This profile hits it. We see a public figure in private--tooling around his home, ferociously reading paperbacks, struggling with his genius. I appreciate the reportage because Gorney clearly spent lots of time with Geisel or at least asked the right questions. I found myself asking 'how did she find that out?' and yet also being surprised that I would ask that, because the piece flowed so seamlessly.
I think this piece, too, exhibited the power of narrative journalism in its use of fiction elements to create, scene, structure, place, etc. I LOVE the lede; it says so much about Geisel's process and about the inner workings of his mind, but we also get direct dialogue. We get action and we get humor. I think its incredibly engaging. That action continues as Gorney paints scenes for us. Structurally, the piece flows, but also mimicks the slowed down pace of Geisel's own life. As a reader, I never felt rushed or anxious. I simply saw Geisel in a number of montaged scenes, created very cinematically. I admired, too, the finesse of physical description in the piece and the use of eye sight to highlight the genius.
For this reason, I liked the return in the end. But I am not sure this was the most effective ending. I felt like the piece didn't have the emotional climax I wanted to. It seemed to be more of a 'throw-away' ending and I thought a stronger cadence would have been better.
Overall though, this profile truly represents the artistry of narrative journalism. It just makes me want to get to know people even more.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Skinny Is In, Even With the Amish- Final Personal Essay
Skinny Is In, Even With the Amish
By Lauren Trager
I rummaged through my car, slipping my hand between the seats, digging for change. I needed a soft pretzel and I needed it now. I could taste the slightly sweet and suddenly salty morsel in my mouth and I trembled with anticipation. Must Have Pretzel.
Overall, I like my body. I’m strong and toned; from the age of two, I could move furniture around and as captain of the college women’s softball team, I can out-bench anyone.
But when I lived in an Amish community for my senior thesis last summer, I packed on poundage. Auntie Anne was once Amish, after all.
I wanted to see what it was like to live as an Amish woman. I studied Amish life and spoke with leading researchers, but I had to experience it. Despite difficulties, I found one family who agreed to host me. Ultimately, I lived with three families over five weeks.
Packing for my trip proved consternating; pleased and surprised that I wanted to dress like them, my host family said that they would provide the traditional dresses and head coverings when I arrived-- but only after I sent pictures of myself to confirm that my hair was long and that I would fit in. Before I left, I packed a few conservative tops and skirts, threw out my razor blades and deodorant and prepared to live “the simple life.”
Immediately after pulling up to the brick farmhouse at the Lapp Valley Dairy Farm, my host mom, Lena, greeted me at the screen door with a long head-to-toe look. In her living room during our first conversation, she launched into what I would normally deem a misogynist rant.
“I don’t know why girls are surprised about getting themselves into trouble these days with the way they dress,” Lena said. “Its no wonder boys are lusting.”
Her slight frame, gray hair and charming smile contradicted her statements. Desiring to show the highest respect and regard, I suddenly felt ashamed; my white tee-shirt felt too tight, my calf-length skirt too short. I couldn’t wait to put on Amish clothes.
My new family owned an ice cream business catering to tourists. I learned every step in the ice cream process from milking to making. And eating. On the first night I arrived, the Lapps put me to work in the store and told me to help myself to ice cream. And after the first bite of the creamiest concoction I have ever tasted, I took the invitation every day.
No woman is immune to issues of body. Amish girls consciously carry themselves, wanting to look good and fit in. But accustomed to harder labor and outdoor recreation, most are quite fit; few Amish are overweight.
So finding clothes to fit me wasn’t easy. Lena’s dresses were too small, so we walked over a neighbor’s house and borrowed maternity clothes—they were big enough. Lena rummaged through a closet of old dresses for me to try.
“These are Ester’s,” she said. “She’s a bigger girl, like you.”
Ester apparently didn’t need them anymore; she did mission work in Romania. But even in her absence, I felt a kindred spirit in Ester. We both knew a hard truth-- skinny is in everywhere, even with the Amish.
Sarah Lynn, one of my host sisters at the last family I stayed with, could have been my twin in age and looks. We bonded from the very beginning and she became my guide and friend. I traveled with her to school (she’s been a schoolteacher for five years) and to social gatherings. We gossiped about boys, chatted about current events and clothes. She informed me that earth tones were in for the fall.
She worried about her weight. Restricting herself to a low-carb diet, she refused to eat bread. She took tiny portions as I heaped my plate with her brothers, starved from active work. She’d sigh heavily when adjusting the gaping buttons on my ill-fitting dress. She even stared in disbelief when, at my request, we went to Yoder’s, a local buffet restaurant.
