Last week!

Okay I hatehatehatehatehate editing my own work. I am a horrible perfectionist when it comes to writing. I will stare at a sentence for three hours (not actually, I don't have time for that) and doubt every word. I have rewritten whole papers two hours before they were due because of self-editting. I like just writing it all out, hitting print and submitting. But I know I need to find my mistakes and there is always room for improvement. Which is why I usually pass my paper off to roommates or friends to edit first. I think it reduces my insanity a little. But still, self-editting is hard and the thought of "challenging every word" scares me because then I would never submit anything.

Rough Draft

Haven't had internet! Better late then never

Katie Brase

“The Cost of a Crown” 

The smell of rotting leaves filled my nostrils, which made no sense to me. The morning dew was settling on my glitter-covered dress and exposed thighs. I flexed my fingers and dirt burrowed under my fingernails. A groan passed across my chapped lips as I attempted to lift my body up. My backbone screamed its objections as I sat up and it cracked in five different places. My arm stung as it brushed against something sharp lying beneath the leaves. Blood was trickling down my arm, a scarlet snake wrapping around my pale flesh.

I dug my palms into my eyes, the pressure momentarily reliving the headache tearing through my skull. My tongue was heavy in my mouth, like there were cotton balls resting upon it. I spat several times into the dirt. The sounds of the forest was deafening, from the birds up in the canopies down to the steam that was babbling along nearby. 

I stood up and suddenly the ground was back to greet me. My hand slammed into something hard and I grabbed at it, pulling it up with my body. I looked down at the strange object. It look me a few seconds to identify it as a flamingo-pink high heel. I glanced down at my feet, seeing both of my silver pumps still strapped on. I slowly glanced to where I had grabbed the shoe from. I could see a pale foot connected to an endless leg sticking out of a ripped up black skirt. I slowly stood, and from out of a nest of blonde curls that I would have recognized anywhere, were two, lifeless ice blue eyes. The eyes of my best friend. 

I screamed until my lungs ripped in two and the blackness took me again.

This time when I awoke the first thing I noticed was the beeping. It was like a metronome for the music of the room: the hum of the air conditioning, the soft sound of the CNN from the TV, and the gentle snores of someone whose sweaty hand was wrapped around my own. 

I pried my eyes open and my first thought was of white. Mixing this in with the smell of disinfectant and over-oxygenated air, I concluded I was in the hospital pretty easily. 

I turned over to glance at who was squeezing the life out of my hand. He clearly had been asleep for a while, as his mouth was completely open with a bit of drool gathered on the corner of his lip. His brunette curls had a bit of oily build-up near the scalp, making me wonder how long I had been passed out. I could easily identify him from his crooked nose, which hadn’t seen set right after he had fallen off his longboard three years ago. It was my ex-boyfriend, Tyler. 

I gently shook his hand until he blinked his eyes awake. His smiled creeped onto his face. It was one of those smiles that you wish you could take a picture of and just look at whenever you were sad. I use to call it his Devil’s smile, because he could get away with anything just by whipping it out. 

“Hey there Sunshine, glad to see you finally awake.” He gave my hand a squeeze as he sat up, leaning in closer to me. I thought he was going to just keep going and kiss me, but instead he just continued to flash that grin. 

“How long have I been out?” 

“Just twelve hours or so. They found you out in the woods this morning and you have been asleep since.” I tried to think back, grasping for any memory. They came in flashes. Doing shots in my friends kitchen. Music pounding in my ears as my classmates gyrated to the beat around me. Sprinting through the woods and my theighs burnign from the effort. Paige’s lifeless blue eyes,

“Paige!” I grabbed his broad shoulder, my nails burying into his t-shirt and skin. “What happened to her? Is she okay?” Tyler’s eyes would not meet my own.

“They said I can’t talk about her to you,” he said softly.

“But I saw her! I saw her....body.” His eyes shot up, wider then mine. His hands dropped from mine.

“What? Where?”

“They didn’t find her? She was right next to me.” I looked down at my pale hands. “I was holding her shoe.” I looked back at him but he had a thousand-yard stare in his eyes. 

“They never found Paige, she is still missing. They searched the whole area but only found you.” I silence fell over us like a blanket as my brain fought to process. Where could Paige be?

The police officer across from me was trying his best to be my best friend, and I personally found it patronizing. He had done all the comforting gestures, from gently touching my shoulder to offering to get me some water. It took a lot to be polite to him. 

He was writing down all my basic information as I stirred my pudding cup absentmindedly, wanting nothing more then to get out of this room that was beginning to smell more and more like death. My mom was sitting in the corner, reading the latest Cosmopolitan and being completely oblivious to my interrogation. 

“So, you began the night at the home of Matthew Stevenson?” I nodded. He was the varsity quarterback, of course I was at his house party. “Were you partaking in alcohol?” I hesitated, glancing at my mother who had not even glanced up. “You can’t get in trouble for that now.” I nodded again. He jotted down notes. “Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t remember. One minute I was doing shots at Matt’s and then I was waking up next to Paige’s body.” I paused. “Which you still haven’t found.” He ignored my attack.

