I definitely had a preference for one of the pieces over the other--I LOVED "Memory," but was not as much a fan of "First Family of Astoria."
Both authors chose interesting subjects, but Tracy Kidder hooked me pretty early. He used great scene and dialogue,and I think the most important thing was the emotion I felt reading the piece. I got really upset about these elderly people in this place, and started thinking about my own family and friends who could end up like this, or even myself; I became really emotionally invested in this piece and these people, and I think anyone who knows me knows that that isn't easy. I thought it worked really well that he used various different subjects (he even captured them all really well, despite the fact that he didn't always talk about each one for very long), and I really felt that he made the home accessible. Too often, I think, we write off places like this as just one of those places where the old people go and hang out, but he made them real people, with real issues and lives--I LOVED it.
I was less impressed with Trillin's piece, despite the bio about him that makes him sound really great. The subject of the piece itself is interesting, but I wonder if he could've approached it differently in writing. I understand that he wasn't there while all of this was going on, that he couldn't necessarily really recreate it himself, but I just wasn't very attached to the piece--I had to focus more, I wasn't desperate to know what was going to happen. I did think that his description of various members of the Flavel family was good, though they seemed a little sensationalized to me--it was like a bad soap opera. I don't know, maybe I'm missing something, but the piece just didn't really resonate with me.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Revised Personal Essay
Authority Issues
When I started preschool, my mother told the women in charge that if they told me something was a rule, I’d be guaranteed to do it. Not only was that true at the time, but the same philosophy continued to play out in my life as the years progressed: I always had my homework done on time, I was always within earshot of my mother’s voice when I went outside to play with my friends, and I always ate all my food before leaving the dinner table.
Years later, though, the obedience with which I listened to authority wasn’t quite as harmless. Right before high school, my parents decided I should start weight training for softball. My mother introduced me to Deanna, who was to serve as my personal trainer, and I began a simple weight lifting program three days a week.
But it soon spiraled out of control. I became infatuated with Deanna; she was a great athlete with incredible muscle definition, and I wanted to be just like her. So I watched her behavior and adopted it as my own; I increased my exercise and decreased my food intake. Before long, numbers consumed my life—how many calories I ate, how many miles I ran, how much I could bench press, how much I weighed.
By the time I graduated I could go almost entire days without eating. I believed that I needed to workout every day to be a better athlete, that any day off was a day wasted, and that running was the only way I could purge myself of the feeling of excess flesh experienced after eating.
Things changed a little in college. I ate more, and regularly, and the succession of two knee surgeries in two years curbed my exercise obsession somewhat. But my thought processes were still very cyclical—I could go some months without feeling too constrained by my thoughts about eating, and then I’d go through a period of months where I felt totally controlled by my consciousness of food, from the time I woke up in the morning to the time I crawled back into bed.
And then, right before my sophomore year, I realized I had an eating disorder. Nothing special happened; it was an ordinary day, marked only by that sudden comprehension and the overwhelming feeling caused by the weight of it.
I researched it. I wrote about it. I admitted the words out loud very rarely and only in moments when I struggled most with it, but I regretted it every time. I didn’t want to be pitied or appear weak, I didn’t want people watching me while I ate, and I definitely didn’t want it to define me.
In the spring, though, I agreed to sit on a panel about eating disorders in athletics because they needed a student. After the presentation, a school psychologist came up to talk to me.
“Have you ever gone to see anyone about this?” she asked.
The thought of therapy did not thrill me, but I thought about it, and as I entered another period of feeling fixated on food, I decided to try it. When I returned for the next school year, I began seeing Jennifer, a young psychologist with a cramped, undecorated office. Jennifer forced smiles, asked textbook questions and gave textbook answers, and just appeared all-around uncomfortable in her own skin—I was skeptical that this insecure woman sitting across from me was ever going to help.
But I tried anyway—Jennifer assured me that these things simply take time, that I shouldn’t expect results too soon. Four months and one statement from Jennifer later, though, I walked out her door for the last time.
“I don’t understand why you have an eating disorder—you’re thin and beautiful.”
I found a new psychologist. Patty was the antithesis of Jennifer—much older and much more experienced. But even she wasn’t helpful. She asked me to keep lists of what I ate and she wanted to have “goals” each week; how many times I would eat dessert, for example. I dutifully scribbled lists on yellow sticky notes and followed the goals she set for me, but I found myself standing in the cafeteria, staring at all the food and trying to decide what would be acceptable to write down—it was like I needed to prove that I had a problem.
As I realized that my sessions weren’t helping, I stopped talking about eating during them. I discussed school-related stress or problems with my mother, and only talked about eating when Patty asked me about it. Yet I kept going back because it was supposed to help—therapy was supposed to make me better.
