Final Blog

For my final post I would just like to say how much this class has meant to me.  The nature of this class seems to have drawn us all a little closer than any other class!  I have enjoyed getting to know most of the class through our journals and essays.  There are a lot of great writers - and very funny people - in our class!  The class was more like therapy!!!  And I want to say thanks to Dr. Chandler! This was, in all honesty, my favorite course ever taken!  You should get paid double for the "sessions!"  Thanks everyone!

Final revision - essay3/4

Creative Nonfiction                                                                 Marjorie Papa

Necessary Evil

            I walk up the flight of worn-carpeted steps to the second floor.  Before I even open the door to the suite, the smell hits me.  It is a distinct smell like no other…and one which everybody knows, that literally smells the same to all who come upon it.  It has the ability to set me into a panic if I smell that smell in a place that is nowhere near or even similar to this place I am now entering.  I could be doing something ordinary like shopping for groceries and smell “it” and break into a brief but tangible cold sweat. 

            I walk in and smile at the receptionist, who greets me by name and tells me to have a seat, I’ll be seen in a minute.  I pick up a magazine, but don’t really see anything on the pages because I’m focused on my senses of hearing and smell at the moment.  Not even the latest celebrity news and gossip that I hold in my hands can even gain my attention right now.  Did I say focused?  Overwhelmed is the more appropriate word.  And if I’m really being honest, there is a twinge of fear.  Fear of the known…which at a time like this seems as frightening as fear of the unknown.

            Along with that off-putting smell comes that off-putting sound.  Let me clarify this, first:  I call it “that smell” because that is the only way I know how to refer to it.  I really don’t know exactly what it is.  Definitely chemical…but what the components are that exactly make it up I have no clue.  Nor do I want to.  I don’t even know exactly what useful purpose it serves while it’s anywhere near me or my mouth.  Nor do I want to.

 As for that sound…it’s unmistakable and not to be ignored.  Amid all that goes on at once in this small suite – the phone ringing, the drone of the television to the left, the murmur of 101.5 fm radio station coming from the speakers in the ceilings, even the low conversations taking place in the rooms just out of my view – I can hear that distinguishable and undeniable sound, penetrating through it all.  That high-pitched whirring and buzzing noise that sounds like a mosquito was given a loudspeaker by my ear and has the ability to pierce through me…and remind me of what awaits me. 

That dreaded instrument.  It astounds me how much pain a tool of this size can cause.  The pain that I’m not supposed to feel but I manage to anyway.  Wasn’t that “just a little pinch” I felt every single bit of a few minutes ago supposed to take care of the whole “not feeling a thing” I’m supposed to not feel now?! I realize it must seem like the needle took effect since I can feel the drool pooling in my neck…but the truth is clear when I try to gurgle the word “oww” and my body stiffens on its own: the novocaine is not doing its job.

And this is where I should change the direction of thoughts.  If I don’t, I run the risk of saying I’ll call and reschedule another time.  Hopefully it’s just one tooth this time.  I’m getting too used to it being one – oh and the one next to it is cracked or chipped or a cavity we must have missed.  It is necessary to change my line of thinking so as not to go into “fight or flight mode.” 

Which gets me to wondering about that…the sense of fear that stirs up this “fight or flight mode.”  Why is a place like this able to conjure up such a strong sense of fear?  And it is fear…why else would I feel like I should either stay and fight through this or take flight and get myself out of here.  Is it because there is a sense of loss of control?  Yes, I know I can take action to fight germs and bacteria, and not eat so much candy, and wear my mouth-guard at night so I don’t clench my teeth…but even if I were to be faithful in all of that I still feel powerless.  I have no control of the ultimate outcome – and I like to rank myself among those who would like to wield control. 

If we have to lack control, it seems we should also lack pain.  But pain comes with the territory.  Those teeny little nerves can bring a grown man to tears.  Yet we cannot, absolutely cannot, do without our teeth.  So we need to have them fixed.  It hurts, but we have to go.  Because we only get one set.  We have to put ourselves through pain in order to avoid pain later.  Are we sadists?  And here is this person, with that tool and that smell and that pinch, that willingly puts us through this pain because they are helping us.  In essence, our pain is their pleasure.  So they must be sadists, right?  It’s hard to understand how all of these thoughts are provoked and all of this pondering is brought forth by one necessary evil…

Rhetorical Analysis of Publication Venues - Handout

Rhetorical Analysis of Publication Venue                                                       Marjorie Papa

Publication Venue:  Crazyhorse

Their Mission:  “to publish the entire spectrum of today’s fiction, essays, and poetry - from the mainstream to the avant-garde, from the established to the undiscovered writer.”

