Week 5 Response

“Frank has a Cold” really drew me in and did a great job of combining elements to create a strong overall piece. I enjoyed the use of physical descriptions and felt they did a good job to paint a scene. I found it especially useful that the writer captured everyone’s presence; the other people in the story are as important to the whole piece as Sinatra is. Getting to see them alongside Sinatra was nice. The details about all these people and his interactions with them allowed readers to understand Sinatra more. For example, the inclusion of his toupee-woman and her weekly pay. 

The writer did a good job of incorporating present events with memories. Stories such as the one about the Jeep’s paint-job allow readers to see more of Sinatra, something beyond the four or five days the reporter may have spent with him. This is addressed somewhat in Telling True Stories by Malcolm Gladwell. Reporters can’t hope to define the complexity of a person through just a couple days of conservations. These backstory memories about Sinatra and his friends give the reader more. The dialogue used by the author does this further. A writer can say how someone was acting, but the only way to truly get an idea for yourself is to hear exactly what someone is saying. The writer does this well by combining dialogue with a plethora of descriptions about the surrounding scene and action.

One thing I wondered about in the MacFarquhar piece is the idea of never talking about yourself in an interview. She describes it as a “source of power” to not reveal information about yourself. I agree that in some interviews it would not make sense to do so and obviously the focus should be on the subject. But, I don’t necessarily think reporters need to always stonewall themselves. Some people will be more willing to open up after seeing others do the same. In some cases, sharing information about yourself could break down any existing awkward dynamic.

Moving Out (revised w/outline)

I made the decision to not return to my dad’s house for the summer during the spring term of my sophomore year. My older sister, Audrey, had offered me the opportunity to live with her and her husband for the summer. Their house was no more than two miles from my dad’s, the only place I had ever lived besides my college dorms.

I wanted to break the news to my parents in a designed way; a calculated conversation to not only explain, but also to talk-up the decision I had already made. Audrey, however, was not so deliberate. She let the news slip before I could say anything. For some reason, having my parents know the decision before I spoke to them freaked me out. My anxiety took over; and I was struck with fear about facing my decision.

Mom’s conversation came first. I knew she wouldn’t be ecstatic about the choice. She had proposed me living with her before, but I never viewed it as a real option. For one, she lived too far away. And two, I simply did not want to live with her. Since my parents divorce eight years earlier, and her subsequent move out, I had steadily grown more distant from my mother.

I called her from my dorm room and knew exactly what was coming: “Why are you moving out of your dad’s to live with Audrey? Why don’t you live with me? Can you even live there? I have a bed for you. A real bed.”

She actually said that. A real bed. My sister and I had a great laugh about it later; as if our mother was the only person around with an actual bed. And one that I could sleep in nonetheless. Her irrationality exceeded expectations.

I explained to her that Audrey’s house did in fact have a real-life bed for me to sleep on and how it wasn’t personal and the location was better. On and on, I said anything to get her off the phone, my go-to move when talking to her. She will keep me on the phone for hours nodding and yes-ing along as she talks to herself about anything she can think of. I can set down my phone and do anything relatively quiet with my hands (my personal favorite: surf the internet) and not miss much of our conversation. I know to come back as soon as I hear, “Daniel?”

“Yes, Mom, I’m still here.”

The full-time-mother role is not exactly her style, but she never misses an opportunity to criticize. And while I missed out on some of the more necessary maternal roles growing up, I will admit that my mom loves to brag about me. Probably the two main reasons she really wanted me to live with her, it would give her the chance to brag about taking me in (the wonderful accomplishment it is) and maybe show me off to some neighbors. So like I said, I never considered living with her and she probably knew it. That simple fact made the conversation easier to tackle for me.

Butterflies were much more rampant for Dad’s conversation. Some people might move out for freedom’s sake or to escape their parents, but it was never about that for me. Ever since about 13 years old when my friends had to be home for the streetlights, I’ve only had to follow a self-prescribed “respectable” curfew.

