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. 

Blog 9

Ideas for Short Essay 1:

I watched the video for "Les Cruel Shoes" and think it's a fun idea, doing voiceover with video. It could be a powerful way to tell a story. I've never done a multimedia piece like that, but I think I'd like to try it. I have a GoPro camera and have made videos in iMovie of my adventures, so I could use that as my jumping off point. I'd have to figure out how to do voiceover, though. I also love spoken word poetry and how it moves me, but I don't have the guts to do something like that...yet. Not sure how I'd use video.

Ideas for writing: Can we revisit the essay we chose not to use for our long essay? I may give some thought to resurrecting it in a new light, however, it doesn't feel close to my heart right now.

One idea I have, is to write about the dirty, homeless-looking old man who walks around my town, seemingly aimless. Wherever you go, there he is. After months, maybe years, of seeing him walking and walking and walking, I finally (and very recently) had an interaction with him.

Cabin fever plagued me, so I went out for a walk. I walked to the top of my street and headed down the Boulevard. I made a right on 14th, and then a right on Monroe. When I reached the high school, I saw him walking towards me. Great, I thought, he's going to try and talk to me. Shaggy and greasy and dirty; same stained clothes he always wears. Pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket. Normally he's seen picking cigarette butts up off of the ground and smoking what's left of them. Who the hell does that?

He stopped me. "No dog today?" I laughed. I don't know that he'd ever seen me walk my dog, because I rarely walk him. He's 15 and arthritic, so we don't walk together much. But I smiled, and said that I left him at home this time. He smiled, 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, that are signature of a lifetime smoker. His hair looked like it was slathered with lard. His clothes, like they hadn't been washed in decades. But his short-sleeved button-down was tucked neatly into his filthy, creased, navy blue pants. His silver hair, slicked like he just stepped out of a 1940's ad. I could tell he craved conversation at the way he caught eyes with me. His cloudy eyes spoke to me, telling me to give him the time of day.

I told him I always see him walking all over town, and he told me it's because he likes to give his wife a break from him. I'm not sure he even has a wife. I imagined him going home to an empty house, the result of being a long-time widower. He told me he is from Greece, and I always thought he looked Russian or Polish, but never Greek. I could hear his 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.

After seeing this dirty-looking old man cruising the streets for years, I finally spoke to him. He looks scary, but he has a warmth that you can only know if you look into his eyes. I wonder if he's someone's grandpa?

There's more to our exchange, but I'll save it for now. I need to understand why we had this brief encounter on the street.

Blog 8

Long Essay 2 Plans, Revised:

After my meeting with Dr. Chandler yesterday, the course of my essay has changed, so my plans below are null and void...mostly. I still plan to move forward with #2, though, as the story I'm trying to tell is stronger. And as Dr. Chandler said, it's the world "where I live." Or something like that. I agree 110% with her. I have one million stories and lessons I could tell from that adventure.

My essay is going to shift away from telling the story of Annette, though it may touch upon it. The focus will be on how setting changes a person, and what hiking the Appalachian Trail allows a person to do or be–what it did for me.  We came up with so many ideas that I feel overwhelmed, so it may change again once I get back to working on it.


Long Essay 2 Plans:

I'd like to revise my draft of essay #2. It feels like a more cohesive story, and one that hopefully has good meaning. I started to feel a disconnect from essay #1, and am still not sure why I should tell that one–I'll revisit it in the future, perhaps as a short essay. There's some reason I chose to write it, but I think it needs more time to percolate.

To revise #2, I will first see what Dr. Chandler has to say at our meeting. Again, I'm not sure the reason I have for telling this story, either. I don't know if I was successful with segmentation, or with showing the audience, not telling them. My guess is I'll need to work on those skills, and transitions between scenes. I could be wrong, though.

I'll also talk to the friends I was with that day to see what their memory of the event is. I fact-checked myself against their blog entries, as well as my own from that day, but maybe they have some memories that they didn't write down.

