close to his father, and was both sad that he didn’t know much of what she told him, but happy to finally be getting so much insight into his father’s life when he was little.
Kevin continued his periodic visits to see his aunt until she contracted pneumonia and died after three days. [ later. omit] At Rita’s funeral, his cousin Carol handed him a package. She told him that she had found it in a drawer at the nursing home. He opened the package and saw that it was pages that she had taken out of one of the photo albums he had brought her from storage. They were all pictures of his father growing up. In addition, she had included several pages of reflections on each of the pictures. It appeared that she had been working on it for some time, but hadn’t finished it before she got sick. Paper clipped to the first page was a note that said, “Kevin, I know you miss your father. Hopefully these pictures and my ramblings about them will bring you a little happiness. Goodness knows your visits have brought me more joy than you can imagine. Think fondly of me whenever you have tapioca pudding! Love, Aunt Rita.” funny and perfect last line!
Instructor Feedback
Hi Jim: Your Kevin's certainly an ordinary character in a very ordinary setting (though I'd like to see the setting be a bit more symbolic of what he discovers or learns) who finds something extraordinary that changes his life in a small but very significant way. Your story has a strong sense of plot, characters, and setting. Overall, strong work. But review how to handle / format dialogue. Notice models in our text. See how each exchange of dialogue typically gets its own line. Dialogue is handled as though it's a new paragraph, which means line breaks. Contact me if you need help. The revision module is activated so that you can start thinking about how you'd like to re-see this piece for your portfolio / blog. Oh, and about the two page limit: well, that's to make sure students don't ramble and say a lot of nothing:) Two pages means you really have to think about what goes into your story and what doesn't belong. Word economy and purpose are very important. W/out them your readers may get the sense you're wasting their time. Make sense? --Gary
Suggestions incorporated into revised story:
1. Split up dialogue so each speaker was a new paragraph
2. Made the setting more symbolic by having Kevin reflect on the last time he was in this nursing home; visting his father who ultimately died there.
3. Cleaned up grammatical errors (incorrect pronouns, comma splice, period outside of quotation marks.
Modified story
Giving and Receiving
“Man, this is the same stench from two years ago!” Kevin thought to himself as he walked into the lobby of the Xavier Springs Nursing Facility.
Just like then, when he came to visit his father here, the smell of turnips and Lysol brought an overpowering sense of naseau. Once again, he also was uncomfortable with the way so many of the patients just seemed to be sitting in wheelchairs doing nothing. He went to the front desk and asked what room his Aunt Rita was in. While she was his favorite aunt, Kevin couldn’t wait to get out of this place.
As he walked down the long corridor of towards his aunt’s room, he heard someone asking for tapioca pudding. The odd thing was she kept asking for it over and over again. He looked in the room where the sound was coming from and saw there was no one in there but a small woman in a big bed.
“Just ignore her,” said a girl who looked much younger than Kevin, “that’s all she says all day long.”
“Wow, that must be annoying.”
“Well, you get used to it after a while.”
Finally, he got to his aunt’s room and knocked on the door. A very weak voice beckoned him to come in. Despite the low volume of the voice, he recognized it and walked in. He was immediately struck by how sad she looked. Rita had tried really hard to stay in her apartment, but after a fall her niece Carol (Rita had never married and had no immediate family) had decided that she couldn’t take care of herself anymore and the only place she could afford was this facility. As soon as he came toward her, she started to cry.
“Please get me out here Kevin; I hate this place.”
Kevin immediately wished he’d never come. What was he going to say? She went on to tell him that while everyone was very nice to her she felt like she was in prison. He could certainly see what she meant. The cinder block walls were barren, and the room was very dark, even with the lights on. People had come to visit her, but she wondered how long that would last.
“People have their own lives; they don’t want to come see a decrepit old woman.”
Kevin asked where all the stuff from her apartment was. “Carol put it in storage for me.”
“Well, maybe it might be more like your apartment if you had some of your things in here.”
Rita agreed and gave him a list of things she’d like to have in her room. Kevin promised to return the following week with the items.
Week after week Kevin came; he even began to tolerate the smell, though he never got used to the “tapioca woman." One time he was asking Rita about her life when she was little. He found himself fascinated by things that happened when she and her brother (Kevin’s father) were growing up. He’d never been particularly close to his father, and was both sad that he didn’t know much of what she told him, but happy to finally be getting so much insight into his father’s life when he was little.