For me, what met me at the door had me running. I’d return home at 2 A.M., ever so slightly opening and closing the front door, tip-toeing creaky wooden floors as I dodged a collection of toys and clothes not touched in weeks. Then the attempted stealth trip up the never-quiet stairs. My dad sleeps at the top; no room of his own, just the space the stairs open up to. His small bed softened by a collection of futon pads and flanked by piles of books about many religions. Most nights he’d greet me in a half-sleep mumble: “Dan?”

Also in the house were my brother, his girlfriend, their daughter, my sister and her daughter. Each morning, I would wake to my oldest niece prodding me awake, a collection of crying nieces downstairs or an argument between my brother and sister about the unnecessary topic of the day. I rarely brought people over. The uncertainty of what might occur was enough of a deterrent, but I must admit shame was a factor. 

The dreaded conversation was short. I saved it for my last day at school before returning home to the east side of Michigan for the summer. My stomach did flips as I dialed my one-and-only landline phone number.

“So you’re going to live with Audrey?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, I think it will be fine.”

“Ok, do you need anything from me?”

“Not that I can think of. But I will probably come by tomorrow to pick some things up from the house when I get home.”

“Ok, well I’ll be at work till 6.”

Simple. To the point. And little emotion. My dad and I were definitely cut from the same cloth. He seemed slightly put-off by my choice, but his lack of any real emotion showed me he was at least on board with my decision to this point. Hiding emotion is not my dad’s style. I learned swear words at a young age sitting at the top of our basement steps. When something upset him, I could hear him throw a barrage of words I knew I was never supposed to say at his many stacks of books. I was relieved to not play the role of the books that day. 

The following day, I returned to the east side to stack my clutter into a new room. Laying in my new real-bed, I couldn’t help but be excited: no two-year old would be waking me up before noon tomorrow.

Intended Publication: Lives

Words: 1,010

Outline:

Complication: Daniel makes choice.

Development: Daniel call Mom.

Memories cause uneasiness

Dad eases fears

Resolution: Daniel moves out. 

Week 4: Franklin

     Most textbooks or “informative” books come off as very bland, so I was pleasantly surprised by the tone at some points of the book. While his inner-monologue was slightly off-putting at times, it helped me stay engaged and made it an easy read.

     The “English Teacher’s Revenge” was a great way to discuss the outline. I knew exactly what he was talking about and identified with it a lot. As a whole, the Formal Outline sucks. Throughout my education, I’ve done my best to avoid them. Even when required, I’d sketch a quick outline of some paper, but probably not anything I would ever actually write. Franklin’s dynamic outline seems like something I would use though. It’s simple and it defines a path or idea to follow, but it doesn’t seem definite, there is room to stray and create.

     I also enjoyed the section about the “saga form.” The idea of writing in segments, each with a sort of cliffhanger is great. I’ve never really thought about it, or rather, never thought about it in my own writing. But you see it everywhere. Franklin’s example of Star Wars and movies made to have sequels is a perfect example. Something else I thought of was the feeling you get when reading a book and you just can’t put it down, you must read the next chapter. I’m interested to look and think more about the structure within smaller pieces, such as “Mrs. Kelly’s Monster.”

Moving (Revised)

I made the decision to not return to my dad’s house for the summer during the spring term of my sophomore year. My older sister, Audrey, had offered me the opportunity to live with her and her husband for the summer. Their house was no more than two miles from my dad’s, the only place I had ever lived besides my college dorms.

I wanted to break the news to my parents in a designed way; a calculated conversation to not only explain, but also to talk-up the decision I had already made. Audrey, however, was not so deliberate. She let the news slip before I could say anything. And when I found out, I was overcome with nervousness in facing my decision.

Mom’s conversation came first. I knew she wouldn’t be ecstatic about the decision. She had proposed me living with her before, but I never viewed it as a real option. For one, she lived too far away. And two, I simply did not want to live with her.

I called her from my dorm room and knew exactly what was coming: “Why are you moving out of your dad’s to live with Audrey? Why don’t you live with me? I have offered plenty of times before. Can you even live there? I have a bed for you. A real bed.”