Blog 7

Annette shouted, “It’s just a fucking piece of tin on four wheels anyway!” as she pulled into the parking lot, nearly smashing into another car. The heads of 50 southerners dressed in their Sunday best turned in horror; they were waiting to be seated in the restaurant. Internally, I laughed at our grand entrance. We wiggled our bodies over the tops of the doors while pulling the weight of our packs behind us. I was relieved to have landed safely at the Homeplace Restaurant, the most legendary all you can eat restaurant on the Appalachian Trail (AT). It was all about quantity, not quality, and the food came in the masses. With a quick change in attitude, Annette gave a friendly smile and said, “Good luck, girls!”

It was Mothers Day, and the rhododendrons had bloomed overnight. It’s just about summer, I thought. It was also the first time we saw Pink Lady Slippers, too, and the girls shrieked in excitement. I didn’t know what the big deal was, but, I learned that these wildflowers were somewhat rare. Bright pink and bulbous and veiny, they look sort of, well, sexual. I felt lucky to be hiking with a plant biologist and a horticulturist, because I was gaining a whole new set of knowledge I didn’t realize interested me at the time. The trail became my classroom. 

I bounced down the trail; the day was warm and I knew it ended with real food. Food was the biggest motivator, and the one thing unanimously talked about. We didn’t take breaks that day in order to get to the restaurant before they closed, and it would then be closed for the next 4 days; there was no room for error when food was involved. We climbed up and down mountains all day, but there was nothing too significant about the climbs. Really, it was just a series of smaller elevation changes, and we were in trail shape having already hiked 700 miles.

I could smell the clean people before I saw them, so that meant one thing: we were nearing the trail head. Day hikers flooded the trail, enjoying a beautiful Mothers Day with their moms, girlfriends, sisters and daughters. All of these beautiful-smelling people noted that we should go to the Homeplace to eat; it was not to be missed. Even more motivation to hike faster. I picked my feet up higher and widened my gait; my stomach grumbled and I longed for town food. I only stopped long enough to photograph the flowering rhododendrons. 

I heard cars in the distance, so I knew we were almost to the promise land of fine southern cuisine. Faster faster faster. Images of plates piled sky-high with food danced through my brain. One plate, three plates, ten plates. Plates of fried things, plates of sweet things. I needed a fix of my sugary southern crack addiction, sweet tea, and wanted to feel the euphoria of it filling my empty belly. Tea and ice and sugar and cups. Drinking out of cups became luxury. 

We hit the road and had a mile of road walking. The girls started to walk along the highway, but I thought, aw hell no. I’ll try to get us a ride, I said. I crossed the double yellow, following with traffic, and stuck out my thumb. Within minutes, a red 90’s convertible Mustang pulled over, and I waved the girls over. Out stepped a slightly-disheveled Annette, buttoning her shirt and zipping her pants. That’s weird, I thought. 

Thanks for pulling over!
Well, I wouldn’t have if you didn’t stick out your thumb!
Good point, I thought, and we all looked at each other. 

She swung her door open into traffic, nearly having it ripped off, and pissed off other motorists. They honked and cursed; Annette revolted.

Fuck you! Let them see my tits, that’s what they want to see anyway! Motorcyclists revved their engines and motorists laid on their horns in that You Asshole kind of way, not that polite, horn-tapping, pay-attention-the-light-just-turned-green kind of way. 

I knew this would be the best hitching experience we’d have on the whole trail. Annette pulled random items from her backseat and stuffed them into her trunk. A white comforter, a wall clock, picture frames, and a variety of housewares. 

I ran away! she shouted. A 30 year failed marriage and a cheating boyfriend, men suck! Annette looked like she was in her 40's, so I wouldn't consider that running away; maybe just escaping.

We all looked at each other, wide-eyed, knowing what each of us were thinking. Spending that kind of time with the same people every single day, words become unnecessary; facial expression says everything. 

The road curved and bent along the base of the southern Appalachian Mountains following the river below. I don’t know which river it was, maybe the James River, but for a second I believed Annette was going to take us all careening over the edge in her red 90’s Mustang, and we’d all meet our fate. I squinted as the wind walloped my eyeballs. Please, Universe, don’t let me die today, it’s Mother’s Day. I haven’t even called my mother yet, I pleaded. I tried to glance at the speedometer, but I was afraid she’d know I thought she was driving too fast. I can’t remember what the speedometer registered at, but it felt like 100 miles per second. 