Background:

·         Founded in 1960

·         Published writers have been recipients of awards such as the Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award

·         Nonprofit literary journal that is funded by:

o   its subscribers

o   donors

o   the Department of English, and

o   the School of Humanities and Social Sciences at the College of Charleston

“Crazyhorse is proud to announce that production for selected issues is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts, which believes that a great nation deserves great art.”
Editors’ interests:

·         original writing that engages in the work of honest communication

·         Asking questions such as:

o   "What's at stake in this writing?"

o   “What’s reckoned with that’s important for other people to read?”

·         publishing newcomers

·         publishing established writers

·         Always on the lookout for writing that doesn't fit the categories!!!!!!

**While this journal publishes fiction, poetry, and essays, its primary focus seems to be on fiction.  Second to that would be poetry.  In the 8 issues perused, there were only 9 essays among the writings.**

Essay Issue 78:  Brandon Davis Jennings Operation Iraqi Freedom is My Fault

·         Subject matter – truthful account of author’s war perspective from Saudi Arabia

·         Voice/tone – political commentary; dry sarcastic humor; sardonic; almost bitter

·         Form – realistic; true to author’s thoughts/feelings; memories/flashbacks

·         Artistry – narrative yet also journalistic; powerful and honest

·         Length – unknown/must be a subscriber to read full essay

Essay Issue 75:  Joelle Fraser Inspiration Point

·         Subject matter – author’s third person account of a tragedy from Sept. 23, 2006

o   Told to author by a woman Brenda

§  Brenda’s son and friend died after a school dance

·         Methadone had been sold to students

§  Brenda and husband discovered dead boys late next day

§  Two students charged with manslaughter

·         Voice/tone – somber; tragic; grieving

·         Form – journalistic with times and dates

·         Artistry – third person journalistic narrative; indirect voice

·         Length – unknown/must be subscriber for full text

Essay Issue 72:  Carolyn Walker Christian Becomes a Blur

·         Subject matter – first person account from author

o   Author is a mother to son Christian, age 12

o   Christian is disturbed

§  One doctor says therapy, but no medicine

·         Christian is “eccentric”

§  Another doctor diagnoses anxiety

o   Mother and father don’t know what to do

§  Christian “sees” a man who “wants to take his soul”

§  Christian is tense and won’t eat

·         Voice/tone – stressed; no humor; desperation

·         Form – narrative as an explanation to behavior?

o   Mother’s behavior as reaction

o   Son’s behavior in general

·         Artistry – pleading for understanding using narrative

·         Length – unknown/must be a subscriber

Submission Guidelines for Writers:

·         Submit up to two manuscripts per year between August 1 and May 31.

·         accepts simultaneous submissions (a submission of the same work sent to another publication)

Manuscript Reading Process:

·         manuscript is read by three different readers

o   the editors read all submissions in their respective genres

o   a Guest Editor reads your manuscript within a 300-manuscript set randomly assigned to him/her

o   a Crazyhorse intern or Student Reader reads that same randomly assigned set

How to prepare your manuscript:

·         Send a manuscript of up to 25 pages of fiction or essay, or 3-5 poems

·         Include a cover letter

·         Welcome to send up to two separate submissions per year

o   Asked to wait until you receive a reply regarding a submission before you upload the next one.

How to upload your manuscript file online:

·         Have an online account:

o   log in through the red box

o   click "Submit Manuscript" in the red box

·         Need to establish a new account:

o   click "Login Help" in the red box

o   click "New user? Click here to sign up" on the page

·         Upload a .pdf or .rtf file only

·         no submissions accepted by mail

Publication Rights and Author Payment:

·         First North American Serial Rights to published works

o   copyright for any works published in Crazyhorse revert to the author upon publication

·         request author’s permission to feature published works or excerpts on Crazyhorse's website and in its advertising

·         Payment for accepted work

o   $20-35 per page of layout

o   *depends on annual budget and grants received

Crazyhorse Prizes:

·         The Crazyhorse Fiction Prize

o   $2000

o   Published in Crazyhorse

·         The Lynda Hull Memorial Poetry Prize

o   $2000

o   Published in Crazyhorse

***Submit your entry online or by mail

See How to Enter

See Recent Winners and Judges for last year's winners and judges

Draft Reflective Analysis on portfolio

Creative Nonfiction                                                                                         Marjorie Papa

Reflective Essay Draft

            I have always been passionate about writing.  I tend to be a passionate person by nature and when I find an outlet that makes me feel like I’m accomplishing something, I put my whole heart and soul into it, figuratively speaking.  For as long as I can remember, writing has evoked that feeling in me.  Over the years, I have found that I even enjoy the pride and accomplishment after writing about someone else’s works or findings, as in a research or journalistic paper.  Yet it has always been when I am allowed full free reign to write about whatever I am compelled to, that I awaken the most. 

I never gave much thought to writing creative nonfiction.  I realize that this is because I didn’t write anything creatively that I would label as “fiction” or “nonfiction.”  To me, it was all just creative writing, writing creatively.  Looking through the gems of my writing from the span of many years, I see that I have been producing as much creative nonfiction as creative fiction, if not more. 

One “gem” that stands out the most to me is a poem I wrote the day after the tragedy that was September 11^th, 2001.  It seemed to pour out of me as if it were up to me and only me to write those words, my words, down.  I can only barely recall actually writing it.  I remember sitting in the building, awaiting my next class, and writing.  It is as if I’m watching someone who looks like me, back then at least, write down my words.  This is what happens when I am truly and deeply involved in my writing, for however long it takes to create it.

Taking a course on writing creative nonfiction has opened my eyes to a whole other level of writing for me.  I had a difficult beginning, though.  I did not expect to be writing so personally about myself, even though it wasn’t a specific course requirement for me to draw so personally.  The requirement did call for a personal reflection when writing an “I” essay; but not necessarily from the depths of the soul.  So, I challenged myself after sensing a fear of exposure.  I feel exhilarated with what I have been able to produce in a short amount of time.

I also had to reach within when deciding what to write for an “eye” or perspective essay.  Once I had some ideas, I then had to put an effort or concentrate a little more so that my “voice” was heard through my words, but did not directly state my personal reflections.  This was quite difficult on the perspective essay I wrote about my sister and a tragedy that occurred in her life.  In the end, I was satisfied with my draft and how I was able to give life to a death.

During this new journey of creative nonfiction writing, I have come to see how much I rely on and appreciate constructive feedback.  I like specific suggestions.  It is these kinds of suggestions that seem to motivate me to make it even better, whatever piece of writing that “it” may be at the time.  I have seen ways to focus on something specific and really get into detail as a way of allowing the reading to “feel” with me or “be there” with me.  It invigorates me to know that maybe one person can see something clearly through my eyes.  It is even more rewarding that my words serve the purpose of my eyes, and ears, and feelings. 

Writing is empowering.  I have always considered myself a writer, whether anyone agrees or not.  It doesn’t matter to me, because it is mine…and it is me.  Something has been reignited within me.  I now plan to return to and commit to my writing, as if it were a faithful and patient lover. 

Part of this course requires that our writing be submitted.  I absolutely look forward to this more than I imagined.  I know it’s because I never imagined actually sending in any of my work.  I guess I thought it would just magically happen one day that I became “a writer.”  Well, I am a writer.  It makes no difference if someone doesn’t agree with me.  I feel it inside of me.  And I look forward to my future rejections…I am a firm believer in what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.  So look out, literary world.

"Necessary Evil

This takes the place of my previous draft for essay 4 (it was called "His Plan") because that one seemed to fit more into the "I" essay category.  So here's is my Essay 4 "Eye"....

Creative Nonfiction – Essay 4 Draft                                                               Marjorie Papa

Necessary Evil

            I walk up the flight of worn-carpeted steps to the second floor.  Before I even open the door to the suite, the smell hits me.  It is a distinct smell like no other…and one which everybody knows, that literally smells the same to all who come upon it.  It has the ability to set me into a panic if I smell that smell in a place that is nowhere near or even similar to this place I am now entering.  I could be doing something ordinary like shopping for groceries and smell “it” and break into a brief but tangible cold sweat. 