“And where did you see her body?”

“She was right next to me.” Her corpse had visited my dreams last night. I had been walking through the woods and it trailed behind me, pointing. No matter how fast I ran, it remained right behind me. 

“And where did it go exactly?” He looked at me over the rim of his glasses with doubt written clearly in his eyes. 

“I don’t know, isn’t that your job?” He wrote something down in his little leather book. Probably that I was difficult or something. 

“Well, if I need to know anything else I will let you know. But for now, get some rest.” He winked at me, patted my knee and sauntered out past my mom, who didn’t even look up. 

Over the next few days my phone strained to keep up with the sympathetic text messages, tweets, phone calls, and Facebook posts. Everyone wanted to know what had happened, or offer up their own theory on what happened.

The details were slowly revealed to me through these interactions and what I could find on the internet. The party had been packed with every person that mattered in my grade, it being one of the last parties before graduation. I hadn’t wanted to attend but I needed to make a public appearance. It was two weeks from prom and I was one of two girls vying for Prom Queen. The other girl was Paige.

The cheap beer had been flowing freely but I had declined. The last thing I wanted was to be “that girl” at the party and do something embarrassing. The alcohol acted as a social lubricant in everyone else’s veins, making even the shiest teenager talkative. I had danced from conversation to conversation, trying to talk to everyone no matter how awkward or out of place they were. My mom had always said “the nice girls get the crown,” and it was a phrase I took to heart. 

Past my arrival, I had next to no memories. People told me they saw Paige arguing with someone before running out into the woods behind the house well past midnight. Tyler and I had apparently chased her. Tyler had come back, complaining loudly about girl drama and demanding another beer. The cops were finally called six hours later when through their drunken stupor, my friends had realized that neither Paige nor I had ever returned. 

A week went by and Paige still wasn’t found, despite her picture being plastered on every news show and #prayforPaige trending on twitter. I couldn’t stand my home any longer, and demanded I be allowed back among the gawkers at school. 

My return was a momentous affair. Every eye in the hallway immediately found me, and my bruises. I was used to being stared at as I made my way from class to class, but this was a different sensation. I felt like everyone was dancing around me, as if they even bumped into me I would shatter into a million pieces. 

“So, you don’t remember anything?” My friend Dianne asked me in her squeaky voice that made me want to slam my head onto my desk until I bled into the brain. 

“Just bits and pieces.” I looked down at my hands, a habit I had developed recently. “Nothing important.” I neglected to mention how I had awoke last night covered in a hot, think sweat and the image of a knife stained in my memory. 

“I wonder who took her,” our class president, Scott, sighed. “There were so many people around that night. She could be anywhere right now.” 

“No one took her!” Our heads snapped to look over at Tyler. His hair was frazzled, stuck up in every direction. His eyes were so red that my own burned just by looking at them. The pain in his face was so off-putting in comparison to his usual carefree smirk and mischievous glint in his eye. 

“What do you mean?” Missy was visibly leaning away from Tyler as she grimaced at his new look. I had to admit, he looked a bit serial-killerish. 

“Don’t you get it? She isn’t lost, she is dead! Her body is rotting somewhere out there in the woods! And it’s all my fault, I just let you two go.” My lunch table watched as he burst into tears once more. Everyone else in the room was glancing over their shoulders at him, and whisper behind their hands.

I put my arm around Tyler and gently rubbed his muscular back. For the hundredth time that day, I wondered if I would ever see Paige again. If I would ever hear the clanging bells of her laugh again. If I ever would share a secret grin across a crowded room with her again. If I ever would hold her close to me again, two best friends becoming one identity as I breathed in her Jasmine perfume.

“Let’s talk about something happier!” We all look over at Kim, who had a permanent smile pressed into her muscles. I was convinced her face was frozen that way. Her eyes darted toward the ceiling. I always imagined that someone was writing things in the sky for her to say, but only she could see. “Like prom! It’s in a week!”

“Wait until you see my dress, it’s fab!” Dianne chimed in, the depressed look on her face washing away as easily as if it was never there. “It matches Scotty’s eyes!” She ruffled Scott’s hair as he winked his emerald eyes. “What color is your dress, Pepper?” 

“I don’t even want to go to prom now. Not without Paige.” I glanced around at them, daring them to convince me otherwise. I could see they both were painting on the looks of sympathy and concern about my melancholy. The thing I hated about “sympathetic” is that the main part of the word was “pathetic”, and that is exactly what everyone was. 

“You have to go!” squeaked Dianne, eyes as wide as an owl’s. “With Paige gone, you are a sure win for Prom Queen. You need to win, for her.” Paige had been a lock for Prom Queen. It was in her genes and linage, as well as mine. But she was prettier, smarter, and more sociable. I had dreamed of the crown since birth, but it was clear Paige was going to be the one to have it placed in her perfectly styled golden hair. She was going to be the one to make the uplifting speech, despite the fact that I had one written since I was twelve. She was the one who would get the slow dance with Tyler, who was sure to win King, in front of every envious eye. 

