Esthetics Essay
Ronald Dahl has a very unique and entertaining style of writing. In his two stories, “Taste” and “Dip in the Pool” he sets up his protagonists in situations where they have a lot to lose or a lot to gain. From there he takes it to the next level and pulls the rug out from beneath the character and the reader. He uses effective dialogue among his characters, each of whom have a specific purpose to the particular story that they are in.
I really admire the set up of his stories because he gives the readers the just enough details to be surprised with the twist ending of the story but not find the ending too out of place. It’s a delicate balance because the author has to be careful to not give away the ending with too many clues or details but at the same time details or insight is necessary for the twist ending to not sound implausible. I have a hard time balancing this. I tried to incorporate this method in my short story, “Memory” where I used a boy who may or not have had a memory problem to tell the story. I tried to end the story with a twist at the end so that the reader is unsure of whether his mother is having an affair because they need to decide for themselves if the narrator is reliable enough to believe. I thought it was particularly clever to describe Mr. Botibol thinking about what to wear, how to jump off the boat, who he should dive in front of, etc. and then end it with the lady think that he is just going for a swim. It makes sense for her to make that assumption too because he dived in intentionally, dressed in exercise clothes. The ending with the maid finding Richard Pratt’s reading spectacles in the study where the anonymous wine was kept was clever, but the detail about the two of them having picked out a particular spot for the wine together made it that much more believable and ironic.
Dahl is efficient and effective in his selection and use of characters. In both of the stories we read in class, all the characters have a purpose. In “Dip in the Pool,” Maggie, the “bony and angular” woman, tells the older lady with “fat ankles” who saw Mr. Botibol dive off the ship to come in. In their brief dialogue exchange we see that she looks after and takes care of the elderly lady whose behavior is described as compliant and not very assertive. Maggie doesn’t pay attention or acknowledge what her old friend says about the man who jumped off the ship which shows. These two characters are essential to the ending because the reader sees that these women are not going to say anything about his un-heroic dive off the back of the ship. Mike’s wife and daughter in “Taste” are used to escalate the situation and emphasize to the reader how high the stakes are in the bet between Richard Pratt, the wine expert, and Mike. The bet entails that if Pratt incorrectly guesses the wine, Mike and his family attain possession of Pratt’s country house and if Pratt correctly guesses, he gets to marry Mike’s eighteen year old daughter, Louise. Mike’s wife plays the motherly role in the argument against making the bet and encouraging the party to eat their food before it gets cold. Her character chimes in as Mike tries to convince his daughter to take the bet but he overrides her, showing his dominance of the conversation and in the relationship. None of his characters are too small or insignificant in his stories.
This awareness or precision that he has with his characters is something I try to have as I write my stories, but the outcomes are not as successful as his. When I write, I’ve noticed that I tend to use as few characters as possible and as a result most of my stories have only one character and only refer to other characters or friends of my protagonist. I think in my longer story that I expanded I used two other characters to add an extra quality to my protagonist that I liked. It gave me more room to work with her personality and provided another dimension for the reader to learn about her because they can see how she interacts with them. In “Memory” however, I received comments about the necessity of my protagonist’s friend Thomas. He is mentioned several times throughout the story but he does not have an obvious or derivable purpose by the end of the story which is something I need to work on developing in this story and in the others.
Even though his stories are short, Dahl is skilled at creating a character arc in his stories. This draws the reader into the world that he creates, which in both of his stories we read are not as farfetched as they could be. He uses our modern day experiences and creates a scenario with very different characters to give the reader a glimpse of what life could be like with different kinds of people. His knowledge or just ability to describe the extreme types of people, those who will lie and cheat to get ahead and those who are too oblivious to see what is happening, is another thing that I would like to improve. I am pretty decent at describing or personifying children and elderly people, those are the styles that I particularly enjoy writing in but this year I’ve been trying to stretch past that and describe middle aged adults more. For example, in my first two stories I wrote I talked about how an elderly man’s life is like a chocolate box and the second one I tried to show how a young boy’s imagination can carry him away.
