Fiction Portfolio, Revisited

A circumspect reflection on a unit should focus primarily on what I learned. So I shall revisit my portfolio and give a more complete account…

In fiction, the goal that I tried hardest to achieve was to make characters walk off the page – saunter, in some cases, or crawl or sprint. I did this through careful observation of people going about their daily routines as I went about mine. Small movements, the way people acted or talked, were under the scrutiny of my covetous eye. Writing stranger studies instigated a constant sketching of them in my head. Running commentary and fiction narrative scrolled through my thoughts as I met people, observed them, looked at them from afar. This whole process, which was brought out during the unit and intensified as it progressed, helped make me pay attention to how characters might walk off the page – with a jaunty off-step, or with a slight limp due to a previous injury that the reader does not find out about until the end of the story, or with a wink and a line: “Be good. I’ll come check on you tomorrow.”

But it’s quite difficult, creating a full portrait of a character in such a way that he comes to life for the reader. I feel that many of the characters in my short stories and exercises fall flat. (My extraordinary –> ordinary piece is an example of underdeveloped characters.) I realized the challenge of keeping out of the cliché. At times I felt that the expressions I used were very colloquial and somewhat static. It was difficult to write in a different way, with descriptions that were solely unique to the person, and with a new, fresh perspective. In order to develop my characters, I created their back-stories in my head, so that whether I chose to take anything from them or not, the knowledge of their past and their person would still influence the way I wrote about the character in the story.

One risk I took was the experimentation of inhabiting different characters’ voices. I struggled to break out of my own lyrical, quiet, fairytale-like narrative voice to take on different personas and sound convincing. I tried to do this in both my myth re-appropriation The Boy Who Cried, in which I took on the voice of the “villain” character who is usually not given much thought, and in my first person narrative “Pete’s First Date,” in which I adopted the voice of a character I normally would not write about or from the perspective of. First person was by far the hardest voice to write from, mainly because I wanted to interject as the writer, or simply found it hard to break out of my already established style of writing which I had become rather attached to. Speaking of attachment, I wonder if it dangerous to become too attached to your characters. What degree of distance should the writer maintain? Is the goal to have as little distance as possible? Or will the writer become too involved rather than let the character tell his/her own story?

I think the aspect of writing fiction that I explored most extensively was dialogue. Technique-wise, this is the area that I learned the most in and improved the most in. Before our studies and exercises in dialogue, I was not consciously aware of the different ways of writing dialogue and how each functioned and propelled a story. After learning about the effects of summarized dialogue vs. actual dialogue, I was able to make mindful decisions about how people talk to each other in my stories. I practiced summarized dialogue quite a lot and experimented with how it fit into the narrative voice of the piece and kept the story moving forward rather than slowing it down with actual dialogue. And I learned that actual dialogue, then, in the midst of summarized dialogue, could be extremely effective. It felt, in some ways, earned.

Another important element that I was introduced to in this unit was structure. I learned from the pieces we read, the effectiveness of marrying form and content. For some pieces, certain structures spoke to a particular story more than others. The way that a story is told is just as important as what is being told. Examining writers closely (as I did with my presentation author Thom Jones and my response author Milos Macourek) lent insight into how to employ the best structure possible for a piece. In imitating them, I was able to apply their techniques and learn from putting my observations into practice. The piece that most exhibits my experimentation with form and structure is my imitation piece: Johnny’s Goldfish.

The lessons I learned in writing during this unit are many and I cannot recall them all in this reflection. There may be simple stylistic moments that I picked up unconsciously that I have transferred into my writing – the best way to learn how to write is, after all, reading those who know what they’re doing. And put their instruments into practice, get into the habit of keeping a journal and writing everyday. In all, the most important thing I will take away from fiction, I think, is a heightened awareness of my narrator. With this comes narrative voice, narrative distance, etc., but what is most important is to know who is speaking and whose story it is, be it one person’s, many people’s, an ant’s, or even, perhaps, the color blue’s. I tried my best to bring this awareness of the narrator together with all the other lessons I’ve learned into my final piece: Story of the Stone.

