Blog 15, Part Deux

Revised Craft Essay

I signed up for Creative Non Fiction because it was a requirement, and I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I had already taken some other writing courses, and had somewhat enjoyed writing fiction; something about it just didn’t feel right. Poetry was a bit of a bust, because we barely studied it and I was told to go off and write some poetry. Epic fail. I chalked it up to being a newer writer, still getting my feet wet in various genre’s. 

Taking Creative Non Fiction made me realize that I have some great stories to write, and it felt like a very natural fit from the first day of class; I knew I was going to really enjoy this genre. We first started the semester off with lots of brainstorming. So much so, that I was getting anxious to narrow down on a topic and start my first essay. 

The first essay I wrote was about the time my friend and I, who I met on my cross-country bike trip, went to a motorcycle party. I felt I wrote it well, but I wasn’t quite understanding my purpose of this story. I was unable to emphasize any key moments in that story. The end result was a good story with great potential; this was not a story I chose to revise. I think some day in the future I’d like to revisit this one and dig deeper to assign meaning to the experience. 

The second essay was about coming out to my mom, and it was the hardest thing I’ve ever written. It was also the most exciting. When we made a list in class of the things we wouldn’t write about, that was on the list. When I reevaluated the list, I realized that those were the things I most wanted to write about. I knew one day I’d want to write about it, but didn’t think it would be until I had plenty of distance from that day. This essay had a much deeper meaning to me, so it was easier to write, in terms of showing. 

From the first essay to the second, I feel that I did a much better job of showing, rather than telling. I looked at each sentence and decided how I could better show with descriptors, rather than explain something that was happening. 

I really enjoyed writing the first short essay. Initially I thought it would be easy to write a short essay, but as it turns out, it’s a bit harder with a a smaller platform; I felt like I was put in a box. The constraints forced me to be very selective about what parts of the story I told, and how I told them. My inspiration was the dirty-looking old man I had bumped into recently. I constantly see all over town, and finally had a conversation with him. Not that I had been looking to talk to him, but I was happy that I did. As I was talking to him, I took mental notes so that I could maybe write about him. I looked at his dirty clothes, and the way his teeth were rounded at the corners. I felt like this essay was a further improvement of my writing. I didn’t do much brainstorming with this one, as opposed to the longer essays. 

The second short essay I thought came out quite well. It was about an experience I had when chased by a coyote on a bike. The deeper story was about a false sense of security. I thought I did a better job with this essay on having the reader figure out the deeper meaning, or at least, work harder for it; it wasn’t as obvious as anything else I’ve written. Fitting this into the short format didn’t feel as difficult as the first short essay, and I think I like the short format better now that I am more comfortable with it. It packs a bigger punch, but that could be just my feelings. 

I am way more confident in my writing than I was at the start of this class, and have a good understand of the rules. I also know there are different schools of thought, where it’s ok to change minor details, while others believe that to be criminal. Creative Non Fiction feels like the best place for my writing to live; I’ve truly enjoyed writing each of my essays, and only hope that I continue to make time for my writing. 

One writing technique that I really liked and thought was helpful was meditation; I found it to be most effective in shedding my brain of garbage and miscellaneous thoughts. Free writing is fun, but I’m not sure it has the same effect on me. 

Terrain, the journal I reviewed, is all about the natural and built environments. I’m not sure I have something that fits their requirements just yet, but some day I would like to submit to them. I’ve spent so much time outdoors, traveling and experiencing the natural world, and I think some day I’ll have a story that fits their requirements. Before this class, I would have never thought of submitting my work to anything; I never thought it was good enough. But, I’ll never be published if I never try. 

My goals for continuing writing are to stick with this genre, and to keep writing and polishing my stories. I’d like to compile all of them into a book when I have a solid body of work, whether it’s just for my own personal use, or to make a few dollars from it. I don’t intend to make a living off of creative writing, but will at the very least, keep it as a hobby. 

Blog 15

Craft Essay

I started writing in 2009 while on the Appalachian Trail (AT), but really, I think I started writing years before. When I was an art student in my early 20’s, I would include some writing in my work, but never thought much of it. Now I realize that it was a further exploration of my creativity, mixing art with words. 

When I hiked the AT, I wrote nearly every single day; I wanted to document moments that photos couldn’t capture, and wanted to be able to remember my time out there. I kept an online journal so that my friends and family at home could read what I was experiencing each day. Other than sharing entertaining stories, I didn’t think much of my writing. It did, however, become a ritual; writing was how I unwound at the end of each day in my little green tent. 