Kevin continued his periodic visits to see his aunt until she contracted pneumonia and died three days later. At Rita’s funeral, his cousin Carol handed him a package. She told him that she had found it in a drawer at the nursing home. He opened the package and saw that it was pages that she had taken out of one of the photo albums he had brought her from storage. They were all pictures of his father growing up. In addition, she had included several pages of reflections on each of the pictures. It appeared that she had been working on it for some time, but hadn’t finished it before she got sick. Paper clipped to the first page was a note that said “Kevin, I know you miss your father. Hopefully these pictures and my ramblings about them will bring you a little happiness. Goodness knows your visits have brought me more joy than you can imagine. Think fondly of me whenever you have tapioca pudding! Love, Aunt Rita.”
Final Blog - Short/short prose poem - Five Frame Advancement
He remembers how he met her on a hay ride when
their church group went to pick apples. She was chilly and
he offered her his overcoat.
He remembers the day he stood in the church grinning from
ear to ear when the minister told him he could kiss the bride.
He remembers taking their daughter to baptized; she wouldn't
stop crying, but his wife just held her and looked so proud.
He remembers all the parishoners telling him she was
in a better place after her death from cancer, and that
one day they would be together again.
He remembers how desperately he wanted to believe
that; he had been a Christian all his life. But he knew in
his heart that she was gone and he would never see her
again; and that belief, he wishes he could forget.
The Final Letter
Gary,
I must say that I am quite pleased with the progress I have made over the past six weeks. Prior to taking this class, I wondered if I would really get anything out of it and if it would be worth my while. One of the reasons I took this class over the summer, is because I didn’t want to have to spend 15 weeks taking it at Roberts Wesleyan. Imagine my surprise, when I found that not only was it not a waste of time, but it actually provided me with opportunities to hone skills I had rarely if ever used before.
When it came to writing fiction, I was admittedly concerned. All of the writing I have done in the past twenty plus years has been solely non-fiction. Would I be able to make up things that would constitute an interesting story? I feel the answer was yes. The use of the journal assignments was very helpful as an introduction to writing a whole story. I especially liked the “Beginnings” exercise where the whole focus was simply on coming up with an introductory sentence that would grab the reader’s attention. The other helpful piece, for me anyway, was providing a framework of what you wanted our stories to be about. Having to write a story from scratch would have been difficult; writing a story centered on a particular song, was actually fun. I was able use the song as a springboard for what would happen in the story.
I definitely struggled with the poetry section; but also felt that I learned way more than I thought I would. Certainly I was familiar with terms such as “alliteration” and “metaphor,” but it was great to be able to identify the uses of those terms in poems and then ultimately incorporate them into my own work. One helpful piece was the way the course transitioned from fiction into poetry. The whole short short story to a prose poem made the transition far easier than it would have been if we had just jumped head first into writing poems. The other thing that I really liked about the poetry section was that much of what we wrote about was based on our experiences, rather than trying to craft some love poem written from someone else’s perspective.
I’ll confess, I think the class might have been more engaging for me if I had not taken it online. While the discussion sections were interesting, at least from the perspective of how other people saw writing, there wasn’t the opportunity (or maybe it’s a case of where I didn’t take the opportunity) to flesh out some of the comments that were made. I do feel that this class will be useful once I begin my new career as an elementary school teacher. Writing can be a very dry and boring subject, but utilizing some of the exercises that we did, could certainly engage the kids so that they actually feel the same creative flow that I did over the last few weeks.
Jim
I must say that I am quite pleased with the progress I have made over the past six weeks. Prior to taking this class, I wondered if I would really get anything out of it and if it would be worth my while. One of the reasons I took this class over the summer, is because I didn’t want to have to spend 15 weeks taking it at Roberts Wesleyan. Imagine my surprise, when I found that not only was it not a waste of time, but it actually provided me with opportunities to hone skills I had rarely if ever used before.
When it came to writing fiction, I was admittedly concerned. All of the writing I have done in the past twenty plus years has been solely non-fiction. Would I be able to make up things that would constitute an interesting story? I feel the answer was yes. The use of the journal assignments was very helpful as an introduction to writing a whole story. I especially liked the “Beginnings” exercise where the whole focus was simply on coming up with an introductory sentence that would grab the reader’s attention. The other helpful piece, for me anyway, was providing a framework of what you wanted our stories to be about. Having to write a story from scratch would have been difficult; writing a story centered on a particular song, was actually fun. I was able use the song as a springboard for what would happen in the story.