She was going to have all that, if she was ever found. If she was even alive. 

Suddenly, my eyes jammed shut in agonizing pain. I tore my manicured fingers down my scalp and started pulling at my roots. I fell out of my chair and hit the linoleum floor hard, deepening some of the bruises I already had. I rocked back and forth as my friends scrambled out of the chairs to comfort me. Paige’s eyes bore into my brain, unblinking. The iron-hot smell of blood suffocated me. I heard people yelling for a nurse. The entire school watched as I broke down in the middle of the lunchroom. 

As quickly as I had started the fit, I ended it. I blinked my eyes carefully, like an amnesia patient in a soap opera. I was surrounded by a thousand eyes. Most would be alarmed by this, but I welcomed the attention, just as I had my entire life. 

I could see the nurse and principal pushing their way through the crowd, their facial expressions a mix of alarm and concern. I tired to stand but the nurse ordered me to stay sitting on the ground. She started jamming my body with instruments, checking my blood pressure, pulse, and god knows what else. She couldn’t see that there was nothing wrong with my body, but with my soul.

Meanwhile the principal was shooing the rubberneckers away from me. Though they took steps back, their eyes remained fixed upon my broken form. That sympathetic look was written across every face in the room.

“Pepper, maybe you should take the rest of the day off. Clearly you need more time,” the principal calmly said to me, taking a knee next to me and gently touching my shoulder. Her compassion meant nothing to me. I jerked back from her and the nurse, defiantly stand up. 

“No! I won’t be babied! And I am not sitting around all depressed anymore.”  I had everyone’s full attention. Someone could whisper about me and the whole room would hear. This level of silence was unheard of at my school, and I was the cause of it. “And another thing, I am still going to prom this weekend! I’m going for Paige. I am not giving up hope like everyone else. She will be found. And if not, I am going to be Prom Queen for her!” The room exploded into deafening applause, and this was coming from kids who didn’t even clap for our own football team. I had united them. The slightest of smirks played on my lips but I suppressed it. 

I squeezed into my custom-made aquamarine dress. It hugged my five-foot-five frame perfectly and made my skin look five shades darker then I was. I gingerly rubbed my hand down my flat stomach, feeling the prickle of the sequins catching on my fingertips. I wonder what I looked like, but since that night I was terrified of looking myself in the mirror, of the face that would look back at me. 

“Honey, let me cover up those bruises, no one wants to see them,” my mom reached for her enormous bottle of concealer. I already felt like a painted canvas with the amount of eyeliner, shadow, and blush applied to my smooth skin. I gently poked at the yellow-green discolorations.

“No, I am not going to hide it.” I wanted everyone to see my injuries. I wanted to remind them what I had gone through.

“I am so proud of you for going through with this. I want to show you something.” She took my hand in her overly-smooth one and pulled me to her bedroom. She led me to her enormous closet and carefully opened a drawer of which I had never seen the contents.

Immediately I was blinded, for sitting inside was nine shining, silver crowns. They were adorn with every color jewel and were cut in every style. I reached out to touch them but my mom pushed my hand away on instinct. 

“These are all the prom queen crowns of our family, including your great-grandmother’s. And tonight we can add yours to the collection! A perfect ten.” She kissed my on the cheek, careful to avoid the bruises that blemished my skin. 

<Add in more here>

My mother shrieked at the sight of the tiara twining trough my tresses, and she ran up and hugged me in a way she had never done before. Wiping the tears from my eyes in a way to preserve my make-up, I walked up the stairs into my bedroom. The exhaustion of my success was overwhelming. 

I stood in front of my floor-length mirror, taking my own image in for the first time since that night. I was beautiful, I was perfect. I twirled and giggled as my hair fanned out around me and the false diamonds in the crown caught the light and threw it around the room. I flopped down on my bed, the grin still plastered on my face. I rolled over onto my silk covered stomach and untangled the crown from my hair. I could see my perfect smile reflected in ever gem that had been carefully glued on. I gingerly placed it in the drawer of my nightstand.

Right next to the knife I had used to murder Paige. 

Project 3 project idea

Alright, I hope my story idea is feasible and doesn't make you send the men in white coats. I love crime fiction and crime shows and all that, so that's where I drew inspiration from this. Also, as you pointed out, I got inspiration from my one of my favorite movies Rear Window and did a bit of an opposite of it.

Exposition: Dave is an average guy, with a bit of OCD. Every night he comes home from work and stares out his window to the apartment across the way, where a young woman lives. The two exchange  smiles and waves.

Rising Action: Dave continues to obsess over the girl, having panic attacks when she is gone. His obsessions lead him to begin planning to meet her, and he fantasizes about their future together.

Climax: He goes over to her apartment to meet her, she rebuffs him. In a rage, he accidentally kills her.

Falling Action: He snaps out of his delusional state and realizes what he has done. He tries to cover his tracks.