Friends and family told me that I was a good writer; I told them my writing was a bunch of crap. I did find enjoyment in writing, though.

In the summer of 2012, I rode my bike across the US, and again, wrote every single day. I think that experience solidified my love for writing, especially to document my daily adventures. I could also tell that my writing had improved between adventures; I think it was due to the amount of reading I was doing. 

When I transferred into Kean’s writing program, I discovered that I had some stories in me worth writing. Some of the hardest things I’ve written about have been my best pieces, and writing about different adventures has been helpful in making sense of the random fragments of time. In CNF, we listed things we wouldn’t write about, and I realized those were the things I most wanted to write about. With some coaxing, I dug deep and checked an item off of the list: coming out to my mom (the story never got posted to my blog). That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but writing about it was nearly as hard. Reliving those moments on paper was so scary; it felt like I was going through the process all over again. To date, it has been my proudest piece of writing. 

Reading Tiny Beautiful Things and Wild by Cheryl Strayed has given me the confidence to pour my heart out onto the page and write honestly; she writes in explicit detail about the deepest, most intimate moments of her life, and her style is one that I feel most connected to. Strayed has a set of brass ladyballs that I admire, she makes me want to do the same.  


I’ve taken a variety of writing classes, and found my niche in CNF; It’s a place where I want my writing to live for a while. Writing in this genre has had a profound affect on me, and it’s made me assign a deeper meaning to the experiences I’ve had. Some day I’d like to compile all of my stories into a book, whether it’s for an audience or just for myself.

Blog 14

Analysis of Terrain.Org


What is it? 

Terrain is a journal publication that has been serving both the built and the natural environments since 1998. The reason I chose it was for their concentration in the natural world, a place where my heart lives. Initially the name captured my attention, and the vivid outdoor images is what hooked me in. According to Terrain, it is a “celebration of the symbiosis” of both worlds. They publish fiction, nonfiction, poetry, art, and columns and interviews. 

Audience

According to Terrain, their audience is “technical to professional to generalist,” but to build on that, I also see their audience as anyone who has a close relationship with art and nature. I feel most drawn to the essays pertaining to nature, specifically because I have a very close connection to nature and can feel the words the author has written. 

While scrolling through comments, it seems evenly split between a male and female audience. 

Essay analysis

Subject–These are all experiences that the writers have had at some point in their lives. Of course, they are all related to the natural or built environments, and lean heavier towards the natural world. 

Voice/Tone–These are all personal stories that the authors are telling, some more than others. Most have more of a conversational tone to them. 

Form–Most of the essays are told in sequential order

Artistry–There is more telling and less showing. In the essay, Water Always Seeks Its Own Level, by Mardi Link, there is an excellent example of telling. Throughout the entire essay, there is a big buildup, where every event builds on the last. In the last paragraph, she tells what the moral of the essay is, rather than showing the audience. 

Length–Most of the essays are rather long, at approximately 3,000-5,000 words. Some, however, are on the shorter side, at approximately 1,000 words. 

Submissions

Submissions must be related to the built or natural world, whether literal, creative or implied. The accept general submissions between September 1 to May 30, and contest submissions are accepted year-round. All submissions must be digital; they do not accept anything in print and it will not be read or returned. Unless otherwise noted, you may not submit more than once every six months. 

Cost: Contest submissions are $10 each, and all other regular submissions are free. 

Blog 13

Draft Short Essay 2 

False Security

It was one trillion degrees in Kansas, and there was not a single tree for days to escape the sun; you could see for miles in any direction. McKinley and I decided to kick Kansas in the ass by riding in the middle of the night, but, even then it was in the 90's. Still, it was cooler under the moonlight. 

We were riding along a very long, desolate, stretch of road. The only thing visible in the middle of the Kansas night were factory lights, so it gave a false sense that people were out there, somewhere in the vastness. 

It’s like there’s a city out there! 

I heard something running alongside me, but my shitty headlight only illuminated my wheel. I had already been used to riding at 4 or 5 am, so hearing animals scuffling in the brush was typical. Whatever it was made a loud yipping noise, a sound unfamiliar to me. 

McKinley, what the fuck is that!?