Annette picked up a white, two-piece bathing suit from her console, and held it up. It looked like dental floss, and she was a rotund woman. I’m going down the river to float!, she grunted. My eyes got wide. Did that mean she was going to float to her death, or do something radical? Jesus Christ, what the hell does that mean. I didn’t dare ask if it was a metaphor, but I felt like it had less of a literal meaning, even though she had the bathing suit to prove otherwise. 

We told Annette about the trail and that we were hiking to Maine. Well, Mt. Katahdin, to be exact, but we always said Maine. The mountain had no significance to anyone else, just those of us on a long walk north. She thought we were crazy, said we were brave. Maybe she craved the same escape from reality.

At the Homeplace, plates and plates of food were dropped on the table until we said stop–a party of eight, the plates were endless. There were plates of fried things and plates of sweet things. Ham, green beans, mashed potatoes, fried chicken, fried okra, cinnamon apples. There were plates of pecan pie and plates of apple pie and bowls of ice cream. Heaven, I thought. The promise land. I couldn’t stuff the calories into my gullet fast enough. And, I finally fed my sweet crack addiction, falling into a blissful food-and-sugar-induced coma. I called my mom and told her about Annette, and the plates and plates of food. She laughed and I laughed. It was the best Mother’s Day I never had.

Blog 6

Brain storming for Essay 2

I threw my snow tube down on the ice-covered sidewalk, then backed up ten feet to get a good running distance. I hunched down, then sprinted towards the tube, belly flopping down on it, sailing down the sidewalk.

Whooooooooo! This is fuuuuunnnn!

Bam. The ice stopped, but the sidewalk didn't. The tube jerked to a hault, thrusting me forward, smashing my chin into the pavement, now a bloody disaster.

It was the winter of 1987, and I was six years old. My cousins rushed me back home, which was just across the street, and I ran up the stairs screaming and bleeding all over myself. My parents immediately put me in the car and took me to the doctor, where they sewed the bloody disaster back together.

I was always the daredevil, doing random stunts and falling down; that's just one story from my childhood.


Another idea I might write about is my best hitchhiking experience. Annette, the angry man-hater who "ran away," picked up my friends and I. We had a mile of road walking, and after hiking up and over mountains all day, I wasn't about to walk another mile. We hit the road and up went my thumb. Within minutes, the red 90s convertible Mustang pulled over.

She swung open her door into traffic–there was no shoulder. Immediately people started honking, so she cursed at them, saying things like, "Fuck you" and "Let them see my tits, that's what they want to see anyway," as she buttoned her shirt and zipped her pants. She stuffed random items from the back seat into her trunk, like a white comforter, a wall clock, and some picture frames.

Score! I thought. This is going to be one awesome ride! The next mile seemed to move so slowly, even though Annette was whipping that car around those windy mountain roads, ranting, trashing men and talking about running away. She looked like she was in her 40's, so I wouldn't consider that running away; maybe just escaping. But who knows, I only knew Annette for a mile.


These are my ideas for now, but they are likely to change. I've had so many adventures within an adventure that I can draw from.

Blog 5

Plans for Essay 1

I need to cut the fat; there's some excess words in there that don't help carry the story. I'm not sure every single sentence is necessary, either.

After my meeting, I feel like I'm getting much closer to the point of this story. I think that I did ok implementing segmenting, however, I will revisit that.

Dr. Chandler commented that it seemed a bit choppy with many transitions, though she was able to follow the story; I will try to trim down and tighten it up a bit.

The title – I just slapped it on, but really, I'm not sure it even relates to the meaning.

I do think that, in time, this story will be easier to write once it has percolated a bit.

Blog 4

The Weight of a Ride

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, rattlerattlerattle! Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, rattlerattlerattle! Dammit! I realized the mechanic back in Baker City, Oregon screwed up my chain–I think he added the wrong speed links. Every third pedal stroke my chain clanked and rattled through the front derailleur–it sounded like a janitor’s oversized keyring, jingling away. McKinley told me she’d stick with me if I wanted to spend the night in Cambridge, Idaho to get my chain fixed the next morning, so we pulled over and called it a day. 

