Flannery O’Connor’s Everything That Rises Must Converge reads like a case study for a familiar dynamic: The resentful child and the martyred mother. As the daughter of a single mother myself, I have a sharp recollection of how it feels being continually reminded of the sacrifices that were made on your behalf, and the dichotomous feelings of guilt and gratitude that accompany them. This made me identify with Julian at the beginning of the story, despite his contemptuous disposition. I found it interesting the way that O’Connor used the implications of this dynamic as a segue into the issues of racial tensions and generational differences that are present in the story.
Both Julian and his mother are products of their time - Mrs. Chestny firmly remaining in her world of former family splendor and slavery, while her son attempts to bring her into his world, of progress and realism and integration. Neither one is willing to compromise, as both feel they have the moral high ground. Julian’s frustrations with his mother come to an apex when she tries to hand the young black boy a penny, which she views as a charitable, kind act, but Julian believes is condescending and humiliating. He identifies with the anger at this act, and feels vindicated when his mother receives the “lesson” that he wishes he could teach her. Of course, this feeling (as it often is) is short-lived, and I finished the story with a sense of moral ambiguity and sadness.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Response to: My Name
My name? My name is Margaret. Although I don’t like to think of myself as her, technically, I am her. At least I was told I am. Why do I question it? Well because, what is a name? It doesn’t make me an individual, it doesn’t make me feel special, it doesn’t make me feel whole. Actually it makes me fall apart. I mean, there are plenty of Margaret’s in this world, and whose to say that by being a Margaret it makes us better than all of the Cynthias or Lauras or Billys or John’s, well it doesn’t. Besides, once it had been acknowledged that other Margeret’s exist, I realized this is not my name. It is not something personal, it is not something divine, it just is, something.
And I? I am a constantly changing wind,
my patterns are unpredictable,
My spirit,
It can not be caught.
No one is like me,
No one should care to be, please
Release Me?
This Margaret, she won’t go away.
&I know it isn’t me,
This Margaret, she won’t go away,
&With her I’ll never be free.
Response to "Margaret"
After reading Margaret by Richard Brautigan, it occurred to me how sentence structure affects the piece. By using short sentences and incorporating imagery through the use of concise descriptions (ie "...and now they stood outside my door, knocking.") actions and events become less explicit and more open to the reader.
This is my attempt at breaking up the sentence structure of the story. As you can tell, it's very deliberate, but it gets the point across-- less can very easily be more.
Margaret
There was a sound at the door.
I could tell precisely who it was by the subtle, yet persistent knock—seemingly amplified through the semi-solid oak door hanging triumphantly in the middle of the deteriorating plaster crust of the living room wall.
The pictures fell to the ground.
Approaching, she stepped of course, on the only board on the bridge that made any noise at all—that which creaked and bled beneath only her weight—save the time the neighbors dog happened to cross into the yard, tracking the scent of our haggard old lab that is slowly but surely becoming fertilizer in the back yard, yet still finds ways to seduce any nearby mutt in need of a quickie—that board was never treaded upon.
I did not answer the door.
When at last she lost interest, time seemed to return to its normal course: a slow circle in the midst of a euphoric dreamland, filled with pink clouds and fuzzy things in generous portions—teddy bears and cuddly kittens.
Margaret was not a kitten.
-McCoy McDill-Gurmin-
This is my attempt at breaking up the sentence structure of the story. As you can tell, it's very deliberate, but it gets the point across-- less can very easily be more.
Margaret
There was a sound at the door.
I could tell precisely who it was by the subtle, yet persistent knock—seemingly amplified through the semi-solid oak door hanging triumphantly in the middle of the deteriorating plaster crust of the living room wall.
The pictures fell to the ground.
Approaching, she stepped of course, on the only board on the bridge that made any noise at all—that which creaked and bled beneath only her weight—save the time the neighbors dog happened to cross into the yard, tracking the scent of our haggard old lab that is slowly but surely becoming fertilizer in the back yard, yet still finds ways to seduce any nearby mutt in need of a quickie—that board was never treaded upon.