“Don’t laugh at me,” I said to her, up again for my third helping. “You’ll be surprised by how much I can pack away.” She was. I suddenly felt fat and frumpy in my dress and apron.
But meal times with my Amish families delighted me; we’d chat, pray, sing and laugh. Though I missed sushi and poked at the turkey hearts set before me, we also ate pizza and frozen chicken nuggets. In the heat of Pennsylvania summer, food felt familiar and tasted better than ever.
On one of my last days, I decided to make dinner for the nearly fifty people that had been involved in my journey over the past five weeks. Terrified to mess up, I scrutinized my menu, deciding upon sauerkraut and kielbasa, a traditional Amish dish. For flair, I threw in one of my mother’s staple dishes—Mediterranean pasta salad with spinach, feta, artichoke hearts and olives.
“What’s this, spagehetti?” asked Davey, the grandfather figure I’d grown to love. “Yum, it is very good,” he replied, a long noodle slipping up into his mouth as he patted me on the back. I felt so proud.
Now I must run to lose my “Amish” weight. But I still crave those damn pretzels.
By Lauren Trager
I rummaged through my car, slipping my hand between the seats, digging for change. I needed a soft pretzel and I needed it now. I could taste the slightly sweet and suddenly salty morsel in my mouth and I trembled with anticipation. Must Have Pretzel.
Overall, I like my body. I’m strong and toned; from the age of two, I could move furniture around and as captain of the college women’s softball team, I can out-bench anyone.
But when I lived in an Amish community for my senior thesis last summer, I packed on poundage. Auntie Anne was once Amish, after all.
I wanted to see what it was like to live as an Amish woman. I studied Amish life and spoke with leading researchers, but I had to experience it. Despite difficulties, I found one family who agreed to host me. Ultimately, I lived with three families over five weeks.
Packing for my trip proved consternating; pleased and surprised that I wanted to dress like them, my host family said that they would provide the traditional dresses and head coverings when I arrived-- but only after I sent pictures of myself to confirm that my hair was long and that I would fit in. Before I left, I packed a few conservative tops and skirts, threw out my razor blades and deodorant and prepared to live “the simple life.”
Immediately after pulling up to the brick farmhouse at the Lapp Valley Dairy Farm, my host mom, Lena, greeted me at the screen door with a long head-to-toe look. In her living room during our first conversation, she launched into what I would normally deem a misogynist rant.
“I don’t know why girls are surprised about getting themselves into trouble these days with the way they dress,” Lena said. “Its no wonder boys are lusting.”
Her slight frame, gray hair and charming smile contradicted her statements. Desiring to show the highest respect and regard, I suddenly felt ashamed; my white tee-shirt felt too tight, my calf-length skirt too short. I couldn’t wait to put on Amish clothes.
My new family owned an ice cream business catering to tourists. I learned every step in the ice cream process from milking to making. And eating. On the first night I arrived, the Lapps put me to work in the store and told me to help myself to ice cream. And after the first bite of the creamiest concoction I have ever tasted, I took the invitation every day.
No woman is immune to issues of body. Amish girls consciously carry themselves, wanting to look good and fit in. But accustomed to harder labor and outdoor recreation, most are quite fit; few Amish are overweight.
So finding clothes to fit me wasn’t easy. Lena’s dresses were too small, so we walked over a neighbor’s house and borrowed maternity clothes—they were big enough. Lena rummaged through a closet of old dresses for me to try.
“These are Ester’s,” she said. “She’s a bigger girl, like you.”
Ester apparently didn’t need them anymore; she did mission work in Romania. But even in her absence, I felt a kindred spirit in Ester. We both knew a hard truth-- skinny is in everywhere, even with the Amish.
Sarah Lynn, one of my host sisters at the last family I stayed with, could have been my twin in age and looks. We bonded from the very beginning and she became my guide and friend. I traveled with her to school (she’s been a schoolteacher for five years) and to social gatherings. We gossiped about boys, chatted about current events and clothes. She informed me that earth tones were in for the fall.
She worried about her weight. Restricting herself to a low-carb diet, she refused to eat bread. She took tiny portions as I heaped my plate with her brothers, starved from active work. She’d sigh heavily when adjusting the gaping buttons on my ill-fitting dress. She even stared in disbelief when, at my request, we went to Yoder’s, a local buffet restaurant.