I met McKinley just days earlier. The week prior to meeting her, I had been riding with Ross and Bob, who I had dubbed Cheech and Chong because of the amount of pot they smoked. Every ten miles they’d say, “Wanna celebrate?” and would pull over to get silly. After spending so much time with just men, I was ready for some solid girl conversation. On my last morning with Ross and Bob, McKinley came shivering into the cafe, where we were all sitting at the breakfast counter, pounding plate-sized pancakes and bottomless cups of coffee. I had been stalling a bit, it was a cold morning and I had three consecutive passes to climb and would do it solo. Cheech and Chong were heading in a more northerly direction across America, and I was dropping down towards Colorado. McKinley took the stool next to me and ordered a coffee. I tried to play it cool and pretend I wasn’t ecstatic to see another girl on a fully-loaded touring bike, but my heart was pounding with excitement. A girl! Who looks about my age! And she’s riding across America, too! We chatted over coffee, exchanged numbers, and McKinley took off into the chilly, damp morning. I told her I’d see her later on in Sumpter at the campground. The stars aligned, and I had a new friend. 

McKinley and I headed to the park to set up our little 3-walled homes for the night. The only joint in town to get food was a dimly lit, smoky, dive bar, so we followed our grumbling bellies towards food and beer. As we sat there eating crusty bar pizza and drinking our cheap beers, two surly-looking Harley dudes, smoking cigarettes and swearing like sailors, asked us what the hell we were doing. We looked out of place. 

"Biking across the country.”

“Are you fucking kidding?! We wouldn’t even do that on our motorcycles!” 

We laughed. I was amused. Maybe we were crazy, but ignorance is bliss. We were having so much fun traveling together and everything became funny. 

Their names were Cambridge Bob and Baldy Bob - Cambridge Bob was from Cambridge, and Baldy Bob was, well, bald. We warmly referred to them as “The Bobs.” They wore leather Harley jackets, chain-smoked, and drank beer by the pitcher. Between crude jokes, one of the Bobs would say, “Hey, look at this picture of my granddaughter, isn’t she cute!” We realized that they may have looked gruff, but were just a bunch of grandpas that rode motorcycles and cursed. A lot. 

The Bobs gave us a bottle of homemade strawberry jam and homemade biscuits. McKinley and I later dubbed the jam Liquid Gold–I could have taken shots of it and been drunk on happiness it was so damn delicious. Every bite made me see fairies eating jelly beans while dancing on clouds and rainbows. Liquid. Gold. Deliciousness. 

We told them we’d be going over White Bird Hill on Old 95 in a few days.

“I hate White Bird Hill and I’ve done it on my motorcycle! I wouldn’t do that on a bicycle! That SUCKS! You girls should stay on Old 95 and avoid regular 95, it’s dangerous, even for  motorcycles. It’s curvy and full of tractor trailers and there’s no shoulder.” 

Hill was the operative word, because it was more like a mountain. It was a 10-mile climb on an extremely windy road, with multiple consecutive switchbacks at a 7% grade. It did suck. All ten miles of it. And it was hot. 

“You girls should come to our annual Harley picnic! It’s this Friday and runs all weekend. We’ve had it every year for the last 25 years at the same campground.” It happened to fall right on our route and was an appropriate distance away. We wouldn’t have to bike any epic long days to get there that Saturday. We thought, “Why the hell not, sure!”

“Thanks for the beer and Liquid Gold, Bobs! See you Saturday!”

The next day was mostly uneventful. Off we went with our bottle of Liquid Gold and a sparkly new chain. Towards the end of the day we rolled over a bridge and heard music echoing in the distance. 

“Awesome! That’s a rodeo down there! We have to go!” 

We made a hard right and headed downhill towards the rodeo. There were authentic cowboys and cowgirls. The events included barrel racing and cow-milking. The crowd cheered as the horses ran wild, dirt kicking up forming dust clouds. I had never seen anything like it before and neither had McKinley, so we were giddy with excitement. We overheard some cowboys say, “Hey, check out the biker girls!” as we walked by in our spandex, pushing along our heavy bikes. I felt so underdressed and out of place, but, we were often the outsiders anywhere we stopped.