            I walk in and smile at the receptionist, who greets me by name and tells me to have a seat, I’ll be seen in a minute.  I pick up a magazine, but don’t really see anything on the pages because I’m focused on my senses of hearing and smell at the moment.  Not even the latest celebrity news and gossip that I hold in my hands can even gain my attention right now.  Did I say focused?  Overwhelmed is the more appropriate word.  And if I’m really being honest, there is a twinge of fear.  Fear of the known…which at a time like this seems as frightening as fear of the unknown.

            Along with that off-putting smell comes that off-putting sound.  Let me clarify this, first:  I call it “that smell” because that is the only way I know how to refer to it.  I really don’t know exactly what it is.  Definitely chemical…but what the components are that exactly make it up I have no clue.  Nor do I want to.  I don’t even know exactly what useful purpose it serves while it’s anywhere near me or my mouth.  Nor do I want to.

 As for that sound…it’s unmistakable and not to be ignored.  Amid all that goes on at once in this small suite – the phone ringing, the drone of the television to the left, the murmur of 101.5 fm radio station coming from the speakers in the ceilings, even the low conversations taking place in the rooms just out of my view – I can hear that distinguishable and undeniable sound, penetrating through it all.  That high-pitched whirring and buzzing noise that sounds like a mosquito was given a loudspeaker by my ear and has the ability to pierce through me…and remind me of what awaits me. 

That dreaded instrument.  It astounds me much pain a tool of this size can cause.  The pain that I’m not supposed to feel but I manage to anyway.  Wasn’t that “just a little pinch” I felt every single bit of a few minutes ago supposed to take care of the whole “not feeling a thing” I’m supposed to not feel now?! I realize it must seem like the needle took effect since I can feel the drool pooling in my neck…but truth is clear when I try to gurgle the word “oww” and my body stiffens on its own that the novocaine is not doing its job.

And this is where I should change the direction of thoughts.  If I don’t, I run the risk of saying I’ll call and reschedule another time.  Hopefully it’s just one tooth this time.  I’m getting too used to it being one – oh and the one next to it is cracked or chipped or a cavity we must have missed.  It is necessary to change my line of thinking so as not to go into “fight or flight mode.” 

Which gets me to wondering about that…the sense of fear that stirs up this “fight or flight mode.”  Why is a place like this able to conjure up such a strong sense of fear?  And it is fear…why else would I feel like I should either stay and fight through this or take flight and get myself out of here.  Is it because there is a sense of loss of control?  Yes, I know I can take action to fight germs and bacteria, and not eat so much candy, and wear my mouth-guard at night so I don’t clench my teeth…but even if I were to be faithful in all of that I still feel powerless.  I have no control of the ultimate outcome – and I like to rank myself among those who would like to wield control. 

If we have to lack control, it seems we should also lack pain.  But pain comes with the territory.  Those teeny little nerves can bring a grown man to tears.  Yet we cannot, absolutely cannot, do without our teeth.  So we need to have them fixed.  It hurts, but we have to go.  Because we only get one set.  We have to put ourselves through pain in order to avoid pain later.  Are we sadists?  And here is this person, with that tool and that smell and that pinch, that willingly puts us through this pain because they are helping us.  In essence, our pain is their pleasure.  So they must be sadists, right?  It’s hard to understand how all of these thoughts are provoked and all of this pondering is brought forth by one necessary evil…

Audience for my work?

I add a question mark at the end of my title because I have no solid idea!  Honestly, I can picture my essay in something such as Guidepost or Reader's Digest.  Just a publication looking for an essay with a message I guess.  I don't have the length that many of these journals seem to be looking for.  I can add to my essays, but my concern is that I will become too wordy and lose "my voice" in the process, just to add length.

I have confidence that if my work fit into some publications requirements, they could be relatable to those reading.  Not to say that I think I'd get published, just that my essays stand for something many people can relate to on some level.  But that's where my confidence stops.  I haven't gotten a chance to look through all of our journal suggestions, or look beyond them.  But so far, I'm not really sure where mine would fit.  I enjoy reading essays of all different kinds, but tend to lean towards ones written with a sure purpose, and one that I don't have to struggle to figure out what it is.  I'm not judging those who write differently, or with complexity - I do enjoy that too!  But I just enjoy more the ones that "hit home."

I have yet to really come across something that seems like a fit.  I think I might be a little inimidated by this assignment, which makes me a little insecure.  At the same time though, I am excited to do this!  So I not only want to keep looking, but I want to reassure myself of my writing too so I can see where I "fit."