I did not answer the door.
When at last she lost interest, time seemed to return to its normal course: a slow circle in the midst of a euphoric dreamland, filled with pink clouds and fuzzy things in generous portions—teddy bears and cuddly kittens.
Margaret was not a kitten.
-McCoy McDill-Gurmin-
My Home
So this is a little imitation of Brautigan's "My Name"
I have been home many times, even though they say that it's impossible. People often shake their heads and disagree. To them, I say:
Have you ever walked a sun-warmed street in bare feet?
That is my home.
Maybe you woke one morning to the smell of french toast, burning slightly in the pan.
That is my home.
Or you put on a sweater from the dryer and remained inside for a few extra moments just to enjoy the warmth, like a jack still in the box.
That is my home.
Sometimes when it's raining, I turn off the TV and sit by the open window, breathing in the scent of clean, fresh earth.
That it my home.
Better still, there have been times when I've caught a glimpse of someone's face and smiled.
They are my home.
And there are more just waiting to be found.
I have been home many times, even though they say that it's impossible. People often shake their heads and disagree. To them, I say:
Have you ever walked a sun-warmed street in bare feet?
That is my home.
Maybe you woke one morning to the smell of french toast, burning slightly in the pan.
That is my home.
Or you put on a sweater from the dryer and remained inside for a few extra moments just to enjoy the warmth, like a jack still in the box.
That is my home.
Sometimes when it's raining, I turn off the TV and sit by the open window, breathing in the scent of clean, fresh earth.
That it my home.
Better still, there have been times when I've caught a glimpse of someone's face and smiled.
They are my home.
And there are more just waiting to be found.
A Mown Lawn, Lydia Davis
I thought the piece was really fun to read. Almost like a little puzzle that's been pieced together for you but its fun all the same. The character herself reminds me of a lonely woman who doesn't really have a lot of or anyone close to her and so every little thing annoys her. I wrote a piece about the person who came to mind as a read the story.
Red hair forced behind elongated ears
with skinny fingers and red nails
reveals piercing green eyes
dash across the room hoping to land on a lad
but only meets Moey the red eyed cat
Her red stained lips separate
not much
only slightly, enough to hint at desperation
Most often she's mean
But that's only when its spring
Seemingly not glancing
but always screening
the never smiling
'ol lady RED.
Red hair forced behind elongated ears
with skinny fingers and red nails
reveals piercing green eyes
dash across the room hoping to land on a lad
but only meets Moey the red eyed cat
Her red stained lips separate
not much
only slightly, enough to hint at desperation
Most often she's mean
But that's only when its spring
Seemingly not glancing
but always screening
the never smiling
'ol lady RED.
A Mown Lawn response
Since no one else has responded to this yet, I guess I'll give it a shot.
Only problem is this whole story solicited little more than one long yawn from me.
Just kidding. I actually liked it a lot. It made me think of the neatly trimmed grass that takes turns with thick, pure snow at coating the endless expanse of northern Michigan.
Where my idiot family is from. Lawmen, every one of them. (Republicans, I mean, not sheriffs.)
Anyway, a poem(?):
mown lawn
mow, wom
mown lawn
long moan
mown lawn
long moan
Lawn
man?
man, Nam
raw war
Lawn, law
lawn, lawman
lawman mow lawn
Law and order
lawn order
More lawn
lawn mower
lawn mower
more lawn
More lawn
more lawmen
more lawn
more lawmen
more lawn, more Nam?
More mown lawn
more long moan
lawn mourn
more mown lawn
long mown lawn
lawn
mown
long, long lawn
mole
lawman
mown lawn
moron
lawn moron
I had to do it! Sure am tired of the sound of southern drawl, though.
Only problem is this whole story solicited little more than one long yawn from me.
Just kidding. I actually liked it a lot. It made me think of the neatly trimmed grass that takes turns with thick, pure snow at coating the endless expanse of northern Michigan.