Reflection on Fiction

Fiction was supposed to be the unit in which I would feel at home as a writer, but it in fact proved to be the most difficult so far and will stand, I think, as the most difficult unit for me even after poetry, though we haven’t even stepped into poetry yet.

Perhaps it is because I settled into creative non-fiction too nicely and got too comfortable. I’m not sure. I usually tend to think of myself as a fairly creative person, which is why I have always been drawn to fiction – inhabiting different characters’ voices and actually being someone else has always been fun for me. But somehow, throughout this unit, I felt as though I couldn’t get these creative juices to flow. The only consistent feeling I got when sitting down to write was writer’s block.

But though I feel that this fiction portfolio is not up to the standard at which I know I can write, I have learned many things throughout this unit. For one, I am definitely honing my skills in reading as a writer. The step to perfect is applying them. I have also done a lot of experimentation in our exercises and assignments. It may be that they don’t work as individual pieces, but in writing them I am practicing writing. Perhaps this is more important for me as a writer in the long run.

I should mention discipline. You told me in a conference that to be a writer, one needs talent, passion, and discipline (and luck, if we’re going to go there). This unit made me realize just how much I lack discipline. The reason why many of my stories are still unfinished (and not just unfinished in the sense that no piece is ever really “finished” – I mean really, far from finished, as in the ending is nowhere near well thought-out) is because I tell myself that I can only write when I am truly inspired to write, when I want to write. I put off writing, saying I will do it when I am able to set aside a large chunk of time to just sit and write and organize my thoughts. And it takes a long time to even do just that, when I have set aside time.

But here is my sample from fiction nonetheless:
(It is incomplete. I intend to finish this portfolio fully, but find that I cannot within this time limit. This is very much the fault of my writing habit and I am very sorry – I will get my missing pieces up as soon as possible.)

Writer response: Milos Macourek

Macourek imitation: Johnny’s Goldfish

Stranger Studies: England Strangers

Kafka Re-appropriation: The Boy Who Cried

Extraordinary –> Ordinary: Petrified

Dialogue Exercises: 1st, 2nd, 3rd person narrators

1st person short story: Pete’s First Date

Some exercises from my journal.

My long fiction piece is still unfinished as of yet…I will post it soon to complete my portfolio.

Reflection on Creative Non-fiction

I am sitting in a Coffee Republic in a small town called Seven Oaks just outside of London, writing this reflection. I have just stepped out of a historical site – Ightham Mote, a house built in 1377, and I feel as though I am really reflecting, so far removed now from the place and time of my writings of the past few weeks.

I enjoyed this unit tremendously. I think much of it had to do with the exploration of self and the reflective aspect and nature of the genre. Writing some of the exercises during this unit and doing the longer pieces gave me assigned time to think about myself, which I thought quite uplifting, in a way, because we, as students, are so busy these days that we hardly ever have time to contemplate—really contemplate—things such as our childhoods or moments that have shaped us. Writing about these moments gave me an opportunity to get in touch with myself, and I think I needed this.

The idea that came up during this unit that sticks out most to me is the sense of urgency that should be present in one’s writing. Every piece we write should feel like it had to be written.

This “writer urgency” developed, for me, when I wrote my long creative nonfiction piece about my mom, memory, and stories. It felt like a piece that, when I was writing it, was just waiting to be written. It was therapeutic, in some ways, to write, because it needed to be told and I never let it be, for almost three years.

I have also begun to explore the process of revision more attentively, a process which I have largely neglected prior to this. It is very helpful to go into a piece and look for images that can be developed, narrative voices that can be changed. In my long piece “Under An Umbrella, Safe From The Rain”, I explored (after meeting with you) one word (“sanctuary”)and began to open a new layer to my story – a layer that already existed there, but that I hadn’t yet brought to the fore for the reader. I’m not sure I do this fully, yet, due to the time constraint, but I believe this to be a piece I will return to.