At my last session before summer break, though, I knew I wasn’t going back. I still put the groceries away with the nutrition facts pointing away from me and I still couldn’t go near a bathroom scale, but I was content to simply understand that I had a problem—I didn’t want to write lists or make goals or comb through the sorts of punishment techniques my parents used when I was five. So I went to my last session, talked about my final exams and plans for the break, and told Patty to have a good summer. Then I walked out of her office and pushed open the outside doors for the very last time.
When I started preschool, my mother told the women in charge that if they told me something was a rule, I’d be guaranteed to do it. Not only was that true at the time, but the same philosophy continued to play out in my life as the years progressed: I always had my homework done on time, I was always within earshot of my mother’s voice when I went outside to play with my friends, and I always ate all my food before leaving the dinner table.
Years later, though, the obedience with which I listened to authority wasn’t quite as harmless. Right before high school, my parents decided I should start weight training for softball. My mother introduced me to Deanna, who was to serve as my personal trainer, and I began a simple weight lifting program three days a week.
But it soon spiraled out of control. I became infatuated with Deanna; she was a great athlete with incredible muscle definition, and I wanted to be just like her. So I watched her behavior and adopted it as my own; I increased my exercise and decreased my food intake. Before long, numbers consumed my life—how many calories I ate, how many miles I ran, how much I could bench press, how much I weighed.
By the time I graduated I could go almost entire days without eating. I believed that I needed to workout every day to be a better athlete, that any day off was a day wasted, and that running was the only way I could purge myself of the feeling of excess flesh experienced after eating.
Things changed a little in college. I ate more, and regularly, and the succession of two knee surgeries in two years curbed my exercise obsession somewhat. But my thought processes were still very cyclical—I could go some months without feeling too constrained by my thoughts about eating, and then I’d go through a period of months where I felt totally controlled by my consciousness of food, from the time I woke up in the morning to the time I crawled back into bed.
And then, right before my sophomore year, I realized I had an eating disorder. Nothing special happened; it was an ordinary day, marked only by that sudden comprehension and the overwhelming feeling caused by the weight of it.
I researched it. I wrote about it. I admitted the words out loud very rarely and only in moments when I struggled most with it, but I regretted it every time. I didn’t want to be pitied or appear weak, I didn’t want people watching me while I ate, and I definitely didn’t want it to define me.
In the spring, though, I agreed to sit on a panel about eating disorders in athletics because they needed a student. After the presentation, a school psychologist came up to talk to me.
“Have you ever gone to see anyone about this?” she asked.
The thought of therapy did not thrill me, but I thought about it, and as I entered another period of feeling fixated on food, I decided to try it. When I returned for the next school year, I began seeing Jennifer, a young psychologist with a cramped, undecorated office. Jennifer forced smiles, asked textbook questions and gave textbook answers, and just appeared all-around uncomfortable in her own skin—I was skeptical that this insecure woman sitting across from me was ever going to help.
But I tried anyway—Jennifer assured me that these things simply take time, that I shouldn’t expect results too soon. Four months and one statement from Jennifer later, though, I walked out her door for the last time.
“I don’t understand why you have an eating disorder—you’re thin and beautiful.”
I found a new psychologist. Patty was the antithesis of Jennifer—much older and much more experienced. But even she wasn’t helpful. She asked me to keep lists of what I ate and she wanted to have “goals” each week; how many times I would eat dessert, for example. I dutifully scribbled lists on yellow sticky notes and followed the goals she set for me, but I found myself standing in the cafeteria, staring at all the food and trying to decide what would be acceptable to write down—it was like I needed to prove that I had a problem.
As I realized that my sessions weren’t helping, I stopped talking about eating during them. I discussed school-related stress or problems with my mother, and only talked about eating when Patty asked me about it. Yet I kept going back because it was supposed to help—therapy was supposed to make me better.
At my last session before summer break, though, I knew I wasn’t going back. I still put the groceries away with the nutrition facts pointing away from me and I still couldn’t go near a bathroom scale, but I was content to simply understand that I had a problem—I didn’t want to write lists or make goals or comb through the sorts of punishment techniques my parents used when I was five. So I went to my last session, talked about my final exams and plans for the break, and told Patty to have a good summer. Then I walked out of her office and pushed open the outside doors for the very last time.
Revised Outline
This is my revised outline for my personal essay:
Complication: Jess follows authority
Development:
1) Jess develops disorder
2) Jess attends therapy
3) Jess hates therapy
Resolution: Jess rejects authority
Complication: Jess follows authority
Development:
1) Jess develops disorder
2) Jess attends therapy
3) Jess hates therapy
Resolution: Jess rejects authority
Reading Response - Week 4
I'm going to focus on the two pieces we read from Literary Journalism for my response.