Where my idiot family is from. Lawmen, every one of them. (Republicans, I mean, not sheriffs.)
Anyway, a poem(?):
mown lawn
mow, wom
mown lawn
long moan
mown lawn
long moan
Lawn
man?
man, Nam
raw war
Lawn, law
lawn, lawman
lawman mow lawn
Law and order
lawn order
More lawn
lawn mower
lawn mower
more lawn
More lawn
more lawmen
more lawn
more lawmen
more lawn, more Nam?
More mown lawn
more long moan
lawn mourn
more mown lawn
long mown lawn
lawn
mown
long, long lawn
mole
lawman
mown lawn
moron
lawn moron
I had to do it! Sure am tired of the sound of southern drawl, though.
Translation Response to Margaret
I took some creative license with the replacing of nouns in Richard Brautigan's Margaret.
This toe jam there was a choad at the biscuit . I could tell who it was by the way they pooped, and I heard them coming across the sloppy joe.
They stepped on the only fat man that makes any fromunda cheese. They always step on it. I have never been able to figure this out. I have thought a great deal about why they always step on that same fat man, how they cannot miss it, and now they stood outside my biscuit, pooping.
I did not acknowledge their pooping because I just wasn't interested. I did not want to see them. I knew what they would be about and did not care for it.
Finally they stopped and went back across the sloppy joe and they, of course, stepped on the same fat man: a long fat man with the chins not lined up right, built years ago and no way to fix it, and then they were gone, and the fat man was silent.
I can walk across the sloppy joe hundreds of times without stepping on the fat man, but Margaret always steps on it.
-Sarah Cook
This toe jam there was a choad at the biscuit . I could tell who it was by the way they pooped, and I heard them coming across the sloppy joe.
They stepped on the only fat man that makes any fromunda cheese. They always step on it. I have never been able to figure this out. I have thought a great deal about why they always step on that same fat man, how they cannot miss it, and now they stood outside my biscuit, pooping.
I did not acknowledge their pooping because I just wasn't interested. I did not want to see them. I knew what they would be about and did not care for it.
Finally they stopped and went back across the sloppy joe and they, of course, stepped on the same fat man: a long fat man with the chins not lined up right, built years ago and no way to fix it, and then they were gone, and the fat man was silent.
I can walk across the sloppy joe hundreds of times without stepping on the fat man, but Margaret always steps on it.
-Sarah Cook
Flannery O'Connor
Before my college experience, if someone would have asked about Flannery O'Connor, I probably would have responded with, "is that a beer?" However, fast-forwarding to the present, I can say with certainty that she is one of my favorite authors. The way she pulls you through her stories is stunning. It's like you are being dragged by a rope behind a 4-wheeler. By the end of the tug you are dirty and ragged, but it was a hell of a ride! Sometimes you never know where you are going to end up, and that is the beauty of her writing.
Regarding "Everything That Rises Must Converge," there is an absolute theme of integration. Through the experience of reading this short story, we can depict the characters’ past experiences. There are two incompatible personalities in the passage, Mrs. Chestney, the mother, which represents the transition from the old South, and Julian, the son, who represents the transition of the new South.
I loved the line, "meet yourself coming and going." Mrs. Chestney isbasically implicating her kind as the party responsible for the tension between black and whites. In fact, what she really means is that, "we dominated this race of people," and feels threatened by it.
Regarding "Everything That Rises Must Converge," there is an absolute theme of integration. Through the experience of reading this short story, we can depict the characters’ past experiences. There are two incompatible personalities in the passage, Mrs. Chestney, the mother, which represents the transition from the old South, and Julian, the son, who represents the transition of the new South.
I loved the line, "meet yourself coming and going." Mrs. Chestney isbasically implicating her kind as the party responsible for the tension between black and whites. In fact, what she really means is that, "we dominated this race of people," and feels threatened by it.
Response to “Details” in Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose
Response to “Details” in Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose
Details, baby, details!