I mentioned to you that I am a slow writer. And I find it frustrating sometimes to do exercises in class that I don’t finish, so I usually ponder on them afterward and write them in completion (or as close to completion as any exercise can get) on my own time. But I think I could improve on this point: to just get my thoughts down and practice having words flow more easily from my pen.

Here is the longer piece: Under An Umbrella, Safe From The Rain

Shorter piece: Catching Dragonflies

Stranger Study Short (I am really not happy with this piece and have not revised as much as I would like. I think I neglected it more, time-wise, to work more on my other pieces which I thought had more potential): An Average Stranger

Response to a writer: Thomas Lynch

Braided in-class essay that is not creative nonfiction, but that introduced me to a form that I like enough to employ for my longer piece: A Cat-like Affair

Excerpts & Exercises from my journal:
A History of Glass
On Storms
Smoke
Public Bus
Pitcher
A Brief Meeting (a beginning only)
Road to Nepal (a beginning only)

Rough rough draft of long piece

I scanned the entire volleyball court for her, only to find her sitting on the sidelines. Her eyes were closed. Movement danced around me on all sides, but my eyes were locked on her motionless figure. What’s wrong? I asked. In her right hand was a container of Advil, in her left, a bottle of water. Mom never takes pain relievers. What’s wrong?

I don’t want to start here, but I must adhere to the truth. For the truth is, this is where it begins. I don’t want to begin here because I don’t want her death to be the trigger for my memory of her life. But I’ve slowly come to realize that only in death does life have any real meaning anyway. It is the fact that there is a definite end that makes each standing moment stand. Moments are remembered. Death first, then immortality.

She was brilliant, he says. He shakes his head. Head of the class. My dad wraps his large hands around his mug of tea and drinks. He sets the mug gently on the table and, with his hands still wrapped around its circumference, looks down into it. I remember, he begins. He is now reading the tea leaves, but these are tales of the past…

She used to wear her hair in two braids and never paid me much attention. I was from the country, you see. A country boy. Your mom, she was a city girl. But not like the other city girls, you see. None of that haughty pretention, that strutting around the streets as if a foot above everyone else, looking down. No, she was grounded.

Let me tell you something about stories. It’s something I learned, telling them. Words are magical. They make things…last. Moments exist in eternity, eternally – over and over they unfold and refold. And people never die, in stories. They just keep on living.

I took the Advil out of her hand and she opened her eyes at me. A headache, she said, and smiled. She set the bottle of water down and cradled her head with both hands. Her eyes were shut again. Just a bit of a headache. And despite the smile that rested lightly on her lips, I caught a leak of pain in her expression.

She never paid me much attention because no one paid me much attention. He laughs, takes another draught of tea. You could say she was the first, in fact, to even chance me a glance. And, just like that, he is lost in his sanctuary of memory.

She said she would be O.K., but Dad and I knew something was off kilter, decidedly amiss, somehow not quite right. It was a topos of the world turned upside down. It’s a feeling you get when you know someone well. Well enough to know that she never gets headaches. Well enough to know that she never takes pills. That she never sits on the sidelines.

We put her in the car and drove her to the hospital. Before we arrived, she fell unconscious in the backseat. When we got to the emergency room, they had to put her on a stretcher.

The doctors here decided that my mom needed to get to the neurological center downtown. We’re putting her on a helicopter, they said. Wheels aren’t fast enough. Just before they wheeled her onto the helicopter, they asked me if I had anything I wanted to say to her. I just stared. If you have anything you to say, she might still be able to hear you. I had nothing, so they strapped her into the helicopter.

We were in the same class and we were paired up because she was the best and I had the most dire need for improvement. My dad chuckles. I remember, once. We were getting onto a bus. Or she was getting onto a bus, rather, and I was curiously following her. Accompanying her, if you will.