Conclusion: He sees the cops in the girl's apartment. He draws the blinds closed.



Not sure if this is too intense or whatnot. I love psychological thrillers and that's why I wanted to write one.

Style

Alrighty, it's style time. My immediate thought was how my was how my English 15 professor told me I have no trace of seriousness in any of my writing, although this may have to do that my topics were stuff like mac and cheese and why Batman is the best superhero of all time. Yeah, I didn't take classes very seriously freshman year.

So for the first reading, on readability, I have several thoughts. I have noticed that my favorite books are  the easy readers that go super fast. Sure I love some Game of Thrones, which has a much higher reading level, but given a choice I am going for a James Patterson book over War and Peace. I think my writing is the same, where I tend to write at a low "reading level". I just don't think reading level really matters for how people enjoy books. I don't think it matters.

So tone is really important in writing. Just ask anyone who has an awkward moment due to a text/email not conveying sarcasm correctly. This will be especially important for my story idea (if I can run with it) because I want it to be scary and tense, and that is all dependent on tone (no jokes this time round)

Generating Good Ideas

This week is the perfect subject for me, because I never know what to write about. I was sad none of the websites had my favorite place to think, the shower. I did think that the public places and overheard conversations was an interesting idea, especially with the amount of time I spend in busy places like the HUB or creamery. I have overheard so many things, and I think fleshing them out into stories could be a lot of fun. I decided that today and tomorrow when I am in HUB for hours on end, I am going to spend time with my headphones off (scary thought for me) and try to listen. I don't like getting ideas from movies or books though, because I feel like its too likely to steal ideas. I don't currently have any ideas of the final project, so using these readings will definitely help!

Presentation Outline

For the informal presentations I am going to write about Arnold Friend from the short story by Joyce Carol Oates, "Where are you going, where have you been", in regards to what makes a memorable character. Arnold Friend has stuck with me since I have read the story freshman year of high school and I think he is a perfect memorable character.

Reader Blog - visual narratives

So first this week I read the How to Write a screenplay and got scared because the thought of writing that much dialogue would not be good for me. Although, if someone read or performed a screenplay I wrote, I think it would be easier to improve on dialogue then if its stuck in a narrative.
 On to Jasper Morello. The link didn't work on my computer (boo old technology) but I did found a short film that I assume was the assignment, so I watched it. It was weird and depressing. Not really fan of the whole Steam-Punk style. I really didn't like the silhouettes. I loved the story though, and was totally captivated by it. At first I wasn't sure what this had to do with visual narratives, but then I realized it was perfect. The silhouettes really relied on visuals more. Loved this and I want to watch it again.

Project 2 draft

Enjoy! It's not done, but it will be tomorrow!

“Bavarian Biker”

The first thing you need to know about the “hills” of Bavaria is that they are steep, rocky, and the roads are barely wide enough for the small European cars to squeak past one another. They have sharp, unforgiving twists and turns created by lazy people who rather make the road follow the natural paths rather then make a road people could actually drive. Like most of Germany, the speed limit was nonexistent and seeing an Audi take a curve at 100 mph was a usual sight. 

This is something I did not appreciate until now. I was sitting on top of one of the hills with a Kawasaki motorcycle between my sweat-covered legs and a 45-degree decline in front of my eyes. Somehow I was supposed to get this stupid machine down the slope with me atop it, and not die in the process. I was highly cynical toward this possibility. I glanced at my two cousins standing next to me, with their strong, tanned arms crossed and matching looks of skepticism in their Aryan blue eyes. 

“Come on, America! Go!” Sebi quipped in a strong accent. Great, now I was representing my whole country. “Show us how much better you are!” The two boys laughed, their voices clanging like bells of the church that woke me up at six in the morning. 

“Sie konnte es nicht,” smirked Markus, shaking his head so his curls bounced like little golden slinkies. He was right, I couldn’t do this. The only thing I knew about riding a motorcycle was from hanging off the back trying not to scream as my cousins drove up this accursed path, and what little I had learned from eHow when I was pretending to use the bathroom. What had possessed me to brag that I could drive a bike better then them I do not know. Natural familial competition, I suppose. 

“Schau Mir,” I snapped. Watch me. I took a deep breath, focusing on what I knew. I was really regretting that last beer or three. I jammed my borrowed helmet on over my mass of hair, not that it would do much to prevent my brains from scrambling if I hit the pavement at any speed. I slide the mirrored visor down over my eyes, mainly so my cousins wouldn’t see the worry in my eyes or the inevitable tears. I glanced down at my uncovered tanned legs as I buttoned my uncle’s giant leather jacket clothes. Short shorts and converse sneakers were not exactly high-class safety gear. But at least I had a helmet.

My cousins watched me with silent interest as I adjusted the mirrors and squirmed around the seat. Anything to waste time until the inevitable moment. My hands wrapped around the handles on their own accord. There were buttons and gauges everywhere; this was no kid’s toy. 

