the self and the persona and fragile trust

I had already been thinking on this a lot but maybe didn't have the words for it, the situation and the context, or their relationship, their versus, their roles in all of this. Bruce had told us in class an anecdote about a guy wanting to write these memories, and one of them is his going to a vintage store to buy a bowling shirt with his friends at a young age. And it strikes him to write this, but that is just the situation, and it is not enough to have just that, one must also have a context, or an occasion for telling a situation. In a successful essay one cannot survive without the other. Like a chestnut tree you must plant two to see production.

Gornik goes on to talk about the relationship of being trustworthy and creating a persona. In a genre in which one must be honest above all else, how do we remain on the good trusted side of our readers? How do you remain there? How do we stay there when we are admittedly narcissistic, suicidal, sexually ambiguous, drug experimenting, cheaters? (Sometimes one, none, or in my case all of the above. ha) I have no idea. Has anyone read WILD? I am Cheryl Strayed fan. But she does it, doesn't she? She is all of these things and yet her memoir was wildly (hahah) successful. Is it the Orwell persona, the humanizing indictment of the self? And through that the reader knows you, and therefore trusts you, even if you have proven to be not a trustworthy person to others. Do we not trust wholly the person who comes to us as a confessional? "We believe the narrator is telling us all he knows."

So, how do we find "the narrator who can serve the situation and find the story," while keeping mind of their trustworthiness? How do you find that slice of you that is both, other and wholly yourself, at the same time? Who is the right version of you to play matchmaker of story and situation? The you with a keen eye, and clear memory who is gifted at selecting the perfect detail and delivering it all with a smoothed tongue and perfect pitch to language. Where is he/she? Have you met her yet? Glanced at your reflecting and seen him staring back at you if only for a second?

I am not entirely sure but it feels like all of this has a lot to do with the idea of how many selves we have or have been. Can the same idea be constructed and accumulated through our writing years and self the same way it can in life? Is there a self for every essay? Can you recycle your persona? How far away is my persona from myself? And is that only a version of the truth? Warped glass and blind eyes? Is the persona is so far from you then is it still considered being truthful?

To tie this around to Feel Me, See Me. Hear Me. Reach Me. I am interested in how we see these questions enacted. I am curious about you guys think in regards to how much of this feels like a situation, and when or if, it starts to cross into context and story territory. Also, do you trust her and why. For me I think it has a lot to do with the way she opens and her brief admittance to failure in dating, I a immediately in a space of empathy and understanding and interest because of this small moment. But, are you? And why? Do we naturally trust until proven otherwise?

Who you gonna call?

I have to admit that about the time Dr. Venkman, er...Dr. Tucker took us over to his Division of Perceptual Studies (DOPs), where some of their top ten hits, such as "Mystical Experiences in Epilepsy" and "Investigation of Mediums Who Claim to Give Information about Deceased People" (I would think someone by now should have gotten a little insight into where Huey Long left the "deduct" box the day he was murdered), were being shown off, I was humming....."Well there's something strange, in the neighborhood, who you gonna call?" I was waiting for someone like Uri Geller to pop in to the story and to actually demonstrate the bent spoons - I've always wanted to see that trick up live and personal - but no such luck.  Instead, we have  this Harvard/Iowa Writer's Workshop-trained essayist taking on this "former life" story for Harper's.  (Now, I'm imagining William Hurt and Andie McDowell, writing for the National Mirror, heading off to rural Iowa to see the archangel Michael, presumably skipping the Iowa Writer's workshop, where Hurt's character - on his way down, down, down, and also the skeptic's skeptic - presumably could have picked up some tips).  But no matter, Leslie Jamison takes us on a tour of the fantastic - the bona fide possibility of reincarnation - even as she keeps an objective eye on what might be truth and what might be extremely creative con-viction. I give it up for Giving Up the Ghost, which could have been either too coldly logical or too much the puff piece.  For me, Jamison conjurs up a good story.  I like the way she brings us into her mind.  She doesn't really start until 2/3's of the way through p. 66, with "My own sense of Tucker is....", which leads into her first non-para normal excursion with Tucker to meet Carol of the rotary phone.  Phrases like "Tucker's skepticism makes him more credible to me..." also make her narrative more credible to me, and also Tucker more credible to me, as I can see some of her doubts and her validations.

As our own Professor assuredly planned, if I can read his mind on this matter, Picturing the Perfect Essay is quite complementary to our life after death essay.  This one didn't start with a two-year old channeling (or reliving) a WWII pilot, but with  a squiggly drawing a two-year old might have created (presumably channeling, or reliving,Picasso) the figure I might well have drawn myself during an evening w/a bit too much of the bubbly. Being a visual person - I actually like white boards and flip chart pads - who likes pictures, this article resonated with me.  He took what could have been a quite technical article and embroidered it with rising and falling (mountain-like) arrows, right and wrong stair steps, whorls for goodness sake - fun to try to pronounce, things that look like barbed wire - and more!