She actually said that. A real bed. My sister and I had a great laugh about it later; as if our mother was the only person around with an actual bed. And one that I could sleep in nonetheless. Her irrationality exceeded expectations.

I explained to her that Audrey’s house did in fact have a real-life bed for me to sleep on and how it wasn’t personal and the location was better. On and on, I said anything to get her off the phone, my go-to move when talking to her. She will keep me on the phone for hours nodding and yes-ing along as she talks to herself about anything she can think of. I can set down my phone and do anything relatively quiet with my hands, like surf the internet, and not miss much of our conversation. I know to come back as soon as I hear, “Daniel?”

“Yes, Mom, I’m still here.”

She doesn’t prefer the full-time-mother role, but the chance to offer me dwelling at her house is not one she would pass up. It would give her the chance to brag about taking me in (the wonderful accomplishment it is) and maybe show me off to some neighbors. However, I never considered living with her and she probably knew it. The simple fact made the conversation easier to tackle.

Butterflies were much more rampant for Dad’s conversation. Some people might move out for freedom’s sake or to escape their parents, but it was never about that for me. Ever since about 13 years old when my friends had to be home for the streetlights, I’ve only had to follow a self-prescribed “respectable” curfew.

For me, what met me at the door had me running. I’d return home at 2 A.M., ever so slightly opening and closing the front door, tip-toeing creaky wooden floors as I dodged a collection of toys and clothes not touched in weeks. Then the attempted stealth trip up the never-quiet stairs. My dad sleeps at the top; no room of his own, just the space the stairs open up to. His small bed softened by a collection of futon pads and flanked by piles of books about many religions. Most nights he’d greet me in a half-sleep mumble: “Dan?”

Also in the house were my brother, his girlfriend, their daughter, my sister and her daughter. Each morning, I would wake to my oldest niece prodding me awake, a collection of crying nieces downstairs or an argument between my brother and sister about the unnecessary topic of the day. I rarely brought people over. The uncertainty of what might occur was enough of a deterrent, but I must admit shame was a factor. 

The dreaded conversation was short. I saved it for my last day at school before returning home to the east side of Michigan for the summer. My stomach did flips as I dialed my childhood home.

“So you’re going to live with Audrey?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, I think it will be fine.”

“Ok, do you need anything from me?”

“Not that I can think of. But I will probably come by tomorrow to pick some things up from the house when I get home.”

“Ok, well I’ll be at work till 6.”

Simple. To the point. And little emotion. My dad and I were definitely cut from the same cloth. And while he seemed slightly put-off by my choice, the conversation was enough to lift any worry from my shoulders. I had made my decision.

The next day, I returned to the east side to pile my things into a new room. Laying in my new real-bed, I couldn’t help but be excited: no two year old would be waking me up before noon tomorrow.

Intended Publication: Lives

Words: 870

LeBlanc and Orlean

The “Trina and Trina” piece was wonderful. LeBlanc’s control of language was impressive as she weaved the tales of Trina together. I found her descriptions to be particularly good as well. She had a good median between noting details and combining her own personal insights into Trina. The piece really drew me in and I was rooting for Trina as I flipped every page. The story itself was heartbreaking and I could only imagine the troubles LeBlanc must have went through while writing it. Meeting Trina and becoming involved with her daily actions, it is only natural for a connection to occur. I feel like the struggles between caring about Trina and helping her, while also writing the story must have been quite difficult. 

“The American Man at Age Ten,” was welcome after Trina’s tale. The lighthearted insight of the ten-year old was very amusing and I could make a connection to it having been a ten-year-old boy before. The details she provided were wonderful, though my favorite piece of the story was the dialogue. Hearing Colin’s thoughts and his interactions with both the author and Japeth did the best to paint a picture of the ten-year-old boy. And of course, I loved the Street Fighter section. I still play the game today...