I really loved LeBlanc's "Trina and Trina" piece. I thought that LeBlanc did a really great job of being in the piece herself without taking the focus away from Trina (though I'll admit that I was a little confused on the occasions when she would reference herself as identifying with Trina), and the piece was successfully about this huge cultural phenomenon without LeBlanc ever having to say that at all. She did a great job balancing telling and showing--I really felt like I could see it, like I was there (there was so much description and detail--it was great)--she did a great job with transitions, and I was so impressed by how much of her life she'd obviously devoted to Trina in order to be able to write this piece. In short, I was incredibly inspired by this--I would love to be able to do it as well as she did. I did wonder, though, if she overstepped in terms of being too much a part of the subject's life. Maybe the rules are different with Trina (like, you have to decide based on who your subject is), or maybe there isn't a line(?), but I wonder if becoming so involved and invested in your subject's life can cause a loss of outside perspective that change's the piece. It doesn't seem to have had a negative effect in this piece, but it's something to keep in mind, I think.
I had a very different experience with Orlean's "The American Man at Age Ten" piece. I liked the piece, I thought it was interesting and that she'd obviously spent a lot of time with him (some of the details and stories were really cool), but it lacked the coherency and center that I felt with LeBlanc's piece. Orlean did, at times, seem to be making a statement about gender (which would make sense given her title), but it didn't seem to resonate throughout the piece, so I was confused about whether or not that was the point. And while I enjoyed all the detail and description she gave, I also had a harder time following her organization; I know that LeBlanc's was clearer because it followed more of a timeline (the piece spanned years), but there were times that I just felt really lost within Orlean's piece (and maybe that was intentional to a degree(?), but if so, I don't think it was very successful). Part of me was also very inspired by Orlean, but the piece itself didn't resonate with me the same way that LeBlanc's did (though I believe that it could have). Both pieces, though, gave me really great ideas as I begin to plan my own profile, so I really enjoyed them both in that sense.
I really loved LeBlanc's "Trina and Trina" piece. I thought that LeBlanc did a really great job of being in the piece herself without taking the focus away from Trina (though I'll admit that I was a little confused on the occasions when she would reference herself as identifying with Trina), and the piece was successfully about this huge cultural phenomenon without LeBlanc ever having to say that at all. She did a great job balancing telling and showing--I really felt like I could see it, like I was there (there was so much description and detail--it was great)--she did a great job with transitions, and I was so impressed by how much of her life she'd obviously devoted to Trina in order to be able to write this piece. In short, I was incredibly inspired by this--I would love to be able to do it as well as she did. I did wonder, though, if she overstepped in terms of being too much a part of the subject's life. Maybe the rules are different with Trina (like, you have to decide based on who your subject is), or maybe there isn't a line(?), but I wonder if becoming so involved and invested in your subject's life can cause a loss of outside perspective that change's the piece. It doesn't seem to have had a negative effect in this piece, but it's something to keep in mind, I think.
I had a very different experience with Orlean's "The American Man at Age Ten" piece. I liked the piece, I thought it was interesting and that she'd obviously spent a lot of time with him (some of the details and stories were really cool), but it lacked the coherency and center that I felt with LeBlanc's piece. Orlean did, at times, seem to be making a statement about gender (which would make sense given her title), but it didn't seem to resonate throughout the piece, so I was confused about whether or not that was the point. And while I enjoyed all the detail and description she gave, I also had a harder time following her organization; I know that LeBlanc's was clearer because it followed more of a timeline (the piece spanned years), but there were times that I just felt really lost within Orlean's piece (and maybe that was intentional to a degree(?), but if so, I don't think it was very successful). Part of me was also very inspired by Orlean, but the piece itself didn't resonate with me the same way that LeBlanc's did (though I believe that it could have). Both pieces, though, gave me really great ideas as I begin to plan my own profile, so I really enjoyed them both in that sense.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Profile Pitch
For my profile, I’m planning to write about Laura Barraclough, a K College professor in the anthropology and sociology department. Though originally from California, the state perceived to be setting trends for prison conditions around the country and whose own prison population has grown by over 500 percent since 1982, and raised by a sheriff father, Barraclough herself is a supporter of prison abolition. She teaches a Prisons and Public Policy class at K, worked with students last year to create a documentary about specific prisoners in Kalamazoo, and is currently working on a research project for which she’s conducting interviews with members of the community who seem to find themselves in and out of the system. I’d like to explore the relationship between her upbringing/background and the current work and research she’s doing with prisons. The fact that the prison population in the United States is growing exponentially and that the public’s opinions are generally based off of propaganda (and many haven’t heard of the idea of prison abolition, at least in a serious context) makes the subject of prisons itself all the more relevant today.