It is the color of her hair
In the moonlight in the air
In the murder of his glare
A truth that makes the lie slip by
---or brings comfort
God is truth
Truth may be God
---That which is in the details
So, details, baby, details!
--
Okay, first of all I hope the format comes out okay, since I've been having problems with that today. Also, this originally was a two paragraph response to "Details," but it ultimately got condensed into this. Go figure.
- K. De Melo.
Details, baby, details!
It is the color of her hair
In the moonlight in the air
In the murder of his glare
A truth that makes the lie slip by
---or brings comfort
God is truth
Truth may be God
---That which is in the details
So, details, baby, details!
--
Okay, first of all I hope the format comes out okay, since I've been having problems with that today. Also, this originally was a two paragraph response to "Details," but it ultimately got condensed into this. Go figure.
- K. De Melo.
Everything that rises
Flannery O'Connor is a wonderful author: her sentences feel like reading water; they flow perfectly and her word choice is beautiful. While I was reading this work, it struck me that I already knew how it was going to end. I really hate endings like this. I don’t understand how or why writers get off by writing stories that end like that. They’re not in your face sad, they’re not written to make you cry, but they destroy you.
The entire time I’m reading this story I’m siding with Julian, who believes he’s so righteous by being deliberately colorblind it turns out he’s almost as bad as his mother, who’s suffocating in her prejudice. Now, while Julian’s bleakness is depressing it’s starkly contrasted by the mothers adoration and love, which toys with me throughout the entire story- which I’m sure O’Connor set out to do.
It’s a classic tale of the ungrateful child. His mother is wrong to make rude comments and ruder gestures, and in the privacy of a canceled environment it would be appropriate to have these things brought to her attention. But the way he so callously tries to “teach her a lesson” is in so many ways much more wrong than any crime his mother committed.
And the fact that he gets the last word makes me almost hate this story.
The entire time I’m reading this story I’m siding with Julian, who believes he’s so righteous by being deliberately colorblind it turns out he’s almost as bad as his mother, who’s suffocating in her prejudice. Now, while Julian’s bleakness is depressing it’s starkly contrasted by the mothers adoration and love, which toys with me throughout the entire story- which I’m sure O’Connor set out to do.
It’s a classic tale of the ungrateful child. His mother is wrong to make rude comments and ruder gestures, and in the privacy of a canceled environment it would be appropriate to have these things brought to her attention. But the way he so callously tries to “teach her a lesson” is in so many ways much more wrong than any crime his mother committed.
And the fact that he gets the last word makes me almost hate this story.
response to my name
i have been a long time brautigan fan, and i remember reading "my name" a few years back. i simultaneously like and dislike this piece. what i initially like, and what has made this work very memorable for me are the one line descriptions that instantly give the reader a familiar, sweet, and almost nostalgic reaction. these feelings even build up as they go along, from "perhaps it was raining very hard" which might deliver a slightly less emotional response than: "perhaps you stared into a river. there was somebody near you who loved you. they were about to touch you. you could feel this before it happened. then it happened" which is only a few lines down. it almost feels like brautigan knows who we (as the reader) are, the small intimate things that we like, and is able to connect us to him by directly saying that those things are his "name". To me, it felt incredibly enjoyable to read all braugtigan's different "names", but it was almost in vanity or something. greediness, i guess. i wanted braugtigan to feed me more and more of the warm cozy feelings that i love.
but after the chapter in this story was over, i was somehow disappointed with the work. first off, and i know how un-intellectual this may sound, i kinda wanted a name. actually, i didn't need a name, but i wanted to be able to identify this character with a specific something so that i could connect with him in some way or another. the idea that he was, or his name was "whatever is in [my] mind" irked me a little bit. not too much, just a little bit.
secondly, i thought the way the chapter ended pretty weak. i had fallen into the pattern, like was seen in "the school" and the pay off here didn't quite do it for me. i was becoming more pleased and curious, pleased and curious every time the pattern repeated itself, but then he ends with "and i wish margaret would leave me alone" and i feel a little let down. i feel like that sentence itself speaks poorly of the character. i think i might have liked it better if he ended it revealing something more concrete about his character, or even just omitting the final line all together.