Writing the Personal Essay

I struggled with deciding a topic for this piece. Originally, I liked the idea of writing about an insignificant item in a significant way. But I couldn’t think of anything that really separated itself. Finally, I settled on this topic even though it was a bit more personal than I was planning for. When I did finally start writing, I focused little on my structure and just allowed myself to write. The words came easily as I formed the basic storyline for my piece. The writing may have been raw, but I was happy to find some sort of idea and structure geared toward my final piece. The most difficult part of the piece was the conclusion. Every time I wrote it, it came out like a summation or reflection on life. I struggled to find a way to flawlessly end the piece and not leave a huge cliffhanger. 

Moving Out

When the time comes for children to move out of their parents’ house, most parents are happy. They can be excited to see their kids wanting to take responsibility for themselves and show their pride in raising their child into adulthood. The road with my parents though, was a bit windier.

I made the decision to not return to my dad’s house for the summer during the spring term of my sophomore year. My older sister, Audrey, had offered me the opportunity to live with her and her husband for the summer. Their house was no more than two miles from my dad’s, the only place I had ever lived besides my college dorms.

My parents are not ordinary. After 20 years as their child, I was well aware of this. Therefore, I wanted to plan how to break the news to them, a calculated conversation to not only explain, but also to talk-up the decision I had already made. Audrey, however, was not so deliberate. She let the news slip before I could say anything. And when I found out, I was overcome with nervousness in facing my decision.

Mom’s conversation came first. I knew she wouldn’t be ecstatic about the decision, but her reaction didn’t scare me. From my dorm room, I knew exactly what was coming through the phone before she even said it.

In short: “Why are you moving out of your dad’s to live with Audrey? Why don’t you live with me? I have offered plenty of times before. Can you even live there? I have a bed for you. A real bed.”

She actually said that. A real bed. My sister and I had a great laugh about it later. I explained to my mother that Audrey’s house did in fact have a real-life bed for me to sleep on and how it wasn’t personal and the location was better. On and on, I said anything to get her off the phone. Which, in all honesty, is my go-to move when talking to her. She will keep me on the phone for hours nodding and yes-ing along as she talks to herself about anything she can think of. I left out that I couldn’t handle conversations like this every day living in her house and that my decision to move out was no different than hers when she divorced my father and moved an hour away when I was 12. It would have only dragged the conversation on longer.

Talking with my mom was tough. My patience was tested and mind bored. I was prepared for it, though. With her, I knew what to expect and the harsh truth is that I cared much less what she had to say than my dad. He was a wildcard. How he would react struck fear in me. I didn’t want him to be upset at my decision or think I was leaving his house because I didn’t want to be around him. I wanted to think he would understand the choice. After all, he knows better than anyone the difficulty of living in that house. 

In the house was my dad, brother, brother’s girlfriend, their daughter, my sister and her daughter. Crying, clutter, daily 7 a.m. noise, tip-toeing at 1 a.m. and arguments were the most notable features of the house. Not exactly an ideal situation for a 20-year-old man. These things that I was trying to escape were, however, also part of the reason I feared my dad’s reaction. Growing up, I had helped him deal with some of our family situations. I was always willing to talk, always willing to help. I learned it from him. No matter what happened, he would do anything to help my siblings and I. He is a hero for that.

The dreaded conversation was short. I saved it for my last day at school before returning home across the state for the summer.

“So you’re going to live with Audrey?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, I think it will be fine.”

“Ok, do you need anything from me?”

“Not that I can think of. But I will probably come by tomorrow to pick some things up from the house when I get home.”

“Ok, well I’ll be at work till 6.”

Simple. To the point. And little emotion. My dad and I were definitely cut from the same cloth. The little feeling he did convey worried me though. He definitely wasn’t excited about the choice. I always valued our relationship while growing up. He is someone I admire and I did not want him to think I was leaving to avoid him.

I never did make it to his house that next day though. By the time I made it to Audrey’s and stacked all my things into my new room, I was off again. To see a movie with friends or play basketball, I don’t even know. It was the same as if I was returning to my dad’s. Nothing major would even change. Between his daily schedule and mine, the interaction with my him would be limited anyway. Finding a new balance for our relationship would come. And though I was still harboring some worry after our conversation, I was happy. Not only with my decision, but happy to have and seize the opportunity to decide.