I definitely struggled with the poetry section; but also felt that I learned way more than I thought I would. Certainly I was familiar with terms such as “alliteration” and “metaphor,” but it was great to be able to identify the uses of those terms in poems and then ultimately incorporate them into my own work. One helpful piece was the way the course transitioned from fiction into poetry. The whole short short story to a prose poem made the transition far easier than it would have been if we had just jumped head first into writing poems. The other thing that I really liked about the poetry section was that much of what we wrote about was based on our experiences, rather than trying to craft some love poem written from someone else’s perspective.
I’ll confess, I think the class might have been more engaging for me if I had not taken it online. While the discussion sections were interesting, at least from the perspective of how other people saw writing, there wasn’t the opportunity (or maybe it’s a case of where I didn’t take the opportunity) to flesh out some of the comments that were made. I do feel that this class will be useful once I begin my new career as an elementary school teacher. Writing can be a very dry and boring subject, but utilizing some of the exercises that we did, could certainly engage the kids so that they actually feel the same creative flow that I did over the last few weeks.
Jim
Final Blog - Poem modification #2
Here is the original poem; following that are the changes you suggested.
Fear of Flying
The early 80s for me meant freedom.
Being able to drink at only 19 and cruising
without a seatbelt.
A trip to Syracuse University
to drop my sister off.
One more week and I would be singing
as a student at the Eastman School of Music;
But tonight,
My friend and I were ready for some of that legal booze.
Once we left the bar,
we drove off in his big blue boat.
We flew up a hill,
it was fun how your stomach felt when you did that.
We were going the wrong way.
"Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor blared on the radio
I wondered if I would survive as we swerved to miss
the truck
and ran head on into
a tree.
I felt like I was slowly flying,
as I went through windshield; there was
blood everywhere.
My head is stapled from front to back;
Frankenstein's monster has nothing on me.
Depression and anger for months while my body healed.
I could never go to Eastman looking like a freak;
my music career was over before it had begun.
Fear of Flying
The early 80s [for me] omit meant freedom.
Being able to drink at only 19 and cruising
without a seatbelt.
I took a trip to Syracuse University
to drop my sister off.
One more week and I would be singing
as a student at the Eastman School of Music;
But tonight,My friend and I were ready for some of that legal booze.
Once we left the bar,we drove off in his big blue boat, an Oldsmobile, __________.what kind of car though?
We flew up a hill;
it was fun how your stomach felt when you did that.
We were going the wrong way."Eye of the Tiger," by Survivor blared on the radio you're making me feel old:) thanks!!
I wondered if I would survive as we swerved to miss
the truckand ran head on into
a tree.
I felt like I was slowly flying,
as I went through the windshield; there was
blood everywhere.
My head is stapled from front to back;
Frankenstein's monster has nothing on me. funny
I was depressed and angry for months while my body healed.
I could never go to Eastman looking like a freak;
my music career was over before it had begun.
Instructor Feedback
Jim, for the poetry section I'll be providing lots of in-text commentary and I'll be making lots of suggestions for you to consider. Your job is to have an open mind and to decide what it's going to take to make your poems be their best. I'm not asking you to regurgitate my suggestions. I only want you to review them objectively.Gary
Modified Poem
Fear of Flying
The early 80s meant freedom.
Being able to drink at 19 and riding legally
without a seatbelt.
I took a trip to Syracuse University
to drop off my sister.
The next week I would be singing
as a student at the Eastman School of Music;
But tonight,
my friend and I were ready for some of the legal booze.
Once we left the bar,
we drove off in his big blue boat, an Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight.
We flew up a hill;
It was fun how your stomach felt when you did that.
We were going the wrong way up a one way street.
"Eye of the Tiger," by Survivor blared on the radio.
I wondered if I would survive as we swerved to miss
the truck
and ran head on into
a tree.
I felt like I was slowly flying,
as I went through the windshield; there was
blood everywhere.
My head is stapled from front to back;
Frankenstein's monster has nothing on me.
I was depressed and angry for months while my body healed.
I would never go to Eastman looking like a freak;
my music career was over before it had begun.
Fear of Flying
The early 80s for me meant freedom.
Being able to drink at only 19 and cruising
without a seatbelt.
A trip to Syracuse University
to drop my sister off.
One more week and I would be singing
as a student at the Eastman School of Music;
But tonight,
My friend and I were ready for some of that legal booze.
Once we left the bar,
we drove off in his big blue boat.
We flew up a hill,
it was fun how your stomach felt when you did that.
We were going the wrong way.
"Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor blared on the radio
I wondered if I would survive as we swerved to miss
the truck
and ran head on into
a tree.
I felt like I was slowly flying,
as I went through windshield; there was
blood everywhere.
My head is stapled from front to back;
Frankenstein's monster has nothing on me.
Depression and anger for months while my body healed.