I can only take a quick crack, to get the conversation going, as to which of these "shapes" Jamison is closest to in "Ghost".  The "dipping into the well" metaphor, perhaps, makes some sense to me.  Her story goes along and then she reflects, then goes further, and then she'll reflect some more.  Honestly, this reflexivity is what I enjoyed most about the essay because listening to this successful writer actually speculate on matters that many of us might dismiss offhand got me to thinking too.  What shape do you think Jamison was closest to in her essay?  Not to leave anyone out, what shape was Bascom's?

"Coming Full Circle",one of Bascom's "shapes", was appropriate, I thought, as Jamison brings us back in her essay just so, to where she started, talking about a child "crying out". Kind of spooky, this former life stuff, isn't it?  But it could be true.  As I revise this at 4:30 in the morning, in the dark, I can only think of one thing....

...I ain't afraid of no ghost....

All You Can Do with an Essay

Both of the readings this week left me completely spent, and I loved it. Doyle is right to celebrate the flexible nature of the essay. Yet, where Doyle’s essay is an enthusiastic declaration on the freedom of the genre, I feel that Rankin’s essay is a lesson on how to powerfully wield it.

First of all, both authors challenge the established rules of Standard English grammar and syntax in their writing. After reading many student compositions, and after experiencing a few of my own epic failures,  I have determined that this ability--the ability of an artist to know when and how to  break established constructs effectively--only comes after the artist has mastered them. (Have you seen Picasso's early works?) When done right, these choices complicate and enrich the reader’s overall experience.

Doyle’s repetitive sentences of praise for the essay roll on and on, leaving me nearly breathless by the end. Rankine uses the same tactic in her writing, but she is more frugal in her choice of when and where. Her timing, combined with her subject matter and imagery, not only took my breath away, but elevated my pulse at the same time. Thank goodness both authors serve their chunks of prose small enough to be swallowed whole without choking, and thank goodness for breaks that allowed me the chance to come up for air.

What I found to be so effective in “Citizen” was how Rankine used two styles, or forms, of essay to prepare and influence my reaction to the subject matter. Her first section contains chunks of  lyrical prose that rise to the top of each page. Each chunk captures an experience of casual racism. These chunks are full of imagery and run-on sentences that decide the speed and emotion of the read, and create a slight sense of confusion. I felt that the use of “you” in these chunks invited/challenged/dared me to almost approach the experiences as a participant.  Moment after moment, page after page of casual racism led me to wonder if there was no end. Later in her writing, Rankine compares racism to “a low flame, a constant drip” that builds until someone breaks. Her form reflects her intent, and it left me completely worn out.

With this form, Rankine emotionally prepares her audience. By the time the I have arrived at the more straightforward essay on the racial injustices against Serena Williams, I have been sufficiently emotionally contextualized.

Narrative expectations in the personal essay

Hi all.  I'm working up a talk for AWP next week on "narrative expectations" in nonfiction:  What expectations readers bring to "real" stories, and by implication, how these might different from reading fiction.   I could use your help.  Here's a thought experiment:

Imagine a scene in a story in which a famous actress, in the midst of filming a scene in a New York apartment, trips and accidentally falls out of an open window and falls eight stories.  She is not the point-of-view character (or narrator).  This is simply a dramatic moment in a story. If this were a work of fiction, what would you predict happens to the actress?  Would you have the same prediction if it was a work of nonfiction?  In either case, would you entertain the possibility that the actress survived?

I'd love to hear your thoughts about this, and any other ideas you have about particular expectations we bring to reading stories that we know are "true."

Placing Our Experiences on the Altar

In ancient times, humans transferred their sins—their misdeeds and dark secrets—to the souls of sacrificial beasts, placing said beasts on altars for all to see, and then slaughtering them then and there.  It could be argued that the act of “casting sins upon sacrificial animals" is still being practiced today by creative nonfiction writers.  Yet our sacrificial beasts are not sheep or oxen, but artifacts and form.

 

Miller used a table of figures to reveal her sexual history and a needlepoint and muslin to sort out her thoughts on pregnancy and miscarriage.  Christman used a sloth to express her grief, Simpson’s bear was a catalyst for addressing marital fidelity, and Jamson used medical acting and case studies to study herself.  This week’s essay by Monson not only used an experimental form (outline essay) but also used the copper mine as an outer, concrete image to lead to the idea of mining the past for experiences.  (The outline form itself has this mining feel to it, as though the reader is digging deeper and deeper, zigzagging left and right, yes, but always chipping away, digging deeper into the material.)

