The essayist has made a friend

Sara Levine's essay, entitled "The Essayist Is Sorry for Your Loss", holds a wealth of quippy lines on Creative Nonfiction:

"In the midwest girls walk around in bright colored parkas and plastic boots to match."

"The Essayist gets drunk on language"

"Art is valued, ease is valued. Because the essay is pessimistic about everything but language."

I read this essay and feel like I have found a home in this genre, as small and sad as it may be among both the academic and the common-man. I didn't even know what Creative Nonfiction was until last spring. The only essay I had read/written had been entitled something like "Shakespeare's Tragic Hero" or "The American Dream in Of Mice and Men".

Then, I had to read things like Sara Levine's essay that challenged me to rethink this boxed in definition. I feel as though Levine's entire point is that essays are your brain's own little world to meander through, describing personal joy, problems, and conclusions on ...everything. Or nothing. They are what your brain wants them to be.

As a reader, we see personal essays as a little dip into the pond that is the 'self' another, which, frankly is exhilarating. It isn't like escaping into fiction, which is specifically apart from reality. It isn't like poetry, which is more like beams of light transcending your own experiences. The essay is something else.

I think that I, too, have fallen into the essay by accident. And it is exhilarating.

A poem for you today:

The Thing Is

by Ellen Bass

to love life, to love it even

when you have no stomach for it

and everything you've held dear

crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,

your throat filled with the silt of it.

When grief sits with you, its tropical heat

thickening the air, heavy as water

more fit for gills than lungs;

when grief weights you like your own flesh

only more of it, an obesity of grief,

you think, How can a body withstand this?

Then you hold life like a face

between your palms, a plain face,

no charming smile, no violet eyes,

and you say, yes, I will take you

I will love you, again.

I love everything about this poem. I love the title. I love the imagery. I love the syntax, punctuation, and diction. I love the theme of grief, and of loving life.

How do we go through what we do, and yet still decide to love life?

I have no suffered any specific or extreme crises/deaths in my life. I have not underwent catastrophes or poverty or war or chaos, even. But sometimes it's hard to stomach life. I guess that's what the thing is.

Number 6: I sit here and ponder in prison

I sit here and ponder

until the point of frustration has been surpassed

until my mind has spun around

to so many different places

that I don't even know where

I am anymore.

I sit here and ponder

everything about my life

at the Coffee House with some friends,

who are writers and dreamers like me,

and we drink coffee,

probably too much.

I sit here and ponder

about next week and the week after,

when I have three tests-

big ones-

and about when I will be beyond

Seward and Concordia University.

I sit here and ponder

the process of writing stuff,

for instance: Why am I writing this?

What will it become

and why am I using a

six-lined format?

I sit here and ponder

and slowly become embittered

by the lack of stories, anecdotes,

and matters of wisdom

that could be excised from my scalp

and smashed onto my paper.

I sit here and ponder

about the goal to regale

those literate crowds of somebodies.

this isn't "writer's block"-

this is my writer's prison and

I can't find the words to escape.

Rule Number Four: Just Don't Go There

I have a confession to make: I did not finish the story “Torch Song”.

Now, if you’ve read the story, you probably know why I didn’t finish reading it. You are also probably laughing at me right now, but I don’t care. Call me a prude or a square or a child, but I couldn’t finish it.

The writer of “Torch Song”, Charles Bowden, presents a fairly descriptive piece of writing that delves into the world of sex crimes, child molestation, rape, and, well, just sex, in general. It follows his experiences as a reporter, covering stories on some of the worst sex crimes imaginable (although I’d say all sex crimes are equally horrid) against both women and children.

I cannot stand these types of stories. They make me second guess every situation in which I am alone, every relationship I have with a man, and basically turn me into a paranoid-man-hating-woman-warrior. (Well, I guess I usually have the man-hating woman warrior persona, but these talk of these situations add the paranoid factor). I can’t even watch Law and Order: SVI (Special Victims Unit) because of this issue. It frightens me. I carry mace frequently.

But Charles Bowden doesn’t stop there. For some twisted, man reason, he decides to divulge all the details of his own sex life for the readers to get a little bit of a closer glimpse into his world. His world of sex and crime and even more sex. (Never did I think that I would write the word “sex” in this type of frequency for a class assignment. What would my mother think).

Let’s just say, Charles gets some. He gets some, a lot.

I wouldn’t care if he wrote that. If he changed the scene, right as he and his lady-friend are gettin’ friendly, to the next morning’s scrambled eggs--like they do on tv. Yes, this is the part where you call me a child and laugh. But hear me out, I have come a long way since college started, let me tell you. For instance, once, in eleventh grade, I got David Sedaris book Me Talk Pretty One Day out of the library. I had to stop reading it after seeing the F-word too many times. Maybe I’ve just heard devotions on Philippians 4:8 one too many times. All that Jesus talk has been affecting my education and intellectual reading. Still, I think Charles Bowden used the F-word too much in his essay too. Maybe he’s friends with David Sedaris.