Professor Barraclough was out of town at the end of last week, but I have contacted her and am just waiting for her reply to know if she’ll agree to the project. I’m also planning to speak with members of her Prisons class from last quarter, other faculty in her department, and observe her teach some of her class periods this quarter. I know that she also attends meetings for a committee with some relation to the prison system and that she invited students in her class last quarter to go, so I may be able to attend one of these and speak with other people there as well.
I took Barraclough’s Prisons class last quarter, so I know a lot about the state of the prison system in the United States and how it relates to various other factors, of which race and class are the biggest. Therefore, I feel knowledgeable about the subject in such a way that I can write about it as it relates to her life.
Professor Barraclough was out of town at the end of last week, but I have contacted her and am just waiting for her reply to know if she’ll agree to the project. I’m also planning to speak with members of her Prisons class from last quarter, other faculty in her department, and observe her teach some of her class periods this quarter. I know that she also attends meetings for a committee with some relation to the prison system and that she invited students in her class last quarter to go, so I may be able to attend one of these and speak with other people there as well.
I took Barraclough’s Prisons class last quarter, so I know a lot about the state of the prison system in the United States and how it relates to various other factors, of which race and class are the biggest. Therefore, I feel knowledgeable about the subject in such a way that I can write about it as it relates to her life.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Week 3 Reading Response: Writing For Story
I'll admit to be a little skeptical of Franklin--in general, but especially with regard to his outlining process. Though I myself tend to think in somewhat of a scientific-ish manner while I'm constructing a piece--I have a jumbled blueprint in my head and it's when the pieces in it start to fit together that I really feel like I've hit something--his process, at first anyway, seemed to be almost too analytical. It really does make sense, in terms of having the conflict and the resolution match, knowing where one is going, etc., and I feel like it could be really helpful, so I'm going to try it--but I still feel a little weird about it.
I really enjoyed the two stories of his own that he included in the book--they were interesting on their own, but they also provided good examples to use in his description of the outline process because the reader was familiar with them.
Overall, there were some things that Franklin said that I really liked and some that I didn't. I liked his analyisis of transitions, for example, as well as his talk about the story changing itself and the writer having to adapt as a result. But I don't want to write the end of my story first (I don't usually write the beginning first, but I definitely don't want to write the end first), even though I recognize that, unlike poetry, I do need to have an idea of what the end is before I start. I also didn't really like his last chapter, though I don't yet have a concrete reason as to why--I was with him for awhile, but then he started talking about being at a stoplight and his world changing, and he lost me. Maybe it was that it was too abstract, I don't know, but I didn't like it.
I do think that the outlining was the most important part, though, and it is something that I want to try as I figure out how to revise my piece (because I wholeheartedly recognize that I don't even know what I'm trying to say).
I really enjoyed the two stories of his own that he included in the book--they were interesting on their own, but they also provided good examples to use in his description of the outline process because the reader was familiar with them.
Overall, there were some things that Franklin said that I really liked and some that I didn't. I liked his analyisis of transitions, for example, as well as his talk about the story changing itself and the writer having to adapt as a result. But I don't want to write the end of my story first (I don't usually write the beginning first, but I definitely don't want to write the end first), even though I recognize that, unlike poetry, I do need to have an idea of what the end is before I start. I also didn't really like his last chapter, though I don't yet have a concrete reason as to why--I was with him for awhile, but then he started talking about being at a stoplight and his world changing, and he lost me. Maybe it was that it was too abstract, I don't know, but I didn't like it.
I do think that the outlining was the most important part, though, and it is something that I want to try as I figure out how to revise my piece (because I wholeheartedly recognize that I don't even know what I'm trying to say).
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Responses to Personal Essay Drafts
Steven –
I think I’m confused about what you want the take home message of this piece to be. Is it about you, or is it about your grandfather? There is some mention about your relation to him and how you personally felt about his death, but the piece itself seems to be more about him as a person, and I think you could make a greater connection to yourself and the impact this had on you. What is the relationship between you and him/his death, and why is it important for you to be talking about it now? If you answer this question, the focus of the piece may become clearer.
I do think that you have some really great lines, but the piece as a whole could be strengthened if you could put in some scene or dialogue—there’s too much telling/description the way that it is, and it’s easy to get lost in this. Is there a time that you can remember with your grandfather, or a time that you had a discussion about him that could be recalled/depicted on the page? It feels like you’re talking about him in a very impersonal and removed way, and though it’s clear that you didn’t necessarily have much of a relationship with him, I think I need to feel something more behind this emotion-wise—why should the reader care about your grandfather’s death? Why is it important?