Its presence felt dog-like, but I knew it wasn't a dog; the bark was different than anything I’ve heard. I stood up and cranked harder on my pedals, rocking my bike left-to-right, left-to-right, the saddle tapping my inner thighs. It chased alongside us for maybe a minute, but a minute can be a long time; whatever it was decided we weren’t a threat.

Back to focusing on the false city ahead, the false sense of people out there in the great wide open. We’d be in a town in ten miles.

Almost no cars passed us, but a pick-up truck did, and pulled to the side. A male driver got out and waited for us to get closer. 

You girls shouldn’t be out here, it’s dangerous. Why don’t you put your bikes in my truck and I’ll drive you ahead. 

Shitshitshitshitshit. 

Uhh, no thanks, we’re just fine. Have a good night.

I couldn’t see his face because it was swallowed up by the darkness, but I was terrified. My only immediate weapon was dog spray, dangling off of my shifter cables in front of my handlebars. The faceless man got in his truck and drove off into the desolate Kansas night. I focused on the promise land of people ahead. Just keep pedaling, I thought. 

Yawn yawn yawn. We had only been riding for a few hours, so it was way too soon to crap out. My circadian rhythm was telling me it was time to sleep though, not ride a bike. 

I’m exhausted, McKinley. I don’t know how I’m going to ride for the next eight hours, I can barely function. 

We landed in Scott City and sat down on the curb of a vacant gas station, figuring out our next move. A police officer pulled in and grilled us with the normal what-the-hell-are-you-doing questions; admittedly, we looked homeless and out of place.

Well, we’ve been riding since Oregon. We’re exhausted. Some yipping, dog-like animal chased us back there. Any idea what it was?

Oh, that was definitely a coyote, we have lots of them around here.

We felt like total badasses, warriors of the night. 

You girls can sleep in the park, and just be careful that the sprinklers don’t get ya.  

We pitched our tents in a park on the edge of a town that didn’t feel completely safe. Here we are, land of the people, I thought. I pictured the false city skyline as I drifted off to sleep. 

Blog 12

False Security

It was one trillion degrees in Kansas, and there was not a single tree for days to escape the sun; you could see for miles in any direction. McKinley and I decided to kick Kansas in the ass by riding in the middle of the night, but, even then it was in the 90's. Still, it was cooler under the moonlight. 

We were riding along a very long, desolate, stretch of road. The only thing visible in the middle of the Kansas night were factory lights, so it gave a false sense that people were out there, somewhere in the vastness. 

It’s like there’s a city out there! 

I heard something running alongside me, but my shitty headlight only illuminated my wheel. I had already been used to riding at 4 or 5 am, so hearing animals scuffling in the brush was typical. Whatever it was made a loud yipping noise, a sound unfamiliar to me. 

McKinley, what the fuck is that!?

Its presence felt dog-like, but I knew it wasn't a dog; the bark was different than anything I’ve heard. I stood up and cranked harder on my pedals, rocking my bike left-to-right, left-to-right, the saddle tapping my inner thighs. It chased alongside us for maybe a minute, but a minute can be a long time; whatever it was decided we weren’t a threat.

Back to focusing on the false city ahead, the false sense of people out there in the great wide open. We’d be in a town in ten miles.

Almost no cars passed us, but a pick-up truck did, and pulled to the side. A male driver got out and waited for us to get closer. 

You girls shouldn’t be out here, it’s dangerous. Why don’t you put your bikes in my truck and I’ll drive you ahead. 

Shitshitshitshitshit. 

Uhh, no thanks, we’re just fine. Have a good night.

I couldn’t see his face because it was swallowed up by the darkness, but I was terrified. My only immediate weapon was dog spray, dangling off of my shifter cables in front of my handlebars. The faceless man got in his truck and drove off into the desolate Kansas night. I focused on the promise land of people ahead. Just keep pedaling, I thought. 

Yawn yawn yawn. We had only been riding for a few hours, so it was way too soon to crap out. My circadian rhythm was telling me it was time to sleep though, not ride a bike. 

I’m exhausted, McKinley. I don’t know how I’m going to ride for the next eight hours, I can barely function. 

We landed in Scott City and sat down on the curb of a vacant gas station, figuring out our next move. A police officer pulled in and grilled us with the normal what-the-hell-are-you-doing questions; admittedly, we looked homeless and out of place.

Well, we’ve been riding since Oregon. We’re exhausted. Some yipping, dog-like animal chased us back there. Any idea what it was?

Oh, that was definitely a coyote, we have lots of them around here.