I had remembered seeing my cousins’ twist the handles at some point, so I decided to give it a try. The leather was hot on my right palm as I gripped the handle and yanked it toward me. The bike roared to life and I nearly jumped off in fear of it taking off. I revved it again, this time a little less. I felt so badass, I wish this is all I had to do.

“If you don’t go now Stephanie, we miss dinner!” Sebi yelled at me. They laughed again. God, I was really starting to hate their laugh. 

“Ich gehe! Ich gehe!” I snapped back, looking back down at the bike. I flicked the kick stand up with a firm kick from my purple Chuck Taylor and quickly lost balance and almost fell over right there and then. I had to stead myself on my toes, my hamstrings straining to reach the ground. 

Taking a deep breath, I reach forward and grabbed the clutch level and pushed the gear stick down to first. Luckily I had grown up learning to drive stick. Benefit of European parents I suppose. I let go of the clutch completely and quickly throttled the engine, causing me to leap forward so fast it took all my upper body strength to keep my from not flying off the back of the bike.

I stifled a scream as I flew down the hill, forgetting all I knew about braking, turning, and common sense in general. I let go of the throttle but still I sped downward

(still working on this AHHHH)

I had made it! The road had de-sloped to the point where it was basically flat and I was slowing rapidly as I approached the next curve. After a few hundred yards I came to a complete stop. I had done it.

And that’s when the car rounded the corner at 75 mph and hit me straight on. 

The first thing I registered was the pavement ripping the bare skin off my tumbling leg bones. I felt things cracking all over as I tumbled down the road, and I threw my hands out for something to grip to stop my momentum. The pain came in flashes. My arm, my rib, my toes, my arm again. 

I had been falling for hours, for days. At last I began to slow and there was no pain and too much pain at the same time. My body was cold but my legs were warm with blood, my blood. At last I came to a violet stop as my head banged into a tree, the helmet barely muting the blow. 

All went black.

I opened my eyes to Markus and Sebi staring at my imploringly. 

“Lass uns gehen!” Markus shouted. I looked down once more at the hill before me and shook the images of a gory death from my mind. I could do this. Flashing them a cocky smile that they couldn’t even see due to my trusty helmet, I grabbed the clutch, shifted, revved the engine, and took off. 

Reader Response Week (I lost count)

First of all I was one of those lucky few that had the links not working for some reason? Both on firefox and safari too. But through googling I was able to hunt down the stuff to read for this week.

So dialogue. I hate writing it. Halfway through the coversation I am always thinking it sound unrealistic and weird and then delete it all. I like internal conflict and description so much better. I guess its because dialogues you always have in your head never come out the way they should in real life. The worst part of dialogue is that when you have a short page limit and it stretches it out. If I see a lot of dialogue in a book, I usually skip it. Just not a fan. Hopefully this class will help change me mind. I like the reading on how to change dialogue up and how you can change the meaning of what is said by adding different adjectives and adverbs. I think I will use that to make my dialogue better, since it currently needs a lot of work for project 2. What I think needs to covered also is that different dialects (like southern accents versus boston) and languages would have different style rules. For example, writing realistic dialogue in my story, which has german characters, is really hard because realistically they don't speak english but the people reading my story don't speak german. I'm working on it though.

Project 2 Outline:

Project 2 Outline:

Basic outline: American girl is riding a motorcycle for the first time down a mountain.

Main Character: 

16 year old American girl visiting Germany for the first time. Doesn’t know any German. A bit of a braggart. Has been challenged to ride a motorcycle down the mountain despite not knowing how to. Been drinking. Wants to prove to her cousins that she can do it. 

Back Up Characters:

Cousins #1 and #2 (come up with name): Both German teenagers, a little older around 18. Very drunk and full of selves. Challenge main character after she pretends to know how to ride a motorcycle. 

Exposition: Starts right before she is going to ride the bike and flashes back to how she got there. Goes into how she was bragging and that she was challenged

Rising Action: She realizes how drunk she is and how high steep the mountain is. Her cousins are yelling at her to go. 

Climax: She takes off down the mountain.

Falling Action: She crashes and gets seriously injured

Ending: It’s revealed she was just fantasizing the crash. She pushes out the thoughts and takes off. Ends with her riding down the mountain with no issues. 

Publishing Reader Response

I found learning how to write a query letter very interesting because it was a lot like writing a cover letter for a job. In both cases you are trying to sell yourself in a short amount of space, so it makes sense that a lot of the rules are the same. My only question is if different genres have different rules, because it seems like there should be variation between a query letter for a creative writing piece and a query letter for a scientific piece or whatever. 

I really like the little anecdote about the man praying to win the lottery and God saying “first you need to buy a ticket.” So many people complain about not getting what they want when they haven’t even been trying. The rest of the article was pretty cliche inspiration with “practice makes perfect” and “you miss 100% of the shots you never take”, etc, etc, etc. Getting published is the same as getting a dream job or getting a perfect date, you have to keep trying and trying and eventually things will go your way. Though dealing with 250 rejections could get pretty rough. I think most people would give up by then. 