I could never go to Eastman looking like a freak;
my music career was over before it had begun.
Fear of Flying
The early 80s [for me] omit meant freedom.
Being able to drink at only 19 and cruising
without a seatbelt.
I took a trip to Syracuse University
to drop my sister off.
One more week and I would be singing
as a student at the Eastman School of Music;
But tonight,My friend and I were ready for some of that legal booze.
Once we left the bar,we drove off in his big blue boat, an Oldsmobile, __________.what kind of car though?
We flew up a hill;
it was fun how your stomach felt when you did that.
We were going the wrong way."Eye of the Tiger," by Survivor blared on the radio you're making me feel old:) thanks!!
I wondered if I would survive as we swerved to miss
the truckand ran head on into
a tree.
I felt like I was slowly flying,
as I went through the windshield; there was
blood everywhere.
My head is stapled from front to back;
Frankenstein's monster has nothing on me. funny
I was depressed and angry for months while my body healed.
I could never go to Eastman looking like a freak;
my music career was over before it had begun.
Instructor Feedback
Jim, for the poetry section I'll be providing lots of in-text commentary and I'll be making lots of suggestions for you to consider. Your job is to have an open mind and to decide what it's going to take to make your poems be their best. I'm not asking you to regurgitate my suggestions. I only want you to review them objectively.Gary
Modified Poem
Fear of Flying
The early 80s meant freedom.
Being able to drink at 19 and riding legally
without a seatbelt.
I took a trip to Syracuse University
to drop off my sister.
The next week I would be singing
as a student at the Eastman School of Music;
But tonight,
my friend and I were ready for some of the legal booze.
Once we left the bar,
we drove off in his big blue boat, an Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight.
We flew up a hill;
It was fun how your stomach felt when you did that.
We were going the wrong way up a one way street.
"Eye of the Tiger," by Survivor blared on the radio.
I wondered if I would survive as we swerved to miss
the truck
and ran head on into
a tree.
I felt like I was slowly flying,
as I went through the windshield; there was
blood everywhere.
My head is stapled from front to back;
Frankenstein's monster has nothing on me.
I was depressed and angry for months while my body healed.
I would never go to Eastman looking like a freak;
my music career was over before it had begun.
The Secret of Writing: Revising Fiction and Poetry Journal Assignment: Poetry #3
The poem Attic Revelation starts out a garbled mess. The poem itself is inexplicable, using such archaic words as Minerva (who knows or cares who that is?), quiescent, twined, puissant and atavistic. He also uses trite language with the phrase "I learned too late." In addition, the poem suffers from adjectivitis. The poem seems to go on forever with the overuse of adjectives. These include anguished, tormented, darkened, quiescent, childish, dusty, puissant, atavistic, trembling, resuscitated, aging, inarticulate, unreconcilable, and suicidal. It almost seems like ever other word has an adjective attached too it.
By the first revision, there is at least an attempt made at a cohesive work. While there are specific images (oil-painted portrait, "tore it up and slapped me", "picture was a portrait of my dad who had killed himself three months before I had been born,") it still is difficult to read mainly because it seems overly verbose. We still have the problem from the last poem with misuse of allusions and mythology with Hermes replacing Minerva. There is also a problem with nautical metaphors (boatless winter lake, Titanic's broken hull,) that have no relevance whatsoever to the overall tone and content of the poem. If you strip away all the superfluous words, the poem itself is rather lifeless and dull.
By the second draft, the poem really comes alive. First of all, it reads like a story, not a poem where you need to spend hours trying to figure out the meaning. The use of adjectives has been greatly scaled back resulting in a poem that flows much better. This version also has much better clarity. The first sentence sets the stage and catches the reader's interest. The writing also provides information in a subtle manner. It isn't as blatent as the first revision, but by the same token it's not as garbled and confusing as the first version. Finally, adjectivitis is kept to a minimum. The flow of the poem is so much better when unnecessary words are removed. You still get the image the author is trying to convey, with burrowing through a lot of words that seem to be there just to take up space
Instructor Feedback
I am pretty obsessive about editing my own work. I work over and through it until there is nothing I haven't tested. And I can say it over and over, but I'll let this quote (can't remember the author's name) speak for me here: "I have rewritten--often several times--every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasers."
--Gary
By the first revision, there is at least an attempt made at a cohesive work. While there are specific images (oil-painted portrait, "tore it up and slapped me", "picture was a portrait of my dad who had killed himself three months before I had been born,") it still is difficult to read mainly because it seems overly verbose. We still have the problem from the last poem with misuse of allusions and mythology with Hermes replacing Minerva. There is also a problem with nautical metaphors (boatless winter lake, Titanic's broken hull,) that have no relevance whatsoever to the overall tone and content of the poem. If you strip away all the superfluous words, the poem itself is rather lifeless and dull.