“Don’t laugh at me,” I said to her, up again for my third helping. “You’ll be surprised by how much I can pack away.” She was. I suddenly felt fat and frumpy in my dress and apron.
But meal times with my Amish families delighted me; we’d chat, pray, sing and laugh. Though I missed sushi and poked at the turkey hearts set before me, we also ate pizza and frozen chicken nuggets. In the heat of Pennsylvania summer, food felt familiar and tasted better than ever.
On one of my last days, I decided to make dinner for the nearly fifty people that had been involved in my journey over the past five weeks. Terrified to mess up, I scrutinized my menu, deciding upon sauerkraut and kielbasa, a traditional Amish dish. For flair, I threw in one of my mother’s staple dishes—Mediterranean pasta salad with spinach, feta, artichoke hearts and olives.
“What’s this, spagehetti?” asked Davey, the grandfather figure I’d grown to love. “Yum, it is very good,” he replied, a long noodle slipping up into his mouth as he patted me on the back. I felt so proud.
Now I must run to lose my “Amish” weight. But I still crave those damn pretzels.
Monday, April 16, 2007
New York Times Reporter Coming to KPL
Hello everyone!!
I wanted to say, first of all, how wonderful I think workshop went last week. I know that we made significant progress in my group and I believe the workshops were helpful. But above all, I was incredibly impressed by the brave subject matter of the stories and the willingness by the group to tackle hard issues with art and strong story telling. I was just super thrilled to get to read them and I can't wait for the final drafts. If anyone wants me to take a look before turning it in, again, I am more than happy to. Fresh eyes always help.
I also wanted to inform everyone of a really neat opportunity tomorrow. Michael Benanav, a writer who submits travel pieces to the New York Times will be doing an author visit at the Oshtemo Branch of the Kalamazoo Public Library tomorrow at 7:00. His book "Men of Salt: Crossing the Sahara on the Caravan of White Gold" is an incredible demonstration of narrative writing and immersion journalism. For forty days, he traveled by camel back in Mali with a camel caravan. What's really interesting is that he initially believed that the caravans were a dying trade practice and that trucks were rapidly replacing this harsh way of life. But when he went there, he discovered he was wrong! The writing is really good, but I think the program is going to be even better. He's going to discuss the experience, show photos and talk about his writing process. I wrote an article about him for the Gazette. I believe it's coming out today and you can usually search for my work by typing in my name in the search panel of mlive.com .
Unfortunately, I cannot attend the program, because I have class. But I really encourage anyone who can to go; I think it will be really cool.
I wanted to say, first of all, how wonderful I think workshop went last week. I know that we made significant progress in my group and I believe the workshops were helpful. But above all, I was incredibly impressed by the brave subject matter of the stories and the willingness by the group to tackle hard issues with art and strong story telling. I was just super thrilled to get to read them and I can't wait for the final drafts. If anyone wants me to take a look before turning it in, again, I am more than happy to. Fresh eyes always help.
I also wanted to inform everyone of a really neat opportunity tomorrow. Michael Benanav, a writer who submits travel pieces to the New York Times will be doing an author visit at the Oshtemo Branch of the Kalamazoo Public Library tomorrow at 7:00. His book "Men of Salt: Crossing the Sahara on the Caravan of White Gold" is an incredible demonstration of narrative writing and immersion journalism. For forty days, he traveled by camel back in Mali with a camel caravan. What's really interesting is that he initially believed that the caravans were a dying trade practice and that trucks were rapidly replacing this harsh way of life. But when he went there, he discovered he was wrong! The writing is really good, but I think the program is going to be even better. He's going to discuss the experience, show photos and talk about his writing process. I wrote an article about him for the Gazette. I believe it's coming out today and you can usually search for my work by typing in my name in the search panel of mlive.com .
Unfortunately, I cannot attend the program, because I have class. But I really encourage anyone who can to go; I think it will be really cool.
Monday, April 9, 2007
My Personal Essay and Blogs I Love.
Below, please find links to two blogs that I read all the time. The first happens to pertain to my life completely--eight senior journalism students blog about the vast unknown after graduation. Oh wait, that's the same thing that makes me want to vomit everyday!
The second is a blog that I honestly read religiously. I know, its celebrity smut, but I chose to embrace rather than reject completely. Besides, criticizing people's clothing choices is one of my favorite pastimes with my friends and these women write really well. They crack me up.
http://thegraduates.blogs.nytimes.com/
http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/
Also, below, please find the first draft of my personal essay. No caveats--I don't believe in denigrating my own work, unless its constructive.