The Cemetery of Forgotten Books

I really liked the chapter "The Cemetery of Forgotten Books." I think it's a good opening to a story and a good stand-alone chapter as well. I liked the idea of this mysterious place where books go to be saved from death, and as an avid reader the descriptions given to the books and how they make you feel was perfect. I really did want to believe this place existed, but something about it just wouldn't let me. I didn't like the fact that it was some big secret. If they wanted these forgotten books to be remembered and loved, then why isn't he allowed to tell anyone they exist? Seemed like backward logic. The chapter was intriguing enough to keep reading, but I think this book would end up being more fantastical then realistic based on this first chapter.

The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest

Okay, I took a stab at this. Bad writing is surprisingly hard to pull off. 

Looking at the birthday cake all I could think of is how the amylase in my saliva would break down most of the carbohydrates, my stomach acids would dissolve everything else, and then bile salts in my gut would take care of the rest and all of those calories would clog my arteries with glorious amounts of cholesterol, but I took a slice anyway. 

When she walked into the bar he noticed her immediately because of her hair that has a streak of shocking purple against a brunette background and it reminded him of the mold on that loaf of bread he should have thrown out about a week ago. 

The woman I had been eying across the bar introduced herself to me immediately, saying her name was Coco, and all I could think about was how civil warfare in the African Coast was costing my small chocolate company thousands of dollars. 

Reading week 7

This week's story was "The Lottery" and I really liked it until the end. First of all, it reminded me a lot of the Hunger Games, which makes me wonder if it inspired the opening to choosing ceremony in the book. I half expected Bill to volunteer as tribute in the end.  I liked that it didn't outright say what the lottery was for in the beginning, because that would have ruined everything. The only thing that kept me going through the story was that I wanted to know what would happen if you got picked in the lottery. The story was actually a little infuriating in the beginning because I was like "shut up and get to the point!!!!" but that's the reason the story was interesting. The only thing that really bothered me is it never explained why they were stoning people to death based on a lottery. I guess it's tradition, but that doesn't seem like a good enough reason. Also, they are a little too excited about it, with the children gathering stones and everyone coming out it. But, like the hunger games, I guess it's all based on the excitement that it's not you, not your family that is suffering.

How I changed my story

My basic concept remained the same throughout the process, and wasn't really changed by the peer reviews. The main thing that changed was dialogue, and at the request of my peers I made it more confrontational and less internal conflict. I love writing about internal conflict, so it was difficult to get away from. I also worked hard to make my dialogue seem more natural, which was hard because this is not a usual situation that has expected responses. The final thing I changed from what I started with was to add an unexpected ending, which I don't think I executed as well as I could of because it was a last minute change. In the future I need to make more believable characters, which is something I struggle with because I like the idea of the fantastic and absurd.

Project 1 Draft

This is most of my first draft, I've kind of hit a wall but I wanted to get this part posted! It needs a lot of work. I'll clean it up for tomorrow's class. Any suggestions, let me know!

I couldn’t help but glancing at the girl next to me every few seconds, to which she seemed blissfully unaware. I wasn’t the type of person who talked to people I didn’t know, let alone pick up hitchhikers on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, Pennsylvania. But this young woman was so innocent looking, with her big blue eyes and dirty blonde hair in twin French braids that I had to stop my car for her as she flagged me down in the middle of route 322 and asked for a ride because her car broke down. Still, I was concerned I have may have picked up an axe-wielding serial killer. You never know with people these days. 

“So what’s your name?” She suddenly burst out, pulling her eyes away from the window to stare at me as I drove. “I feel bad that I didn’t ask you immediately.” 

“Oh! Yeah. My name is Judy.” I stammered out.

“Is that short for something?”

“No...”

“Oh. Well, my name is Perri, which is short for Peregrine. Like a falcon. But I’ve never seen a falcon, which is weird.” She paused for a breath and looked at me expectantly. 

“That’s an unusual name,” I offered up. Small talk was not my strong suit. 

“Really? I don’t think so.” She paused, entranced by something outside the window. After a moment her head whipped back to face me. “So, why are you going to Ohio?”

I am going to live there. I just got my first job in Cleveland.” That had to start up a conversation. I found that people loved talking to me about work lately. As I said it, she seemed to perk up and finally turned away from looking out the window. 

“Oh, are you excited? Is it your dream job?” I hesitated, not expected that random question. Normally people asked me what company I was going to work for, or what I would be doing. My knuckles tightening around the leather of the steering wheel as I tried to formulate a response. 

“No, it’s just a desk job. But it has good pay, reasonable healthcare plans,” and I continued to rattle off everything I learned from the new hire brochure. It’s the kind of people were impressed with when you talk about your new job. 

“So, why are you going?” She interrupted. 

“What?”

“If you don’t want to go, why are you going?” She was staring at me with wide, unblinking blue eyes.

“What makes you think I don’t want to go?” 