By the second draft, the poem really comes alive. First of all, it reads like a story, not a poem where you need to spend hours trying to figure out the meaning. The use of adjectives has been greatly scaled back resulting in a poem that flows much better. This version also has much better clarity. The first sentence sets the stage and catches the reader's interest. The writing also provides information in a subtle manner. It isn't as blatent as the first revision, but by the same token it's not as garbled and confusing as the first version. Finally, adjectivitis is kept to a minimum. The flow of the poem is so much better when unnecessary words are removed. You still get the image the author is trying to convey, with burrowing through a lot of words that seem to be there just to take up space
Instructor Feedback
I am pretty obsessive about editing my own work. I work over and through it until there is nothing I haven't tested. And I can say it over and over, but I'll let this quote (can't remember the author's name) speak for me here: "I have rewritten--often several times--every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasers."
--Gary
The Secret of Writing: Revising Fiction and Poetry Journal Assignment: Poetry #2
Tracks of the Wandering Mind
I want sometimes naught but to weep
As standing by the trestle deep
I long to follow that railroad train
To a realm of dream that's free of pain.
What an urge I have to stray somewhere.
On a train that's bigger than a bear
Which climbs up toward old mountain peaks
And watch the sea for days and weeks.
A train to some vast tropic isle
Where swaying beauty makes me smile.
But the trains of reality just skitter off
And my city home where pollution does cough
Doesn't let me see the pyramids
Or drink till dawn with memory's kids,
Or ride off to the Orient
To get away from this discontent.
But today something inside me went through a shift
And gave my sprits that needed lift,
And I bid adieu to my dreams of escape
While the train roared through like a ghostly shape.
1. The archaic word in the first line would be the word “naught.” Even I don’t use this word, and I even use the word “beckon” (as a response to your query about whether or not I use that word.)
2. The phrase in line two that seems artificial is “trestle deep.” It would make more sense to invert it to “deep trestle.”
3. The silliness in line 6 is comparing a train to a bear. It appears the author did it simply to have a rhyme with the word “somewhere.”
4. As to stale phrases, I was going to say one was “the train roared through like a ghostly shape,” but I actually like the phrase. So, I’ll go with “gave my spirits a needed lift,” and “I bid adieu to my dreams of escape.” The spirits a needed lift is certainly stale; the “bid adieu” is certainly not used very often, but the sentiment it implies is seems very stale.
5. “I sometimes want to do nothing but cry”“As I stand in the ditch next to the tracks,”
“I wish that the train that’s passing“
“could take me to a place where I would feel no pain.”
Instructor Feedback
In my poetry I avoid words that I don't use during everyday life. That's the point here, to be true.
Gary
I want sometimes naught but to weep
As standing by the trestle deep
I long to follow that railroad train
To a realm of dream that's free of pain.
What an urge I have to stray somewhere.
On a train that's bigger than a bear
Which climbs up toward old mountain peaks
And watch the sea for days and weeks.
A train to some vast tropic isle
Where swaying beauty makes me smile.
But the trains of reality just skitter off
And my city home where pollution does cough
Doesn't let me see the pyramids
Or drink till dawn with memory's kids,
Or ride off to the Orient
To get away from this discontent.
But today something inside me went through a shift
And gave my sprits that needed lift,
And I bid adieu to my dreams of escape
While the train roared through like a ghostly shape.
1. The archaic word in the first line would be the word “naught.” Even I don’t use this word, and I even use the word “beckon” (as a response to your query about whether or not I use that word.)
2. The phrase in line two that seems artificial is “trestle deep.” It would make more sense to invert it to “deep trestle.”
3. The silliness in line 6 is comparing a train to a bear. It appears the author did it simply to have a rhyme with the word “somewhere.”
4. As to stale phrases, I was going to say one was “the train roared through like a ghostly shape,” but I actually like the phrase. So, I’ll go with “gave my spirits a needed lift,” and “I bid adieu to my dreams of escape.” The spirits a needed lift is certainly stale; the “bid adieu” is certainly not used very often, but the sentiment it implies is seems very stale.
5. “I sometimes want to do nothing but cry”“As I stand in the ditch next to the tracks,”
“I wish that the train that’s passing“
“could take me to a place where I would feel no pain.”
Instructor Feedback
In my poetry I avoid words that I don't use during everyday life. That's the point here, to be true.
Gary
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