There was never another time on my trip that l felt so awkward. Everyone was dressed in traditional cowboy/girl attire: jeans, plaid button-down shirts, and hats, while we were in tight bike shorts. Immediately I felt like I was being inappropriate to the rodeo community. I didn’t even feel out of place at the Mormon camp in Wyoming, where there were 100 people dressed in baggy, colonial clothes, reenacting their ancestors pilgrimage. 

We camped on the rodeo grounds, and everyone was happy to have us along. Thought I immediately felt like an outsider, they were just as quick to welcome the newbies and show us a good time. Stopping at the rodeo made us have to ride a longer day to the biker party, but we had already ridden some long days, what was one more? 

McKinley and I attended the cowboy breakfast and I ate biscuits and gravy like a champ. I hadn’t eaten meat in three years, so I ignored the greasy sausage crumbles floating around in my mouth. That’s all there was to eat, so I was graceful about it, and thankful for such generosity.  Outside  populated areas, I realized that most people are carnivorous, especially in ranching communities. So we followed suit. McKinley called it her “non vegan adventure” and I called it my “non vegetarian adventure.” I decided I’d eat meat if I had to, but would resume a vegetarian lifestyle when I reached the Atlantic. 

The day led us through 80 miles of heat, hills, headwinds and…WHITE BIRD HILL. We climbed and descended, climbed and descended, climbed and descended. Climbclimbclimb descenddescenddescend. We stopped and ate a three course meal for lunch. We rested. We sleepily pushed on towards the campground, hoping to make it before dark. After some speculation if we had gone the right way following directions scribbled on a bar napkin, we made it just as night fell, exhausted, at 9pm; That was 12 hours in the saddle. A sigh of relief. As we rolled in on our bikes with our little blinking headlights letting the crowd know we had arrived, we heard, "Hey Bob, your girls are here!" And a crowd of 100 cheered. This was the first time in 25 years they ever had people other than Harley friends at their picnic. We were honored to be their guests. 

“Do you girls want steak or burgers?”

“Burgers!”

I piled 2 cheeseburgers and a mountain of potato salad on my styrofoam plate; The weight of my food threatened to snap in half. I was starved for food, starved for rest, and starved for a typical social setting after being on my bike for weeks; I received all of those things from a crowd of strangers. Were they scary motorcycle gang people? Nope. It was just a bunch of regular people in leather who partied more than the average, telling stories about their grandkids and families. They fed us to death, and were some of the most generous people I met on that trip. 

Blog 3

***What I would like commentary on is organization/how to segment it, and what the heck is the point of telling this story?***

The time I hung out with Harley dudes.

Early June. Warm. Heat and hills. Rodeo's. McKinley and I stopped for the day in Cambridge, Idaho, to get my chain fixed - it had been rattling through the front derailleur and it was driving me crazy. The only joint in town to get food was a dimly lit, smoky, dive bar. As we sat there drinking our beers and talking about our day, two surly-looking Harley dudes smoking cigarettes and swearing like sailors asked us what the hell we were doing.

"Biking across the country," we said.

They thought we were insane, and said they wouldn't even want to do that on their motorcycles. I thought that was insane, because at that moment I could have killed for an engine.

Many conversations and inappropriate jokes later, we realized some things that cyclists and motorcyclists have in common. I learned that a motorcyclist knows all the contours of the road, just like a cyclist; motorists never know the roads well, thought they think they might.

Bob and Bob, or "The Bob's" invited us to their 25th annual Harley picnic, which was on our route and an appropriate distance away to not have to bike epic long days.

McKinley and I said we'd see them in three days, wondering if it would be safe to go to this picnic full of Harley dudes. The next day as we crossed a bridge, we stopped because we heard music. Down in the valley on a huge piece of land was a rodeo! Neither of us had ever been to one, so we decided to cut the day short to be spectators. Barrel racing and cow-milking were some of the events. We cheered. The crowd started at the only two girls in spandex. We felt so out of place while everyone was in full cowboy and cowgirl attire.