Miller wrote, “I know it can seem a paradox: that writings imbued with qualities of what we recognize as ‘honest’ or ‘brave’ may actually be so strong because they focus away from that material directly. […] Instead of facing your ‘stuff’ head on, you turn away from it, zero in on something that has fluttered up on the side, and see what angle it gives you.”

I’ve been thinking about the final essay I’ll be submitting for this class—the experience I’ll write about and also the form and the artifact I’ll use—the sacrificial beasts of the essay.  It got me wondering how you all go about crafting your essays.  Do you begin with an experience in mind and then mine for an artifact:  a concrete image, entity, or sensory input—a catalyst for some greater purpose?  Or does an artifact strike you first—something interesting, unique or even mundane—and then do you find an experience and/or meaning to pull from that artifact?  Furthermore, are personal experiences always necessary in an essay?  Are artifacts?

And must we write only about provocative topics or harrowing experiences for us to be considered brave or courageous essayists?  Or is our bravery determined by, as Miller asserts, our attention to the words, sentences, and significant details we provide?

Painting Passages

            I talked with a friend today about what we do when we can’t seem to work on any of our stuff. She writes short stories. She called them short stories, but I’ve read some of them and know that they are very short stories, flash fiction. I told her I write pages of freewriting that sometimes comes out as weird little essays. I hadn’t yet done the readings for the week or I might have confessed to writing essaykins. I think of them as nothings, throwaways, practice on the way to bigger, better, more important writing—my real writing. I don’t even reread them most of the time—but sometimes I do and sometimes I’m secretly pleased, but I still think of them as nothings.

            I enjoyed writing the segmented essay I experimented with for class—mostly because it was done in short bursts—I started with a list of thoughts and memories then wrote each one, not worrying about how long it was—of course they were all meant to hang together around specific themes, not stand on their own, but I still enjoyed the permission I felt to write these short vignettes and wonder that I haven’t thought of it as a legitimate form before.

            In “Of Fire and Ice” Moore comments on the appropriateness of short pieces for the “digital domain.” I admit that when scrolling through Facebook I’m much more likely to read something short than a longer essay. The online format crimps my attention span. And short pieces are ideal for blog posts. The field is ripe for flash non-fiction, in fact it is already happening—perhaps it is the lack of a name, the fact that is has not been designated as a clearly defined category that I have not considered these little pieces to be real writing.

            What are your experiences with reading and writing flash non-fiction? 

Christopher M on Didion

I think I read, The Year of Magical Thinking, ages ago and honestly I can’t really remember—it more like a fond notion than memory as the details are completely obscured by time, so I am only left with a familiar scent that reminds me that I liked the way she writes. Reading, “Goodbye to All That”, brought back all the good things I remembered but also allowed me to reflect on her writing with fresh eyes and take note more critically.

What I loved before and still am enamored with is her ability to construct long, descriptive sentences that are essays unto themselves. Lines like the ones below are something I hope to aspire for in my own writing. Everything is there, the details, the reflection, the prose, the literary quality—it is complete.

To an Eastern child, particularly a child who has always has an uncle on Wall Street and who has spent several hundred Saturdays first at F.A.O. Schwarz and being fitted for shoes at Best’s and then waiting under the Biltmore clock and dancing to Lester Lanin, New York is just a city, albeit the city, a plausible place for people to live, But to those of us who came from places where no one had heard of Lester Lanin and Grand Central Station was a Saturday radio program, where Wall Street and Fifth Avenue and Madison Avenue were not places at all but abstractions (“Money,” and “High Fashion,” and “The Hucksters”), New York was no mere city. It was instead an infinitely romantic notion, the mysterious nexus of all love and money and power, the shining and perishable dream itself.

I love how these lines are somewhat lyrical and how they compact so much energy and information into a small space. As a writer (and reader) I find myself drawn to long complicated sentences like this, because I feel they evoke a memory response the same as if it were my own and this engages me and holds my attention. I wonder if any of you appreciate this sort of writing and if you do now or have attempted to extend your sentences in a similar fashion? What are your thoughts on the effect it has on the reader? 

What I did find somewhat distracting was Didion’s use of telling phrases that seem to be unnecessary or superfluous to what she is trying to say. Here are a few examples:

                  I remember once,…

                  You see I was in a curious position in New York:…

                  Which is precisely what we were

                  In fact…

                  I suppose…

If were editing my own paper I would most likely cut those lines as fat, hoping to stream line things a bit and give the essay more room to stand on its own. I am sure it is more of a personal aesthetic, but I am wondering what everyone else thinks about these kind of phrases in your own work? Do you find them purposeful or do you cut them? What do these kinds of phrases do to the piece rhetorically, does it situate the information differently? Is this just a case of being verbose or is it a calculated stylistic choice?