Eight: Details
God in the details.
I wonder what God feels like to those who know him.
Perhaps the reason why it continues to intrigue me is that I have never completely understood it.
And if God is truth-
then how long does it take to get to heaven or hell?
(When other galaxies we know of are a gazillion light years away).
Details are what persuade us that someone is telling the truth.
What truth have you
in perfect detail, at once surprising, unexpected, inventive, unpredictable, but not enitrely plausible?
What well chosen detail can tell us more about the character of God?
His grace? His judgement? His guiding hand?
If we live in detail, but think in generalities,
where does that place God within us?
We might want to pay attention to how and what we remember.
Although, sometimes,
I'm appalled by the details
and after I scream and scream I feel much better.
I wonder what God feels like to those who know him.
Perhaps the reason why it continues to intrigue me is that I have never completely understood it.
And if God is truth-
then how long does it take to get to heaven or hell?
(When other galaxies we know of are a gazillion light years away).
Details are what persuade us that someone is telling the truth.
What truth have you
in perfect detail, at once surprising, unexpected, inventive, unpredictable, but not enitrely plausible?
What well chosen detail can tell us more about the character of God?
His grace? His judgement? His guiding hand?
If we live in detail, but think in generalities,
where does that place God within us?
We might want to pay attention to how and what we remember.
Although, sometimes,
I'm appalled by the details
and after I scream and scream I feel much better.
Response to Richard Brautigan’s “Margaret”
“At least you can still have a barbeque!”
Samuel Burns: manager of Americana Explosives
Unfortunately, if we knew what the weather or not was like next Tuesday or tomorrow for that matter, we might not get out of bed. What is it about the weather or not that can leave one paralyzed in the face of so many decisions and possibilities? And why is it unfortunate that knowing the weather or not could have any negative effect? It is unfortunate because of anticipation. Anticipation is a strange creature, which fulfills and denies simultaneously. It curls into itself awaiting the satisfaction of its demand like an embarrassed John getting it from a trick for the first time. It pouts in a corner when expectations go unfulfilled. Does this satisfy any elements of anticipation noting all the stylistic and contextual methods of response outlined in Guidelines For Posting Reading Responses To The Blog? I have been anticipating something brilliant to come of my finger tips but we may both be disappointed. I have noticed that we are discussing some type of devise utilized by manipulators of all types and I anticipate that many will use it I the future, what a genius. So Brautigan’s character doesn’t have to answer the door, the board made a noise and he knows what Margaret wants, do you? She probably doesn’t know that the board is a give away and it is the cousin of her misery, the music of her identity. Some one is usually in the dark it just depends in this case if its you or me.
Response: Everything That Rises Must Converge
First and foremost, I gotta say regardless of how unorthodox or inappropriate someone may read this... after reading this piece by Flannery O'Connor, I was laughing my ass off and wrote in big pink bold highlighter, "FUCK YEAH!". This piece resonated with me a great deal, mainly because of the immediate connection I discovered with "Julian" the son. There's a lot of racists in my family and me being caucasian and asking an african american girl to marry me didn't go over to well with them last christmas. I'm babbling, but for those of you who read and wrote about this piece you will most undoubtedly see why I liked Julian.
Now, all of this pretense aside, I guess the only option that makes sense now out of our "guidelines for posting reading responses to the blog" is conversation. My first question, and I don't really know if there is an answer is this, what does it mean on pg 440 of the handout when Julian's mother states, "with that hat, you won't meet yourself coming or going"? Now, I know what it means to not know if one's self is coming or going... I'm pretty sure it means you've lost your mind, gone crazy. Therefore, why would Julian's mother, a staunch christian conservative from her dialogue and demeanor; why would this women buy this outrageous hat if the woman who suggested it to her said it looked crazy on her or made her look crazy? The obvious irony comes out later when the "Negro" woman on the bus is wearing the same hat... once again I'm stating the obvious.