Anyway, I guess I am still a little bit of a wuss when it comes to ‘things of this world’. I think that there is a time and a place for swearing in literature. I don’t believe in censorship. I know that sex is all over the place and, according to Professor Reek and in the right context, really great. But I do not want to read about it in my class assignments. I don’t care how old I am or Charles Bowden is. I am still a child. And Rule Number Four (“Don’t talk about it; no one wants to hear these things”) needs to be remembered and followed, for goodness sake (pg. 62)!

Twitter Fit

Today I was thinking about Sojourner Truth and her ability to communicate, I mean, really communicate.

I am kind of jealous of her ability to communicate.

In 1851 she gave a speech to the Women's Convention in Akron, Ohio. It wasn't more than five minutes long. It didn't have fancy language. She never had a debate or public speaking class.

BUT in this speech she managed to combine autobiographical information, persuasion, humor, and powerful words to form a unforgettable attack on the social system, promoting BOTH women's and African-American rights.

Talk about a good communicator.

Watch the video clip of Alice Walker delivering the below speech:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EsjdLL3MrKk

Sojourner Truth (1797-1883): Ain't I A Woman?
Delivered 1851
Women's Convention, Akron, Ohio

Well, children, where there is so much racket there must be something out of kilter. I think that 'twixt the negroes of the South and the women at the North, all talking about rights, the white men will be in a fix pretty soon. But what's all this here talking about?

That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain't I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain't I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man - when I could get it - and bear the lash as well! And ain't I a woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother's grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain't I a woman?

Then they talk about this thing in the head; what's this they call it? [member of audience whispers, "intellect"] That's it, honey. What's that got to do with women's rights or negroes' rights? If my cup won't hold but a pint, and yours holds a quart, wouldn't you be mean not to let me have my little half measure full?

Then that little man in black there, he says women can't have as much rights as men, 'cause Christ wasn't a woman! Where did your Christ come from? Where did your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with Him.

If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back , and get it right side up again! And now they is asking to do it, the men better let them.

Obliged to you for hearing me, and now old Sojourner ain't got nothing more to say. "

(Taken from:http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/mod/sojtruth-woman.html)

I've gotta say, people don't really have that kind of talent, or brevity today. Ask a member of Congress to provide some type of social change and you get a 1,372 page document...ahem, not exactly light reading.

I guess Sojourner was just an average (although enslaved) woman. So how do average women communicate effectively today, in this present day and age? Sure, speeches are used to some degree, but it isn't like they are published across the country for fun reading, like they were in Sojourner's time. They may be on Youtube for a while...but is there any other way?

And so I arrive at Twitter.

(http://www.postsecret.com/)

This website has practically invaded pop culture, as represented in this "Postsecret Post card" above.

This concise form of communication probably isn't exactly up to the same level of Sojourner Truth's Speech. But I argue that it is similar in it's ability to give the common woman (or man, I guess) a voice on... anything!

Sure, it's more typically used for "just chilling with my homies yo!" and "ohmygoodness I just saw a shooting star! *-Make a wish that I'll finally meet Justin Beiber!-*".

But really, Twitter has had an impact on our society. Just like Sojourner Truth's sassy speech.

So, the question is:

What will you tweet about?

www.Twitter.com

(For a fun video about the rising, Twitter sensation that is hitting the nation: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bZWLMdGqu8g)

Cryptic Coffee Spoons and Writing Styles

This semester of college has been chock-full of two out of three of the proverbial "R's" of education:

Reading and 'Riting.

(Praise be to God, the 'Rithmatic Gen Ed is finally in the past!)

As an English major, well, you might understand why I'm a little giggly with glee over the way I'm asked to spend my time doing homework. Read a poem? Read a novel? Look up some words in the dictionary? Write a reflection paper? Yes, ma'am (or sir), sure thing.

This semester, with my Creative Nonfiction class, however, I have been surprisingly stretched outside my literary comfort zone a bit. I have been asked questions which I have never really considered before about myself: my own writing style, voice, and story.

Tell me to analyze someone else's work. Done. For example, in my American Literature III class, we read a T.S. Eliot poem. His fragmented/unconventional structure, esoteric allusions, lack of narrative format, and strange juxtapositions reflect his emergence as a Modernist Poet. Here's a little blurb to add some flavor to that description for you:

"For I have known them all already, known them all--

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying all

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?"

(-TS Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock")

I mean... that isn't exactly easy stuff to digest for the typical reader (especially someone outside of Eliot's circles, in the movement of Modernism).

Yet, I still like to roll around the line 'I have measured out my life with coffee spoons' in my head. Even though I don't know what the heck Eliot means by the majority of this strange poem, I marvel at the idea of measuring a life out with coffee spoons.