Skinny Is In, Even Amongst the Amish
By Lauren Trager
I can’t seem to lose my “Amish weight.” Surrounded by soft pretzels (Auntie Anne was Amish, after all), shoo fly pie, and other delicacies, I packed on poundage while immersing myself in Lancaster County last summer.
Interested in Amish life since the age of seven, I wanted to live with Amish people as my college senior thesis-- essentially, I completed an exercise in immersion journalism during which I mimicked the lifestyle of an Amish woman my age. Before I left, I studied Amish lifestyles and spoke with several leading researchers on what to expect. I struggled to find a family that would host me and after multiple refusals, I finally found one. Ultimately, as I gained trust in the community, I lived with three families over a period of five weeks.
Packing for my trip proved consternating; pleased and surprised that I wanted to dress like them, my host family told me they would provide the traditional dresses and head coverings when I arrived, but only after I sent them pictures of myself to confirm that my hair was long enough and that I would fit in as an Amish girl. Before I left, I packed only a few conservative tops and skirts, threw out my razor blades and deodorant and prepared to live “the simple life.”
Immediately after pulling up to the brick farmhouse at the Lapp Valley Dairy Farm, my host mom, Lena, greeted me at the screen door with a smile and a long head-to-toe look. In her living room during our first conversation, she launched into what I would normally deem a misogynist rant.
“I don’t know why girls are surprised about getting themselves into trouble these days with the way they dress,” Lena said. “Its no wonder boys are lusting.”
Her slight frame and little gray hair made me want to believe her. Desiring to show the highest respect and regard, I suddenly felt ashamed; my white tee-shirt felt too tight, my calf-length skirt too short. I couldn’t wait to put on Amish clothes.
My new family owned a booming ice cream business catering to tourists. I eventually learned every step in the ice cream process from milking to making. And eating. On the first night I arrived, the Lapps put me to work in the store and told me to help myself to ice cream. I took their invitation and after the first bite of the most creamy concoction I had ever tasted, I took the invitation every day thereafter.
I like my body. From the age of two, I could move furniture around the house. I’m what some would call “big-boned” and strong. I’m captain of the college softball team and I take pride that no one can out bench me.
Amish girls, too, consciously carry themselves. But accustomed to harder labor, most are quite fit; you’d be hard pressed to find an obese Amish person anywhere.
So finding dresses to fit me wasn’t easy. Lena rummaged through a closet of old dresses for me to try.
“These are Ester’s,” she said. “She’s a bigger girl, like you.” Ester apparently didn’t need them anymore; she now worked in an orphanage in Romania. But even in her absence, I felt a kindred spirit in Ester. We both knew a hard truth-- skinny is in everywhere, even with the Amish.
Sarah Lynn, one of my host sisters at the last family I stayed with, could have been my twin in age and looks. We bonded from the very beginning and she became my guide and friend. I traveled with her to school (she’s been a schoolteacher for five years) and to social gatherings. We gossiped about boys, chatted about current events and clothes. She informed me that earth tones were in for the fall.
She worried about her weight. Restricting herself to a low-carb diet, she tried to completely eliminate bread from her palate. At meal times, she took tiny portions as I sheepishly heaped my plate with the boys, starving from a long day far more active than sitting in front of a computer screen. She also sighed heavily when adjusting the buttons on the front of my dress when they gaped from ill-fitting. Sarah Lynn stared in disbelief when, as a special treat, we went to Yoder’s, a local buffet restaurant.
“Don’t laugh at me,” I said to her and her sister. “You’ll be surprised by how much I can pack away,” They were.
I missed sushi and poked at the turkey hearts and gravy set before me at the family dinner table. Meal times were certainly my favorite, though often the fare included pizza and frozen chicken nuggets. In the heat of Pennsylvania summer, food felt familiar and tasted better than ever.
On one of my last days, I decided to host a dinner for the nearly fifty people that had been involved in my journey over the past five weeks. Terrified to fail, I scrutinized my menu, deciding upon sauerkraut and kielbasa because I knew every one would like it. For flair, I threw in one of my mother’s staple dishes—Mediterranean pasta salad with spinach, feta, artichoke hearts and olives.
“What’s this, spagehetti?” Davey, the man I grown to love as my own grandfather asked me.
“It is very good,” he said to me, a long noodle slipping up into his mouth as he patted me on the back. I felt so proud.