Another question that I always ask myself when reading short stories like this is, how much truth is in this story? Not just metaphorical truth, but did Flannery O'Connor go through something like this with her mother? There seem to be a lot of one liners from "Julian's mother" that seem to have been pilfered from actual experience. Lines like, "Selling typewriters is close to writing. He can go right from one to the other." It's often hard for me to separate the writer from the story, the dance from the dance, the pen from the paper. I don't know if the question is worth asking here, but whatever... moving on.
The reason I find this story so frackin' awesome is because of the ending. Not only is it a great ending, with a great moral, but the description of Julian's mother having a stroke because she (perhaps) sees there really is no difference between her and the "Negro" woman with the little boy on the bus. It was also pretty awesome to visualize the "Negro" woman punching this older white southern aristocrat in the face for trying to give her little boy a penny.
Now, I'd like to think, or hope, only because I'm pretty sick with cynicism; I'd like to think that every racist who had a realization like Julian's mother did at the end of the story... I can't help it, I'd like to see them have a stroke or a heart attack. I guess that this is because I bigot racists... the irony. But then again, the last lines of story, "The tide of darkness seemed to sweep him back to her, postponing from moment to moment his entry into the world of guilt and sorrow." This last line seems to suggest that Flannery O'Connor is telling Julian that he'll be sorry and feel guilty for the rest of his life because he was so hard on his mom. But, was Julian really responsible for his mother's death. Of course there's only two options: yes or no. I tend to swing towards the no end of the answer spectrum because I believe it was Julian's mother herself, her reaction to realizing how stupid and powerless and awful she was inside; this is what I think caused her stroke. She caused her blood pressure to rise, it was her mind that caused her mind to crack. It was the way she digested the experience. Whereas she could have reacted to the experience in a positive way, she decided it was too much for her to handle. She turned a medicine into a poison.
All in all, great read. I'll be looking for more to read by Flannery O'Connor.
laters-
matt phibbs.
Now, all of this pretense aside, I guess the only option that makes sense now out of our "guidelines for posting reading responses to the blog" is conversation. My first question, and I don't really know if there is an answer is this, what does it mean on pg 440 of the handout when Julian's mother states, "with that hat, you won't meet yourself coming or going"? Now, I know what it means to not know if one's self is coming or going... I'm pretty sure it means you've lost your mind, gone crazy. Therefore, why would Julian's mother, a staunch christian conservative from her dialogue and demeanor; why would this women buy this outrageous hat if the woman who suggested it to her said it looked crazy on her or made her look crazy? The obvious irony comes out later when the "Negro" woman on the bus is wearing the same hat... once again I'm stating the obvious.
Another question that I always ask myself when reading short stories like this is, how much truth is in this story? Not just metaphorical truth, but did Flannery O'Connor go through something like this with her mother? There seem to be a lot of one liners from "Julian's mother" that seem to have been pilfered from actual experience. Lines like, "Selling typewriters is close to writing. He can go right from one to the other." It's often hard for me to separate the writer from the story, the dance from the dance, the pen from the paper. I don't know if the question is worth asking here, but whatever... moving on.
The reason I find this story so frackin' awesome is because of the ending. Not only is it a great ending, with a great moral, but the description of Julian's mother having a stroke because she (perhaps) sees there really is no difference between her and the "Negro" woman with the little boy on the bus. It was also pretty awesome to visualize the "Negro" woman punching this older white southern aristocrat in the face for trying to give her little boy a penny.