John—
I think you’re off to a good start with this piece. I like the scenes that you show, the picture you paint that way, but I’m wondering if we can get some more detail in the description areas that could help to flesh the piece out a little more. For example, in the third paragraph, you give important details in your family in one huge sentence—these are important details, and the length of the sentence makes it easy to get lost in them. I’m also wondering if we can get more of them; maybe you could give us a better picture of your parents overall.
I also think that we need to see more of your reaction when your father moves out. It’s clear that this event was a big deal for you at the time, but we see your mother and brother in that last scene and not you. What was your response to discovering your father had left?
I also think the last line is a cop out, to an extent. Leave us with something more concrete and provocative than that. And on another note, some of the commentary you provide in parentheses (“Don’t ask me why I remember…,” for example) is unnecessary and distracting.
Andrea—
I really like the subject you chose—it’s not something that gets written about all the time and that was really refreshing. You also do a really great job with creating scene in this piece, which is nice because it breaks up some of the longer, descriptive paragraphs and allows for the piece to flow well. I’m wondering if you can work in some more details about yourself as a person, because you give us very little other than the background about your medical history, which is pertinent to the piece. But can you add in a few more details about you that would allow for the reader to see more of a character?
I also like both the beginning and the end of the piece—the beginning because it’s catchy, without giving too much away (you have to read on to figure out what’s going on) and the end because it’s conclusive to an extent, but also provocative. I think the structure of the piece works well, and you may just need to go over some little things (word choice, sentence structure, etc) to polish up the piece. Other than that, great job—this is a really good draft!
Simona—
I think that your story has a lot of potential—it’s an interesting topic—and that maybe it just needs to be reorganized. I wonder if there’s a way that you can streamline the beginning, or break it up a little bit, so that we can get to some dialogue earlier, or at least not have those big, looming paragraphs.
I like the translations and the part about the ring, and I think that you could possibly do more with these to make a better ending—you wrap-up too quickly (and too obviously) and it’s very abrupt. The line “I am assuming you have been able to guess at the essence of my story from the beginning” is both unnecessary, and leaves me, as a reader, to wonder why I’ve been reading it if it was going to be that obvious. What makes this story individual/unique? Was there a moment when the American dream was shattered for you that you can recall and use? I definitely think that it’s there, but that you need to feel that the story is legitimate, and the way you end the piece right now doesn’t make me think that.
Myles—
I think that you have really good organization in this piece. The reader can kind of flow into the story, which is really nice (and probably ideal)—you provide some really nice details and dialogue that allow for a picture to be seen, especially in the beginning.
My concern is more about the second page. You go into a lot of longer paragraphs with much more “telling” and try to explain the phenomena in your town. I don’t think that you need to try to explain it, but that you need to give more about how it relates to you (we get some of that in the beginning with the locker room scene, but we need more—and if you could work in a few more details here and there about yourself it would allow for a greater character on the page). I’d also like another scene towards the end of the piece, something to break up all the larger paragraphs of information (paragraphs that I think could be streamlined if you focus more about how the town relates to you). I do think that you’ve got a really great draft here, though, so good work!
I think I’m confused about what you want the take home message of this piece to be. Is it about you, or is it about your grandfather? There is some mention about your relation to him and how you personally felt about his death, but the piece itself seems to be more about him as a person, and I think you could make a greater connection to yourself and the impact this had on you. What is the relationship between you and him/his death, and why is it important for you to be talking about it now? If you answer this question, the focus of the piece may become clearer.
I do think that you have some really great lines, but the piece as a whole could be strengthened if you could put in some scene or dialogue—there’s too much telling/description the way that it is, and it’s easy to get lost in this. Is there a time that you can remember with your grandfather, or a time that you had a discussion about him that could be recalled/depicted on the page? It feels like you’re talking about him in a very impersonal and removed way, and though it’s clear that you didn’t necessarily have much of a relationship with him, I think I need to feel something more behind this emotion-wise—why should the reader care about your grandfather’s death? Why is it important?
John—
I think you’re off to a good start with this piece. I like the scenes that you show, the picture you paint that way, but I’m wondering if we can get some more detail in the description areas that could help to flesh the piece out a little more. For example, in the third paragraph, you give important details in your family in one huge sentence—these are important details, and the length of the sentence makes it easy to get lost in them. I’m also wondering if we can get more of them; maybe you could give us a better picture of your parents overall.
I also think that we need to see more of your reaction when your father moves out. It’s clear that this event was a big deal for you at the time, but we see your mother and brother in that last scene and not you. What was your response to discovering your father had left?