“You just said you weren’t excited about it. I wouldn’t be excited either, I heard Ohio is boring. But that’s why I want to go, to see if it is boring. I bet it is.” She spoke so matter-of-factly I found it rather off-putting. 

“Well, I have to go that’s where I got my job.”

“I mean, you could just keep driving.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Just drive past the exit for Cleveland. And the exit after that. And the exit after that. And keep driving until you drive right into the Pacific Ocean!” She shouted, flailing her lanky ams a bit. I laughed. 

“That’s crazy, they are expecting me in at work on Tuesday. I can’t just keep driving.” 

“Why not? You don’t want to go. So don’t. Let’s go where ever you want to go!” 

“What, together? Just drive off into the country with a complete stranger? Right that sounds normal.” I laughed again. What a joke. But she wasn’t laughing. 

“Sure, I am up for an adventure. And traveling with someone is better then traveling alone. Think of all the things you rather do on Tuesday then sit at a desk in front of a computer.” For a moment I let my mind wander. Hiking through the mountains. Wake-boarding in the middle of a lake. Skydiving. Bungee jumping. All the things I wanted to do this summer. I quickly shook my head.

“No, no, no. That’s too crazy. I have responsibilities. I didn’t go to college for four years so I could give up a good moneymaking opportunity to roam around the country doing whatever I want to do.”

“So basically, you want money over happiness?”

“No, I am...”

“What if money wasn’t an object? What would you do?” The images started flooding into my head again. All the things I would do if money didn’t exist. Scuba diving in the clear waters of the Caribbean. The rush of zip-lining in the snowy Alps. The thrill of climbing the towering trees of the rainforest. Again I fought down the fantasy. 

“Money is always an object,” I laughed, “And I am broke.” She immediately dove into the front pocket of her hiking bag, plopping a bag of goldfish and a flashlight on the dash as she hunted for something. Finally she pulled out a beaten-up old wallet. She flicked it open and pulled out something. It was a black Amex card, which I had only seen in movies but knew what it meant. Money. And a lot of it. I nearly stopped the car as she held it up for me to see. Somehow, I had picked up a hitchhiking millionaire. 

“What if money wasn’t an object?” She repeated. “Would you drive away from your new job to travel with me?” I sucked in my breath, the new leather of my car stinging my nostrils.

“This is some kind of joke. Am I being punked?”

“I am not kidding.” Her face was deadpan. “Come with me.”

“Why me? You don’t even know me.” 

“Because you picked up a hitchhiker and you clearly want to do something more exciting with your life. And because I hate traveling alone.” 

Reading Response: The Man from the South

Okay, first of all this story was pretty messed up for the guy who wrote Charlie and Chocolate Factory and Matilda. Was not expecting that.

I did not get this story at all. It was interesting, but what was the point? Why was this old man playing this crazy betting game with people's fingers and cars? There was no reasoning behind it I could see, other then he is crazy. Next the woman confused me. Why was she with the guy that was clearly cutting off her fingers and making these bets? Why is she taking care of him? Basically all I kept saying the whole story was WHY WHY WHY? I did not understand the motivation of any of the characters and I felt like I was missing the message of the story the whole time, unless the message was don't make bets with people in bars.

Project 1 prewrite

After a lot of brainstorming I changed my story idea from what I said in class because I needed to get away from internal conflict more. I hope this works out!

Basic idea:

Main character picks up a hitch-hiker while driving to her new job in Ohio. The hitch-hiker tries to persuade the main character to leave everything and drive her across the country.

Character 1: The Driver

Name - Judy

Description - Quiet, non-confrontational, short, tanned, short dirty blonde hair in bob, dull grey eyes, Dressed in blue jeans, white shirt, black converse (really generic and boring). Back of car filled with matching Vera Bradley luggage

Back Story - Driving from Connecticut to Ohio for a desk job. Is not excited about it at all but its her first job. Always does what she is told. Just graduated from college, first time out on her own. 

Motivation - Get to her destination while being nice and driving the hitchhiker to her destination as well. She wants to start up at her job, fall in love, etc typical stuff. However, also wants to see the world. 

Character 2: The Hitchhiker

Name - Perri, short for Peregrine (like a falcon)

Description - Very bubbly, very intelligent, short, tanned, long dirty blonde hair let loose, bright blue eyes, dressed in khaki cargo shorts, dark blue tank top, hiking boots, light scarf. Heavy backpack covered in buttons. 

Back Story - Left family, everything behind and began wandering the country. Gets money by doing odd jobs. Had very restricting parents who never let her do what she wanted. 

Motivation - Wants to get someone to wander with her, trying to influence others to “live life to the fullest”, etc. 

Exposition: Judy is driving to her new job in Ohio. She sees a girl her age on the side of the road hitchhiking and decides to pick her up.

Rising Action: The hitchhiker explains she is wandering around the country, etc. 

Climax: The hitchhiker asks Judy to drive away from Ohio and go where ever she really wants to go. 