Now, I'd like to think, or hope, only because I'm pretty sick with cynicism; I'd like to think that every racist who had a realization like Julian's mother did at the end of the story... I can't help it, I'd like to see them have a stroke or a heart attack. I guess that this is because I bigot racists... the irony. But then again, the last lines of story, "The tide of darkness seemed to sweep him back to her, postponing from moment to moment his entry into the world of guilt and sorrow." This last line seems to suggest that Flannery O'Connor is telling Julian that he'll be sorry and feel guilty for the rest of his life because he was so hard on his mom. But, was Julian really responsible for his mother's death. Of course there's only two options: yes or no. I tend to swing towards the no end of the answer spectrum because I believe it was Julian's mother herself, her reaction to realizing how stupid and powerless and awful she was inside; this is what I think caused her stroke. She caused her blood pressure to rise, it was her mind that caused her mind to crack. It was the way she digested the experience. Whereas she could have reacted to the experience in a positive way, she decided it was too much for her to handle. She turned a medicine into a poison.
All in all, great read. I'll be looking for more to read by Flannery O'Connor.
laters-
matt phibbs.
Sydney
I wait at home lying on the felt tipped couch,
Perched ears trying to pick up the signal
Of her coming home. A car whizzes by,
My body snaps into full attention.
But no, no one is home, and I plop my head
Into the bubbled cushion with the sheets
Covered in scary dinosaurs,
Causing me to drop my eyelids into the sand.
And I dream of bones in another land.
-Brandon Cusak
Reading Like A Writer - "Details"
In the chapter “Details,” Prose examines the impact of minor details on the entire story. I found this piece very insightful, as it opened attention to the aspects of a work which are often the most captivating, although their importance is often overlooked. The chapter opens with a few paragraphs describing the intense power of storytelling, and the importance of details to the impact of the story. When describing a story told by a woman who lost her leg to disease and then made up a very believable alternative story about her loss, Prose says that her friend told her “that the whole reason the class believed the woman’s story – a gothic tall tale about a gangrenous cat bite – was entirely because of the detail about the father’s love for steak and the mother’s passion for tofu.” This idea rings true that it is the smallest, most human, most relatable details that define characters and create depth to a story. This chapter has inspired me to make an effort to notice these details in the stories I read, and to watch for opportunities for details in the stories that I write.
"Margaret"
I might borrow Brautigan’s idea of using the same character‘s name in my stories. I think it’s a good way to build up the character for use in future stories.
In “Margaret,” I like the way the author sounds so natural, but I think a normal person would tell Margret to leave him alone. I liked, “My Name,” and the same natural sound he had, but then it got weird the way he uses that same voice that claims not to care, but he does. Maybe he’s just expressing annoyance…..or, is he somehow fond of Margret, does he like her or something? It’s hard to tell, and the story just leaves you guessing. (So much confusion in two short little stories!). …Oh yeah, who is talking anyway? I just assumed it was a he. Were they supposed to be read together and is he talking about the same Margret? I couldn't help analyzing the two stories together.
In “Margaret,” I like the way the author sounds so natural, but I think a normal person would tell Margret to leave him alone. I liked, “My Name,” and the same natural sound he had, but then it got weird the way he uses that same voice that claims not to care, but he does. Maybe he’s just expressing annoyance…..or, is he somehow fond of Margret, does he like her or something? It’s hard to tell, and the story just leaves you guessing. (So much confusion in two short little stories!). …Oh yeah, who is talking anyway? I just assumed it was a he. Were they supposed to be read together and is he talking about the same Margret? I couldn't help analyzing the two stories together.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Response to "Margaret"
The short story "Margaret," although extremely short (ha) inspired me to write. In the five short paragraphs, I got a sense that the narrator, although annoyed with Margaret for a reason we do not know, is very fond of her. I feel that he even loves her. I love that he knows who it is just by the creak of the board on the bridge. I love that Richard Brautigan makes it so the narrator comes across as being annoyed at this habbit of Margaret's, but at the same time still manages to sound sentimental. He calls Margaret "they" throughout the whole story except for at the end, even though he knows right from the beginning who it is at the door. I feel that the narrator is mad at Margaret, maybe even hurt by her. But he still loves her. You can feel this. And that is what has inspired me to write, the fondness that the narrator holds for Margaret, despite unpleasant circumstances, whatever they may be.