I also think the last line is a cop out, to an extent. Leave us with something more concrete and provocative than that. And on another note, some of the commentary you provide in parentheses (“Don’t ask me why I remember…,” for example) is unnecessary and distracting.
Andrea—
I really like the subject you chose—it’s not something that gets written about all the time and that was really refreshing. You also do a really great job with creating scene in this piece, which is nice because it breaks up some of the longer, descriptive paragraphs and allows for the piece to flow well. I’m wondering if you can work in some more details about yourself as a person, because you give us very little other than the background about your medical history, which is pertinent to the piece. But can you add in a few more details about you that would allow for the reader to see more of a character?
I also like both the beginning and the end of the piece—the beginning because it’s catchy, without giving too much away (you have to read on to figure out what’s going on) and the end because it’s conclusive to an extent, but also provocative. I think the structure of the piece works well, and you may just need to go over some little things (word choice, sentence structure, etc) to polish up the piece. Other than that, great job—this is a really good draft!
Simona—
I think that your story has a lot of potential—it’s an interesting topic—and that maybe it just needs to be reorganized. I wonder if there’s a way that you can streamline the beginning, or break it up a little bit, so that we can get to some dialogue earlier, or at least not have those big, looming paragraphs.
I like the translations and the part about the ring, and I think that you could possibly do more with these to make a better ending—you wrap-up too quickly (and too obviously) and it’s very abrupt. The line “I am assuming you have been able to guess at the essence of my story from the beginning” is both unnecessary, and leaves me, as a reader, to wonder why I’ve been reading it if it was going to be that obvious. What makes this story individual/unique? Was there a moment when the American dream was shattered for you that you can recall and use? I definitely think that it’s there, but that you need to feel that the story is legitimate, and the way you end the piece right now doesn’t make me think that.
Myles—
I think that you have really good organization in this piece. The reader can kind of flow into the story, which is really nice (and probably ideal)—you provide some really nice details and dialogue that allow for a picture to be seen, especially in the beginning.
My concern is more about the second page. You go into a lot of longer paragraphs with much more “telling” and try to explain the phenomena in your town. I don’t think that you need to try to explain it, but that you need to give more about how it relates to you (we get some of that in the beginning with the locker room scene, but we need more—and if you could work in a few more details here and there about yourself it would allow for a greater character on the page). I’d also like another scene towards the end of the piece, something to break up all the larger paragraphs of information (paragraphs that I think could be streamlined if you focus more about how the town relates to you). I do think that you’ve got a really great draft here, though, so good work!
Writing Process - Personal Essay Draft
My writing process for this draft was kind of ridiculous. I basically had a really hard time coming up with a topic to write about--I didn't want to write about anything I'd written about before, I didn't want to write about anything too cliche, and I didn't want to write about something I learned post-breakup. Therefore, I felt a little limited, and spent days wracking my brain to come up with the "right" topic--an event that was big enough to have had an impact on my life, and something that would make me just want to start writing.
I'm not sure that actually ever happened. I wrote half an essay on a completely different topic because I was running out of time, though it felt wrong the whole time I was doing it. So, partway through, I started reading creative nonfiction, hoping something would inspire me, and eventually the first line of this essay came to me. From there, I was able to write the essay almost completely non-stop (though I cut out some things and moved some things around). And, maybe a little surprisingly, I didn't feel (and still don't) that uncomfortable writing it or having other people read it (which is maybe a good thing?). But I still don't feel very inspired by the piece--I feel like it possibly has potential, but something just feels off about it. So I'm hoping that feedback will help, and I'll be hit by a much-needed burst of ideas/inspiration.
I'm not sure that actually ever happened. I wrote half an essay on a completely different topic because I was running out of time, though it felt wrong the whole time I was doing it. So, partway through, I started reading creative nonfiction, hoping something would inspire me, and eventually the first line of this essay came to me. From there, I was able to write the essay almost completely non-stop (though I cut out some things and moved some things around). And, maybe a little surprisingly, I didn't feel (and still don't) that uncomfortable writing it or having other people read it (which is maybe a good thing?). But I still don't feel very inspired by the piece--I feel like it possibly has potential, but something just feels off about it. So I'm hoping that feedback will help, and I'll be hit by a much-needed burst of ideas/inspiration.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Personal Essay Draft 1
Couch Time
By Jessica Maas
“I don’t understand why you have an eating disorder—you’re thin and beautiful.”
In that moment my psychologist handed me the reason to never have to return to her cramped, bare office: she clearly knew nothing. Lucky for me, the red numbers of the digital clock indicated it was the end of our session, and though there was at first an uncomfortable pause after her remark, I managed to spit out a few words in response before flying out the door.