Falling Action: Judy must decide which option she wants to go with

Denouncement: Judy makes her decision 

Reading Post Week Tres

I guess I'll start off this week by saying I LOVE Edgar Allen Poe and have read most of his stuff. I tend to like the darker literature. Since I have already read "The Tell Tale Heart", I decided to focus my post on the other story.

I like cultural stories because it gives a look into another part of the world, even if I can't relate to it. This story also reminded me of last weeks story, where a main character is fantasizing about something throughout the story. This story was slightly universal, in that it's a mom telling her daughter the dangers of getting pregnant, and at the same time culturally specific, saying that if she did get pregnant out of wedlock she would be shamed and exiled and probably commit suicide. The ending was really sad with the ghost wandering around, and I found it interesting that the girl pitied her aunt while the rest of her family pretended she didn't exist. I guess we all sort of have that relative, the black sheep in the family that is ignored. Overall, I thought this was a universal story disguised as a cultural story.

What If you were a villain?

Forgot to post this last week!

For my villain, I took one of my personality traits that I personally think is good but others see as bad and possibly antagonistic, which is my competitiveness. I decided to elevate it to the point of ridiculousness, like if I ever let it go out of control. The scene I imagined was the protagonist is in some sort of fighting competition, and has to face my villain in the final round. This felt like a huge cliche, but maybe I can fix it up. Enjoy!

She was the one to beat, it was always just really her. When it came to winning, she put everything she had and then some into it. If she found out someone was better then her in anything, she would practice until you couldn’t even touch her. If you weren’t on her side, you were her competition.

The people she hated most in the world were those who had beaten her, of which I had heard there were very few. Once you beat her, you were dead. LIke plan your funeral and have your will ready dead. She wouldn’t forget it, and would wait patiencely to take her revenge. She would make you fall further then she ever did.

The worst part was when she did beat you, she didn’t just throw it into your face like so many other would do. She would catch you eye and give the smallest of smirks, as if she knew all along that this would be the outcome. She never talks about her strings of victories, everyone just knew about them. This is who I would face next. THis is who I had to beat. 

Reading Response Week Duo

I really liked "To Build a Fire" as I am partial to the "man versus nature" story lines. I thought it was interesting that the title sounded like an instruction set, and the story itself was kind of like a what to do in the wild (or what not to do since he died). I was really frustrated with the main character and his lack of instinct and intelligence, which could be influenced by the fact that I am a hiker too. He underestimates the cold, he doesn't listen to advice, he doesn't care that no one else has been on this trail lately. That was then contrasted by the dog, who knows to bite at the ice on his toes and to avoid the spring, and also knows what to do when the man dies. It is almost like Jack London is saying that man is not equipped to handle nature because we lack animal instinct. I think this was a more factual thing then a judgmental thing. Since Jack London doesn't use any names for the man or the dog, this is more of a universal story and we will all die if we try to take on nature. Little depressing, but I can't help but agree.

Reading Response Week Uno

First off, I will easily say I was really bored by ‘Library of Babel’. It was a painful read and I just did not get it. It didn’t really feel like an actual story as much as a very long description. I very readily admit I am not a fan of philosophical or allegorical short stories. I decided to google what Library of Babel was about and got about thirty different interpretations. Yikes. I found myself thinking “is this even a story?” 

I found the “Hills Like White Elephants” story much more interesting. First off, I really like when characters act exactly as you see regular humans do. Real girls are more likely to say, “yeah, I am fine” when they are not rather then give long, heartfelt speeches. I also like how, though he did not say it out right, I was able to guess that the girl was pregnant and the man was trying to persuade her to have an abortion. I was thinking the whole hills as white elephants was some sort of metaphor for pregnancy of something, but I wasn’t really sure. 

The thing I found interesting about the characters was that the girl seemed to be more in a fantasy state of mind, while the man was more of a realist.The girl is constantly is talking about the hills and looking at the bead curtains, while he is talking about “the beer’s nice and cool” or “it’s really an awfully simple operation.” The girl seemed so optimistic about things, like maybe she wanted to be pregnant, while the man was more along the lines are, here are the facts.

On top of that, I thought it was interesting how he was able to make the girl seem to avoid towards the man, “she looked at the bead curtain”, “the girl looked at the ground”, and really did showing rather then telling, much more interesting then “she couldn’t look at him.” This also reflected onto the man, because I think it developed him as a more shady character. 

Sorry if my reader response is a little rusty, I haven't done one of these since middle school! Doing this did make me want to work on responding to stories better though, particularly ones that take me forever to get though, like 'Library of Babel'

Intro

Hi everyone!

My name is Katie and I am a junior majoring in Food Science and minoring in English. I have varied interests: I am in Morale for THON, I play saxophone in the university band, I work on a committee for Movin' On, I play guitar, I am an avid cooker and baker, love sports, and lie around my apartment reading on my Kindle. This blog is for English 212, and I hope I can improve my creative writing during this time. Since I am a science major, I also would like to take a break from writing lab reports and memorizing equations to do something more creative!

Sorry I am not good at personal introductions! I never know what to say about myself.