Reading Response
Response to: Reading Like A Writer, Pages 193-207
I found this chapter about details really interesting and relevant to how I write. Far too often I throw in details to get myself started writing or to create a setting. Whether it is helpful to get started, and I should just cut out the unnecessary parts when editing, or I should just try and keep it simple from the beginning, I now better understand I need to create simpler stories. This is explained more eloquently in one of the last paragraphs on page 201, in Chekov’s letters:
You understand it at once when I say, “The man sat on the grass.” You understand it because it is clear and makes no demands on the attention . . . it is not easily understood if I write, “A tall, narrow-chested, middle-sized man, with a red beard, sat on the green grass, already trampled by pedestrians, sat silently, shyly, and timidly looked about him.” That is not immediately grasped by the mind, whereas good writing should be grasped at once - in a second.
Another part of this chapter confused me however. When talking about how her son could only remember the details of a certain story and not the events or title, Prose said “One mark of the highly skilled and competent but less than first-rate writer is that we may vividly remember one detail from a novel but not the rest of the book, or even its title.” (Page 204) Why does this make a “less than first-rate writer”? I do think that it is important to remember the title and events of the story, but I can’t help but feel I am missing something. What exactly is Prose saying we, as writers, should grasp from what we read?
-Beth Bauler
I found this chapter about details really interesting and relevant to how I write. Far too often I throw in details to get myself started writing or to create a setting. Whether it is helpful to get started, and I should just cut out the unnecessary parts when editing, or I should just try and keep it simple from the beginning, I now better understand I need to create simpler stories. This is explained more eloquently in one of the last paragraphs on page 201, in Chekov’s letters:
You understand it at once when I say, “The man sat on the grass.” You understand it because it is clear and makes no demands on the attention . . . it is not easily understood if I write, “A tall, narrow-chested, middle-sized man, with a red beard, sat on the green grass, already trampled by pedestrians, sat silently, shyly, and timidly looked about him.” That is not immediately grasped by the mind, whereas good writing should be grasped at once - in a second.
Another part of this chapter confused me however. When talking about how her son could only remember the details of a certain story and not the events or title, Prose said “One mark of the highly skilled and competent but less than first-rate writer is that we may vividly remember one detail from a novel but not the rest of the book, or even its title.” (Page 204) Why does this make a “less than first-rate writer”? I do think that it is important to remember the title and events of the story, but I can’t help but feel I am missing something. What exactly is Prose saying we, as writers, should grasp from what we read?
-Beth Bauler
Week 1 Writing Assignment
I'm sorry that some people didn't get the email with the assignments last week. For those of you who did not receive the email, I will accept Week One writing assignment this week and next week. I will also offer an extra credit assignment toward the end of the semester.
Writing Assignment
Choose One:
1) This week, make a habit of noticing everything around you. Choose two or three concrete, specific, images or details that seem particularly telling about a character or a situation. Using those images, write a poem of no longer than ten lines, or a story of no more than one paragraph. Remember – be brief. Let your images do the work!
2) Take an abstract word used to describe someone, (for example, ugly, stupid, pretty, funny, kind, crazy, heroic etc.). Writing no more than a page, use concrete images and details to convey the quality you choose, without ever using that word. For instance, if you choose ugly, make the reader know that your character is ugly without ever sayings so.
Writing Assignment
Choose One:
1) This week, make a habit of noticing everything around you. Choose two or three concrete, specific, images or details that seem particularly telling about a character or a situation. Using those images, write a poem of no longer than ten lines, or a story of no more than one paragraph. Remember – be brief. Let your images do the work!
2) Take an abstract word used to describe someone, (for example, ugly, stupid, pretty, funny, kind, crazy, heroic etc.). Writing no more than a page, use concrete images and details to convey the quality you choose, without ever using that word. For instance, if you choose ugly, make the reader know that your character is ugly without ever sayings so.
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