I’d been attending weekly sessions with Jennifer for about three months. Though her smile and questions always seemed forced and unsure, I was convinced that therapy alone would solve my problems and that progress with Jennifer would improve.
It had only been a year before, just weeks before my sophomore year of college, that I’d even realized I had a problem. What had started in my freshmen year of high school as a simple weight training program three days per week for softball had become, by my senior year, hours of cardio, weight training, and agility work almost every day. It was my sophomore year that I began regularly stepping on my father’s bathroom scale in the morning, waiting for the red numbers to indicate if I was winning or losing the game, waiting for them to indicate how many Wheat Thins I was allowed to count onto my plate that day. My junior year I started skipping a lot of meals, so by the time I was a senior I could go almost entire days without eating.
I equated running with purging. Though as an athlete it was necessary and healthy for me to run, my body wouldn’t feel clean and light unless I worked up at least two miles worth of sweat on the treadmill or pavement. My days were planned around when it would be most convenient to run or workout, and I couldn’t relax until after I’d done so. If for some reason it was impossible to exercise that day, I felt heavy, antsy, and incredibly guilty.
But I never believed that I had a problem—I merely thought I was a healthy person. In college, I continued to play softball, but the succession of two knee surgeries in two years managed to curb my exercise obsession somewhat.
But I still had an unhealthy relationship with food, though I didn’t realize it until after my first year. And then it just came to me, one day in the summer—nothing special happened; it was an ordinary day. The only difference was I knew that I had an eating disorder.
The realization of that overwhelmed me. I wrote about it a little in my poetry class that fall, and even did a performance piece centered around it, but admitting it out loud made me feel exposed and naked. I didn’t want people to know because I didn’t want them to be judging me or watching me eat—I didn’t want people to think of me as a weak person or someone who needed to be watched. So I tried my best not to tell anyone, though I agreed to participate in a panel discussion about athletics and eating disorders in the spring. After the presentation, a psychologist from the school came up to talk to me.
“Have you ever gone to see anyone about this?” she asked me.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, just think about it. It could help you.”
The thought of therapy did not thrill me, but I did think about it, and that was how I ended up with Jennifer the next fall. My eating had improved to an extent throughout college—I was eating regularly, and eating more, which I attributed to my friends and the schedule of the cafeteria. But my thought processes were very cyclical—I could go some months without feeling too constrained by my thoughts about eating, and then I’d go through a period of months where I felt totally controlled by my thoughts about food, from the time I woke up in the morning to the time I crawled back into bed. I’d have huge internal debates about whether or not to have a granola bar after class or eat a snack at 9 p.m., and these thoughts exhausted me.
So I went to therapy. The problem was it seemed to be exacerbating the problem rather than helping it. I was thinking about food and my choices more often—which I hadn’t previously thought possible—and she never seemed to tell me anything that I didn’t already know. After Jennifer demonstrated her complete ignorance, I found a new psychologist because I believed that maybe I’d just had a bad one and that therapy could still help me.
Patty was the antithesis of Jennifer—much older and much more experienced. She’d sit on the couch across from mine, sipping on the large to-go cup of Diet Coke she had leftover from lunch, and nod and talk to herself as I talked, and then something I said would hit her and she’d suddenly ask me another question—she seemed much more aware, and was much more “go with the flow.”
But even she wasn’t helpful. She asked me to keep lists for her of what I ate everyday and she wanted to have “goals” each week; how many times I would let myself eat dessert, for example. I dutifully scribbled lists on yellow sticky notes and followed the goals she set for me, but I found myself standing in the cafeteria, staring at all the food and trying to decide what would be acceptable to write down and when I should have dessert based on the number she set for me that week—it was like I needed to prove that I had a problem.
As I began to realize that my sessions were not helping, I stopped talking about eating during them. I discussed stress related to school or problems with my mother, and only talked about eating when Patty asked me something about it. Once, I discussed my fear of other people knowing that I had an eating disorder, but I tried hard to stay away from the intricacies of the problem itself. Yet I kept going back because it was supposed to help—therapy was supposed to make me better.
At my last session before summer break, though, I knew I wasn’t going to go back. I was content to simply understand that I had a problem—I didn’t want to write lists or make goals or comb through the sorts of punishment techniques my parents used when I was five. So I went to my last session, talked about my final exams and plans for the summer, and then left the office. I pushed open the doors, walked outside, and stared up to where the sun sat gleaming in a calm, blue sky.
By Jessica Maas
“I don’t understand why you have an eating disorder—you’re thin and beautiful.”