The next day we headed for the Harley picnic. After cutting the previous day short for the rodeo, we now had 80 miles to get there, with a steep 10 mile climb. Exhaustion. Hunger. Hills. Heat. Headwinds. We were going to be damned if we didn't make it to the picnic, the promise land. We knew there'd be so much food.

We climbed and climbed and climbed and fought the heat and headwinds. McKinley and I were incredibly exhausted by the time we reached the turn-off to the campground where the picnic was. Five more miles, off route, and we'd be there.

As we rolled in, someone yelled, "Hey Bob, your girls are here!" And a crowd of 100 cheered. This was the first time in 25 years they ever had someone other than Harley friends at their picnic. We were honored to be their guests.

Were they scary people? Nope. It was a bunch of people in leather, smoking pot, drinking beer, and talking about their grandkids and families. They fed us to death and were some of the most generous people I spent time with on that trip.

The next morning we rolled out of there with a little extra oomph, probably from all of the food we ate to fuel us up those big hills.

Blog 2

I am not sure what topic I'd like to write on, but I have some stories inside of me.

Biking across the country - The time I biked 80 miles with a 10 mile climb at the end of the day after eating breakfast with cowboys from the previous nights rodeo to get to the motorcycle gathering where I was so hungry I ate 2 cheeseburgers...as a vegetarian. Or, the time I hitchhiked halfway across Kansas because it was 110 degrees with 90% humidity and not a single tree in sight so I thought I'd die. Sometimes I hated my bike and wanted to kick it, sometimes it felt like an extension of my body, but it was always a ticket to freedom. 

Hiking the Appalachian Trail - How it changed my life and led me back to school. One of the lessons I learned is what you need always comes to you. Always. My time in the woods made me become incredibly sensitive to noise and smells. The longer I was out there, the more sensitive my nose became. I could smell a day hiker from a half mile away, and could continue smelling their cleanliness for up to another mile after passing them. For a long time I couldn't drive with my windows down because the noise from other cars was too much to handle. 

All of the wierdos and wonderful people I met while hitchhiking. And the time I thought I'd get adult-napped in someones car.

Or the time I went sailing across pavement at 20 mph and shredded all of my clothes and tore open my knee. Or when I went urban sledding on the sidewalk and gashed open my chin and had to get stitches. 

The recent adventures in teaching myself how to play the mandolin. I grew up playing the piano, and also dabbled with the clarinet, saxophone, guitar, harmonica, violin, drums a handful of times, and now, the mandolin. My father went to school for music and has played professionally for decades, so music is in my blood. I don't, however, consider myself to be a musician or to be great at any instrument. I can't comprehend sheet music, so I have always played by ear, and learned the piano playing by number. 

Most of the stories I feel that I need to get out have to do with my adventures, as they have all greatly impacted my life. Being pushed to my absolute physical and emotional limits and experiencing the highest of highs has brought out the best and worst in me. 

Blog 1

There are several features of CNF. A parallel I notice throughout all of the essay's, is that they all possess descriptive language, some more vivid than others. The shorter narrative essays have a very fast pace, where the long essays are more drawn out and wordy.

Both of the shorter essays are told sequentially, but maybe that's because of the nature of each story–they both tell of a singular, raw experience, where the longer essays tell about Ebert's experiences with language loss and a very detailed description of Lopate's body.

In Beard's essay, I felt like I was in the car with her being chased by the crazy guy; I could imagine what he looked like, and what Beard must have felt like. The language was vivid and sentences were short, so the essay moved at a rapid pace. I felt myself reading at a faster pace too, and I felt very much a part of her experience.

Marquet wrote a very provocative piece on her experience with abortion. The sentences were short and to the point, moving the reader quickly through the piece. She opened the essay with a description that leaves the reader wondering what she's talking about, so that is what hooked me in immediately, craving more.

The first sentence or two of a piece always set the tone, and I'll know immediately if I'm hooked in. Beard and Marquet do an incredible job of hooking the reader, where Lopate and Ebert do not have the same effect.