I really value people who can take hold of the challenge of originality and radicalism in their work. Their bravery and, for those who are lucky, success give their writing an almost provocative feel for those of us traditionalists. But, I ask, do their cryptic and unwontedly-styled works effectively project their overall 'message'? I do not know the answer.

When I write, I tend to do so more straightforwardly. Even this blog is written so that any member of the literate public could understand my central thoughts about writing styles (although, I'm guessing 2 or 3 people from my Creative Nonfiction people will skim it. Greetings faithful readers!).

I question if the Modernists were onto something with their esoteric styles and themes. It was risky, and yes, they've survived and are revered in many literary circles. But I feel more powerful using common language, referencing universal experiences, and presenting my message in the most clear route possible. I guess I feel like then my audience has an easier time really connecting my rambling words to their lives.

I say- life is chaotic enough. Let's bring some clarity to it with our writing.

(I must confess I still love the foggy, mysterious feeling T.S. Eliot's poetry gives me. So, really, I guess there is room for every type of writing style. Just make it your own and get your message out there!)

"This Too Shall Pass"

I have been many places and I have met many people. I am often amazed, however, at how these people really differ from one another a lot less than you would assume.

There are some powerful unifiers in the human experience.

One is pain.

Pain is scattered like footprints of sin across our globe. And its path runs through each of our lives. Whether you live in rural Nebraska or desolate Alaska or urban London or in the chaos of Pakistan- there is pain. This path connects us. A unifier of humanity. Our lives can be so steeped in pain that we feel nothing else. Often, writing can be a way to rise above the surface of it all and to make sense of it.

Some people (I being one of them) say another entity exists and connects humanity to one another.

And that entity is God.

Eula Biss mused about this in her essay "The Pain Scale":

"Christianity is not mine. I do not know it and I cannot claim it. But I've seen the sacred heart ringed with thorns, the gaping wound in Christ's side, the weeping virgin, the blood, the nails, the cross to bear. . . . Pain is holy, I understand. Suffering is divine.

"In my worst pain, I can remember thinking, 'This is not beautiful.' I can remember being disgusted by the very idea.

"But in my worst pain, I also found myself secretly cherishing the phrase, 'This too shall pass.' The longer the pain lasted, the more beautiful and impossible and absolutely holy this phrase became."

Unlike Eula Biss, I do claim Christianity because Christ has claimed me. Sin's footprints in our lives are in such pain as she describes- the physical, the emotional, and the chronic. But there is also a hope for humanity, a hope that I pray is just as universal as the pain which it overcomes. That hope is found in Christ Jesus, who promises that pains that characterize our lives will pass one day- for he has overcome the world and its paths of pain.

I strive to express this to my fellow sufferers across this earth. Writing can uncover so much hope for each of us- buried under oceans of painful experiences, doubts, and sufferings. Let us make the statement

'This too shall pass'

and know that Christ whispers it with us, for us- wherever we are on this globe.

The Station of Communication Frustration

After trekking across four time zones within a one week span, by both sky-sailing and automobiling, I am forced to take yet another hiatus from my vagabond life for a semester in Nebraska. It's time to play with the Midwest wind and drink in the expanse of blue sky. This time of year, we also have a chance to reconnect with all those people of old (that is, friends/professors/acquaintances/Lutherans we haven't seen since last semester).

And so the generic conversations go:

-"Hey! How was your summer?" [Hug]

-"Oh, hi! It was really good! I worked at _____. And went on vacation to _____!"

-"Wow! That sounds fun! I worked at _____. Summer went by so fast! . . . Anyway, what classes do you have?"

And so I traveled 4,135 miles to arrive at the Station of Communication Frustration.

This metaphorical train station is characterized with superficial palavering, apathetic droll, and other weapons of language destruction, aided by Facebook and text messaging. After a summer that both grew and stretched me in a myriad of ways, it hasn't been a piece of cake to settle back into the same old life and relationships of last year. Communicating this to my peers, who mostly return to their designated space in last year's drudge, has been, well, frustrating.

And frankly, sometimes I wonder if communicating the truth is really worth all the trouble. Or even what people want.

Isn't language supposed to be a medium through which we can make sense of the world? Make sense of ourselves? Express what that 'self' is?

Thankfully, God always provides a way out of idiotic temptations (1 Corinthians 10:13). And this particular way we can call the Writer's Express.

Brett Lott said that, in writing, "continue to question. Only through rigorous and ruthless questioning of the self can we hope to arrive at any kind of truth . . ."

This is real communication. I will not just gloss over the past couple of months like they didn't happen and slip back to last year's cycle of circumlocution. I will ruthlessly question everything. I will write this blog. I will write poetry. I will write letters. I will write prayers (Philippians 4:4-9).

And hopefully, after riding this Express, I will be able to make a little more sense of this world, in light of the only TRUTH that exists- that is God's truth.