In that moment my psychologist handed me the reason to never have to return to her cramped, bare office: she clearly knew nothing. Lucky for me, the red numbers of the digital clock indicated it was the end of our session, and though there was at first an uncomfortable pause after her remark, I managed to spit out a few words in response before flying out the door.
I’d been attending weekly sessions with Jennifer for about three months. Though her smile and questions always seemed forced and unsure, I was convinced that therapy alone would solve my problems and that progress with Jennifer would improve.
It had only been a year before, just weeks before my sophomore year of college, that I’d even realized I had a problem. What had started in my freshmen year of high school as a simple weight training program three days per week for softball had become, by my senior year, hours of cardio, weight training, and agility work almost every day. It was my sophomore year that I began regularly stepping on my father’s bathroom scale in the morning, waiting for the red numbers to indicate if I was winning or losing the game, waiting for them to indicate how many Wheat Thins I was allowed to count onto my plate that day. My junior year I started skipping a lot of meals, so by the time I was a senior I could go almost entire days without eating.
I equated running with purging. Though as an athlete it was necessary and healthy for me to run, my body wouldn’t feel clean and light unless I worked up at least two miles worth of sweat on the treadmill or pavement. My days were planned around when it would be most convenient to run or workout, and I couldn’t relax until after I’d done so. If for some reason it was impossible to exercise that day, I felt heavy, antsy, and incredibly guilty.
But I never believed that I had a problem—I merely thought I was a healthy person. In college, I continued to play softball, but the succession of two knee surgeries in two years managed to curb my exercise obsession somewhat.
But I still had an unhealthy relationship with food, though I didn’t realize it until after my first year. And then it just came to me, one day in the summer—nothing special happened; it was an ordinary day. The only difference was I knew that I had an eating disorder.
The realization of that overwhelmed me. I wrote about it a little in my poetry class that fall, and even did a performance piece centered around it, but admitting it out loud made me feel exposed and naked. I didn’t want people to know because I didn’t want them to be judging me or watching me eat—I didn’t want people to think of me as a weak person or someone who needed to be watched. So I tried my best not to tell anyone, though I agreed to participate in a panel discussion about athletics and eating disorders in the spring. After the presentation, a psychologist from the school came up to talk to me.
“Have you ever gone to see anyone about this?” she asked me.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, just think about it. It could help you.”
The thought of therapy did not thrill me, but I did think about it, and that was how I ended up with Jennifer the next fall. My eating had improved to an extent throughout college—I was eating regularly, and eating more, which I attributed to my friends and the schedule of the cafeteria. But my thought processes were very cyclical—I could go some months without feeling too constrained by my thoughts about eating, and then I’d go through a period of months where I felt totally controlled by my thoughts about food, from the time I woke up in the morning to the time I crawled back into bed. I’d have huge internal debates about whether or not to have a granola bar after class or eat a snack at 9 p.m., and these thoughts exhausted me.
So I went to therapy. The problem was it seemed to be exacerbating the problem rather than helping it. I was thinking about food and my choices more often—which I hadn’t previously thought possible—and she never seemed to tell me anything that I didn’t already know. After Jennifer demonstrated her complete ignorance, I found a new psychologist because I believed that maybe I’d just had a bad one and that therapy could still help me.
Patty was the antithesis of Jennifer—much older and much more experienced. She’d sit on the couch across from mine, sipping on the large to-go cup of Diet Coke she had leftover from lunch, and nod and talk to herself as I talked, and then something I said would hit her and she’d suddenly ask me another question—she seemed much more aware, and was much more “go with the flow.”
But even she wasn’t helpful. She asked me to keep lists for her of what I ate everyday and she wanted to have “goals” each week; how many times I would let myself eat dessert, for example. I dutifully scribbled lists on yellow sticky notes and followed the goals she set for me, but I found myself standing in the cafeteria, staring at all the food and trying to decide what would be acceptable to write down and when I should have dessert based on the number she set for me that week—it was like I needed to prove that I had a problem.
As I began to realize that my sessions were not helping, I stopped talking about eating during them. I discussed stress related to school or problems with my mother, and only talked about eating when Patty asked me something about it. Once, I discussed my fear of other people knowing that I had an eating disorder, but I tried hard to stay away from the intricacies of the problem itself. Yet I kept going back because it was supposed to help—therapy was supposed to make me better.
At my last session before summer break, though, I knew I wasn’t going to go back. I was content to simply understand that I had a problem—I didn’t want to write lists or make goals or comb through the sorts of punishment techniques my parents used when I was five. So I went to my last session, talked about my final exams and plans for the summer, and then left the office. I pushed open the doors, walked outside, and stared up to where the sun sat gleaming in a calm, blue sky.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)