The second is a blog that I honestly read religiously. I know, its celebrity smut, but I chose to embrace rather than reject completely. Besides, criticizing people's clothing choices is one of my favorite pastimes with my friends and these women write really well. They crack me up.
http://thegraduates.blogs.nytimes.com/
http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/
Also, below, please find the first draft of my personal essay. No caveats--I don't believe in denigrating my own work, unless its constructive.
Skinny Is In, Even Amongst the Amish
By Lauren Trager
I can’t seem to lose my “Amish weight.” Surrounded by soft pretzels (Auntie Anne was Amish, after all), shoo fly pie, and other delicacies, I packed on poundage while immersing myself in Lancaster County last summer.
Interested in Amish life since the age of seven, I wanted to live with Amish people as my college senior thesis-- essentially, I completed an exercise in immersion journalism during which I mimicked the lifestyle of an Amish woman my age. Before I left, I studied Amish lifestyles and spoke with several leading researchers on what to expect. I struggled to find a family that would host me and after multiple refusals, I finally found one. Ultimately, as I gained trust in the community, I lived with three families over a period of five weeks.
Packing for my trip proved consternating; pleased and surprised that I wanted to dress like them, my host family told me they would provide the traditional dresses and head coverings when I arrived, but only after I sent them pictures of myself to confirm that my hair was long enough and that I would fit in as an Amish girl. Before I left, I packed only a few conservative tops and skirts, threw out my razor blades and deodorant and prepared to live “the simple life.”
Immediately after pulling up to the brick farmhouse at the Lapp Valley Dairy Farm, my host mom, Lena, greeted me at the screen door with a smile and a long head-to-toe look. In her living room during our first conversation, she launched into what I would normally deem a misogynist rant.
“I don’t know why girls are surprised about getting themselves into trouble these days with the way they dress,” Lena said. “Its no wonder boys are lusting.”
Her slight frame and little gray hair made me want to believe her. Desiring to show the highest respect and regard, I suddenly felt ashamed; my white tee-shirt felt too tight, my calf-length skirt too short. I couldn’t wait to put on Amish clothes.
My new family owned a booming ice cream business catering to tourists. I eventually learned every step in the ice cream process from milking to making. And eating. On the first night I arrived, the Lapps put me to work in the store and told me to help myself to ice cream. I took their invitation and after the first bite of the most creamy concoction I had ever tasted, I took the invitation every day thereafter.
I like my body. From the age of two, I could move furniture around the house. I’m what some would call “big-boned” and strong. I’m captain of the college softball team and I take pride that no one can out bench me.
Amish girls, too, consciously carry themselves. But accustomed to harder labor, most are quite fit; you’d be hard pressed to find an obese Amish person anywhere.
So finding dresses to fit me wasn’t easy. Lena rummaged through a closet of old dresses for me to try.
“These are Ester’s,” she said. “She’s a bigger girl, like you.” Ester apparently didn’t need them anymore; she now worked in an orphanage in Romania. But even in her absence, I felt a kindred spirit in Ester. We both knew a hard truth-- skinny is in everywhere, even with the Amish.
Sarah Lynn, one of my host sisters at the last family I stayed with, could have been my twin in age and looks. We bonded from the very beginning and she became my guide and friend. I traveled with her to school (she’s been a schoolteacher for five years) and to social gatherings. We gossiped about boys, chatted about current events and clothes. She informed me that earth tones were in for the fall.
She worried about her weight. Restricting herself to a low-carb diet, she tried to completely eliminate bread from her palate. At meal times, she took tiny portions as I sheepishly heaped my plate with the boys, starving from a long day far more active than sitting in front of a computer screen. She also sighed heavily when adjusting the buttons on the front of my dress when they gaped from ill-fitting. Sarah Lynn stared in disbelief when, as a special treat, we went to Yoder’s, a local buffet restaurant.
“Don’t laugh at me,” I said to her and her sister. “You’ll be surprised by how much I can pack away,” They were.
I missed sushi and poked at the turkey hearts and gravy set before me at the family dinner table. Meal times were certainly my favorite, though often the fare included pizza and frozen chicken nuggets. In the heat of Pennsylvania summer, food felt familiar and tasted better than ever.
On one of my last days, I decided to host a dinner for the nearly fifty people that had been involved in my journey over the past five weeks. Terrified to fail, I scrutinized my menu, deciding upon sauerkraut and kielbasa because I knew every one would like it. For flair, I threw in one of my mother’s staple dishes—Mediterranean pasta salad with spinach, feta, artichoke hearts and olives.