When Dad and I arrived at the neurological center, people were already expecting us. We made a move to sit in the waiting room, but they steered us to another space – our own waiting area, separate from everyone else. We were told to wait there, shut off. Distanced. I seated myself in a chair and tried not to think much.

It was pouring rain that day and I didn’t have an umbrella, otherwise I would’ve given it to her. We were standing in the middle of the bus, holding onto what we could, when she turns to me and says she’s had enough. I’ve had enough of you following me around! she says. Off you get! There is not enough room on this bus.

At some point, a doctor walked into the room.

Perhaps this is how life goes. We think, sometimes, that life can fix itself. This can’t be happening to me because it can’t be happening to me. We rely on the doctors of our lives to take care of things that go wrong, that are beyond our control – our capability, or knowledge. Monthly physical: all systems in full health. But what if we get a bad report? What if the doctor delivers only bad news? What if there is nothing we can do to make him tell us something else?

The doctor walked into the room and strode purposefully toward the chair in which I sat. His manner was cool, steely. Braced, is the word. His eyes fixed steadily on me as he advanced, and mine likewise followed him in his approach. When he reached my chair, he placed one hand on the armrest and knelt down so that he was perfectly eye-level with me. And when he spoke, it seemed I was listening to a news anchor, looking into a T.V. screen, through the lens of a camera.

Brain aneurysm, he reports. Less than 1% chance of survival.

Everything is going well in life, and then, at some point, a doctor walks into the room.

And he asks me: Do you believe in miracles?

I was shocked, of course. Enough so to obey. So the bus stopped, I got off, it closed its doors behind me and continued on. And suddenly I found myself standing in the rain! I was just standing in the rain.

That’s what stories do. They keep people alive. But words can never become the person, can never recreate every aspect of his multi-faceted character. But what else do we have? Words can last even after the memory fades. So, slowly, the person becomes the stories, because the stories are all that are left. It’s imperfect immortality, but it’s the closest we can get.

My dad has finished his tea so that all that is left now are the tea leaves. He is smiling down at them as he recalls…But she came back. I must have been standing there a quarter hour at that stop, so wet my bones felt wet. But there she was, stepping off the return bus, carrying the umbrella I’d given her so that she wouldn’t get rained on.

My dad is quiet for a minute. He looks up. I reach over for the kettle of hot water, and refill his mug of tea.

Relection on Unit One

I have never obstinately resisted technology, per say, but I have never openly welcomed it either. I have never gone out of my way to adopt new technological practices into my routine, using modern technology only when finally necessary, or inevitable. This being said, our first unit in multimedia and digital work came as somewhat of a challenge to me simply due to the fact that it was unfamiliar, slightly intimidating ground.

In our final project for Unit 1, our multimedia narratives, I thought that I would be limited in how I could tell my story by my general lack of experience in the digital field. While this was true, I also found that the field had very little limitations. I had so many choices: my media, the images I wanted to use, sound, text, how to present it all coherently…this lack of limitations, in the end, was the most overwhelming bit.

The object, as a writer, was still the same: to say what I wanted to say, to relay my message as accurately as possible to the reader, transitioning from my muddled thoughts to a piece of lucid work. Traditionally, writers use language as their tool to convey. Now, we have more tools. And an added difficulty opportunity is the selection of our tools.

One might select an axe when heading into the woods to chop firewood, but a small pocketknife might be more effective for peeling a potato. Even better than that would be a potato-peeler. Our stories are like the firewood and the potato. How best do we carve and shape them, make them into our desired forms? Not only do we need to use our tools well, we need to use the most effective tools.

That is what multimedia has taught me. Know your story and know the tool you wish to shape it with. Because we have more options, we also have a greater responsibility – obligation, almost – to choose the best media, present our story exactly as it should be presented. As writers of the twenty-first century, we should know our alternatives and learn how to use the multitude of media available to us. If we choose to peel a potato with an axe, we should do so not out of ignorance at using the potato-peeler, but out of knowledge that the final effect, as well as the process, is the one we are after.