We felt like total badasses, warriors of the night. 

You girls can sleep in the park, and just be careful that the sprinklers don’t get ya.  

We pitched our tents in a park on the edge of a town that didn’t feel completely safe. Here we are, land of the people, I thought. I pictured the false city skyline as I drifted off to sleep. 

Blog 11

Brainstorming for Short Essay 2

I'm not married to this idea, but it's a start.

Being chased by a coyote on my bike in the middle of the night.

It was one trillion degrees in Kansas, and not a single tree for days to escape the sun. McKinley and I thought we should just ride in the middle of the night to escape the heat, but even beyond midnight it was still in the high 90's; the pavement was still radiating all of that heat back at us.

We rode along a very long, very desolate, stretch of road. All I could see was lights of a factory in the distance which looked like a city skyline; that's all that's visible in the middle of the Kansas night, factory lights. I heard something running alongside me, but my weak headlight only shone down at my wheel. I always heard critters in the night, so I didn't think much of it. Just then it made a barky-yippy noise that was unfamiliar to me. I stood up and cranked on my pedals, but I only felt slightly nervous.

Hours later we rolled up into some random town and sat down on the curb of a vacant gas station. A police officer pulled in and asked us why we were in a random gas station in the middle of the night with fully-loaded bikes. We told him about our trip, and then asked him if he knew what animal made a barky-yippy noise. I mimicked what I heard.

Oh, that was definitely a coyote! He said. We have lots of coyotes around here.

Shit!

After some investigation on YouTube, it was confirmed: a coyote chased us. For some reason, he dropped off and eventually left us alone.

We felt like badasses.

I'm really happy I couldn't see what it was at the time, because I would have shit my pants.

Blog 10

New Identity

Cabin fever plagued me. I had been cooped up writing all day, so I went out for a walk to stretch my legs while the sun was still shining; orange and red leaves littered the ground. 

I walked to the top of my street and made a right, heading down the Boulevard. A right on 14th, and then a right on Monroe, following my usual quick route. When I reached the high school, I saw him walking towards me. Great, I thought, he's going to try and talk to me, and I wasn’t interested. Shaggy and greasy and dirty; same stained clothes he always wears. Pack of Newport's in his left breast pocket. His usual routine is picking up cigarette butts off of the ground and smoking what's left of them. Behavior of a bum, I thought. Who does that?

He stopped me. No dog today? I smiled, having just heard his voice for the first time. I don't know that he'd ever seen me walk my dog, because I rarely walk him these days. He's 15 and arthritic, so we don't walk together much. I left him at home this time, he needed a break. He replied with a smile, and I saw a warmth in his eyes that I didn't expect. His eyes were swallowed up by years and years of aging; deep, cavernous wrinkles–signature of a lifetime smoker. His teeth, rounded out by, well, I don’t know what rounds out ones teeth. Age? His hair looked like it was slathered with lard, and he was in need of a haircut. His clothes, like they hadn't been washed in decades. But his stained, short-sleeved button-down was tucked neatly into his filthy, creased, navy blue pants. His silver hair, slicked like he’d just stepped out of a 1940's ad. I could tell he craved conversation at the way his gray, cloudy eyes, locked on to mine.

I always see you walking all over town, I said.

Well, I like to give my wife a break. I walk all day.

Your wife? I thought. I’m not sure he even has a wife, because I’ve only ever seen him alone. I imagined him going home to an empty house, the result of being a long-time widower. 

Are you from Spain, he asked.

No, Italy. Well, I’m not, but my ancestors are. Where are you from?

Greece, he replied.

I always thought he looked Russian or Polish, but not Greek. I could hear his familiar Greek accent weighing heavily on his speech though, so I knew it was true. The wife, I'll never know if it's true. Maybe he was never even married.

Do you ever go to the Greek Store on the Boulevard? Their food is great, I told him.

I don’t remember exactly what he said, but it was something about the politics of the store, or something of that nature. He frequents a Greek store in another town. We talked for a few more minutes, but he was hard to understand because of his accent. 

Well, I have to get back home. You have a good day, I said. It was nice talking to you.

He smiled.

Nice talking to you, too.

I continued past the high school, making my way further down Monroe. My heart was beating rapidly, telling me how good it felt to share a moment with this man. He looks scary, but has a warmth that you can only know if you look into his eyes; they invite you into his soul. 

When I got home, I realized I didn’t know his name. Next time, I thought.