“What’s this, spagehetti?” Davey, the man I grown to love as my own grandfather asked me.
“It is very good,” he said to me, a long noodle slipping up into his mouth as he patted me on the back. I felt so proud.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
It's all about Access
I've recently felt struck by this thought: being a writer requires incredible responsiblity and integrity. A person endeavoring to write and report must be so self aware and reflective. They must be ever conscious of their own junk, the biases and set of assumptions they bring to any situation. An awful lot of thought and hard work goes into the relationship with one's sources. On the one hand, as Kramer pointed out, a strong, intimate relationship elucidates a higher level of understanding from the source to the reporter. However, these types of relationships can also be complicated by the fact that a reporter is also another human being. I struggled a lot with this idea during the reportage for my SIP. Living within an Amish community, I attempted to draw lines between Lauren-as-reporter and Lauren-as-person living with other persons. I found it incredibly difficult and discovered the infeasibility of trying to turn off any one side of yourself.
All of this has come to light for me for two reasons: 1.) I have been working on my comps essay which is about my struggles as an English major to acquire access to people and information, while fighting the desire to assume I have unlimited levels of access. 2.) I interviewed Michael Benanav, a reporter for the New York Times that completed an immersion journalism experience in Mali, Africa on a camel caravan. He fully admitted that the experience would have been impossible had he been a woman. As a white male he was able to gain access in ways that other people would not.
I find all of this so interesting and exciting. Reporting requires a lot of work that extends far beyond proper grammar and meeting deadlines.
All of this has come to light for me for two reasons: 1.) I have been working on my comps essay which is about my struggles as an English major to acquire access to people and information, while fighting the desire to assume I have unlimited levels of access. 2.) I interviewed Michael Benanav, a reporter for the New York Times that completed an immersion journalism experience in Mali, Africa on a camel caravan. He fully admitted that the experience would have been impossible had he been a woman. As a white male he was able to gain access in ways that other people would not.
I find all of this so interesting and exciting. Reporting requires a lot of work that extends far beyond proper grammar and meeting deadlines.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
I heart literary journalism
I must say, its very strange to be taking this class again. Its like my career as a journalist at K College has come full circle. I remember reading the article "The Art of Literary Journalism" freshman year in the spring. I wanted to be a lawyer then; I was taking the class just for fun. And suddenly, re-reading it, I discover how much more it speaks to me. Firstly, because I understand the craft so much more now. I've realized my passion for that type of human connection, the joy of the ordinary. In a way, I have joined this community of writers Sims discusses. I am that 21-year-old writer McPhee mentions. I'm in the river. It feels good.
Some things concern me, however. I don't believe I have found my voice yet. I want to work on that in this class. I want to learn more about myself, not only as a writer, but as a person too.
Which brings me to the personal essay. Sadly, I honestly cannot remember what I wrote about four years ago for this assignment. I think it was about my best friend's sister's suicide, but I'm not sure. For my SIP, I completed a lengthy personal essay about my experiences living with Amish people--my struggles as a young woman raised in a vastly different world. I was pleased with the way it turned out and it was the ultimate exercise in what writing can do for your life. One of my favorite Marin quotes is: "Write through it." I did that with that particular essay. But I wrote long and the piece ended up around 7,000 words. For this assignment, then, I want to trim that down to 900 words, a marketable amount for publication. This task feels daunting to me and I am hesitant to return that beast of a piece for revision. But I can do it.
Looking forward to hearing other people's ideas for their personal essays and reading the rest of this week's assignments.
I heart this class. Already.
Some things concern me, however. I don't believe I have found my voice yet. I want to work on that in this class. I want to learn more about myself, not only as a writer, but as a person too.
Which brings me to the personal essay. Sadly, I honestly cannot remember what I wrote about four years ago for this assignment. I think it was about my best friend's sister's suicide, but I'm not sure. For my SIP, I completed a lengthy personal essay about my experiences living with Amish people--my struggles as a young woman raised in a vastly different world. I was pleased with the way it turned out and it was the ultimate exercise in what writing can do for your life. One of my favorite Marin quotes is: "Write through it." I did that with that particular essay. But I wrote long and the piece ended up around 7,000 words. For this assignment, then, I want to trim that down to 900 words, a marketable amount for publication. This task feels daunting to me and I am hesitant to return that beast of a piece for revision. But I can do it.
Looking forward to hearing other people's ideas for their personal essays and reading the rest of this week's assignments.
I heart this class. Already.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