Essay 4....

As usual, I posted my "pre-draft" as my complete draft! So I'm going to re-post it - with my own ideas/suggestions for revision, inserted where I'm questioning the essay.  If this fits into the expectation of Essay 4, I really think I might like to polish this one. 

Essay 4 – Draft 1                                                                                             Marjorie Papa

His Plan

            I had seen him before.  Of course I had seen him before, we graduated high school together.  I also have several distinct and vivid memories over the years of chance meetings.  That morning wasn’t much different except that about a decade had passed.  He looked the same, kind of.  Maybe there was something different, but it was too early in the morning to be fully aware.  It wasn’t too early to be aware of my mother asking him if he’d like to marry her daughter…or the fact that he said “Nah, I’m all right.”  As if she wanted to marry him anyway... Vaya con Dios on your surfing trip with my brother, good to see you again.

            My week went by as usual.  Same grueling work schedule; same nightly routine of unwinding with some Twizzlers and a few glasses of pinot noir.  Little did I know that I was with you in Barbados.  Did my brother know you brought me?  Of course not.  Because I only existed in your thoughts.  You taking a break from surfing, thinking if it would be ok for you to ask him about me.  How? When? Forget it…just drink another Banks.

            Two weeks later, here we are again.  I haven’t seen you this often since freshman year English.  And one more time, it’s on the account of my brother.  Except this time, it’s not in your head: I actually am at this party celebrating my Irish heritage.  And you really are walking alongside me on our way to the pub.  Did I ever realize how funny you are?  And cuter than I remembered too.  Sure, you can have my number, sure we can have lunch.  I never thought you would actually follow through.

            And yet you followed through.  Shit.  Yesterday it seemed harmless to talk to you.  Today is not the same story.  Why did I give my number? And why did you use it? This is not the norm.  But fine, we can meet for drinks tonight.  That’s much easier than lunch anyway.  And yes, I will definitely be imbibing in a glass of pinot while I get myself ready.

            I can’t remember the entirety of this conversation with you.  And no, not because of the drinks.  They did help you steal that kiss from me later, though.  But at this point, I don’t even remember ordering.  True there was a bowl of New England clam chowder in front of each of us.  And a fabulous smell of fresh popcorn coming from that old-fashioned maker in the corner.  But exact words?  No.  Just a feeling of…of what? Uncertainty? Confusion? Surprise? To say the least.  Or, more accurately, to not want to say –or think or feel- anything further…

            You again.  You left your keys in my car last night? Likely story.  But yes, you can stop by and pick them up.  Shit.  I’m nervous again.  Why do you keep using my number?  I’m not ready for this.  And you’re knocking already?  That was too fast – I barely even had time to check my reflection.  Yet here you are in my doorway…looking absolutely ridiculously attractive in your work clothes.  And that smell…I can’t put my finger on it.  I’m usually so good at the guess-what-I’m-wearing game.  But all I know about this scent is that it’s yours and I could get high on it.  What is going on? I’m slipping.  I’m not myself.  I need to get it together.

            Flowers at work?  From who?  You.  And for no reason whatsoever.  Wow, you are good.  What are your motives?  Why are you doing this?  Who told you I never got flowers for no reason?  Who is behind this plan to sabotage me?  Are you working alone?  How much more of this am I in store for?  How much longer will you keep this up? I really need to run from this… should I add some more little tales? I like the transition from "i need to run from this" to the last paragraph, but I feel like I should add a bit more....

            And that’s exactly what I did.  I ran.  Away from everything I had ever known.  Not exactly my plan…but exactly what happened.  No matter where I run this will always catch me.  You are my daily reminder of that.  There was and is more in store for me.  I probably couldn’t forget even if I wanted to…but I vowed to you I would always remember.  I am convinced that was your plan all along.  And I know now for a fact you weren’t working alone – that this wasn’t your idea.  Your Accomplice has made Himself quite known to me.  Better remember to thank Him in our prayers. I definitely want to keep this (or at least a version of this) as my final paragraph. 

I really would appreciate any feedback.  It's easy for me to follow, but I lived it and wrote it.  Does it seem to break up the flow from the "flowers" paragraph to the last? I think I definitely need more stories, which of course I have.  I just want to know if it's worth adding in or if I'm way off track!