Dahl uses good dialogue in his stories as well. His dialogue is used as a fight for power in this example from “Taste”:
“It shouldn’t be too hard to name it.”
“You mean you want to bet?”
“I’m perfectly willing to bet,” Richard Pratt said.
In this snippet, we see that Pratt and Mike are challenging each other, in a mostly cordial manner, but with some undertones and desire of an advantage over the other. It hints at their gambling nature but mostly shows their struggle for power over each other. This dialogue strategy is effective in illuminating personalities of characters and giving insight into the relationships between characters. I need to work on improving this. I think it was well used in my longer story as I said before, but I need to expand it to all my stories with multiple characters.
Overall, I think my writing style and ability is appropriate in comparison to Dahl’s. I’m not trying to be the best writer ever; I am just focused on trying to improve my writing so that it is more entertaining to read and of a better quality than the story before it. Dahl has many good qualities that I would like to emulate: his character building, his dialogue techniques and his surprising plot twists. These are parts that constitute a good story and I would like to be able to incorporate into my own writing style as he does.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
response to "sunsets on the far side of the world"
i really like how this turned out. i think there is some absolutely beautiful language in this story and i love it. i am also very impressed with how the previous stories (sunsets part one and sunsets part two) were intertwined and mixed in this final story. it is still a little bit hard for me to follow in places, but that may be just because this is not exactly the kind of story that i would normally read on my own. but in saying that, i still enjoyed it and was able to stay with it. i think that the idea is great and i would like to see it finished and elongated even more.
response to "if only"
i still really like the wasy that kady sets up the three points of views. and i think a lot of the problems with the first draft of this story were very well taken care of. like the gun etc. i still have a problem with kendal showing up at sophia's house, though. she takes her in the backyard, which was unclear why in the first story, and in this new draft the reader is told that there is a party. but there was no previous mention of a party and sophia had just gotten out of the shower. we are given no party guest reaction to the gunshot, we dont even see the party. also, im not sure about the way the flashbacks are set up in the story. they seem very jumpy and it is all in a moment. like when kendal comes to the house and all sophia can think of when she is shot is carter. then carter thinking of sophia as she dies in his arms. over all, though, i really like the way this story developed from the first draft. there is a lot more detail and a great story backing to it.
"with God"
Colleen Mundy
Long Story
With God
I’m not sure if I still consider myself a twin since my twin died. And I can’t bring myself to say that he killed himself either. As far as I’m concerned, Seth died and that’s that. If anything, my parents killed him. I can understand their shock at his coming out, especially since they walked in on him with his boyfriend, not exactly the most preferable way to find out that your son is gay, but I don’t know how any parent could reject their child the way mine rejected Seth after that.
I never felt as strongly for God as my parents, but I also never rejected church like Seth did. Sure my twin brother still went to church, but that was really just to appease our parents. He believed in God, but the whole idea of church didn't agree with him.
It was too robotic and boring for Seth.
“Stand up, sit down, kneel, pray, stand up, pray, sit down,” Seth rolled his green eyes all the way back in his head whenever we talked about it.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and played with the ends as I listened to him complain and watched him whirlwind around his mess of a room. He kicked his mattress that sat on the floor with no bed frame and shuffled through the half empty soda bottles, bags of chips, papers (most of them sketches and doodles, not homework), until he found his stash of gum. For twins, Seth and I were like black and white. He was messy, liked to ruffle feathers, and always stood out. I was neat, more the type to stay in the background and go with the flow. But Seth was still my best friend. He unwrapped his gum, threw a piece in his mouth and started chopping, never losing a beat with his argument.
“I just don’t get it, Trish,” he threw up his hands. “You go to this place to hear the most hypocritical crock of shit.”
I tried to pay attention, but I was busy remembering the time my parents caught Seth chewing gum in church. He would always tuck it behind his back molar for Communion and wouldn’t spit it out for anything. They grounded him when they caught him and gave him a 10 pm curfew. Seth responded by wandering in at 3 am the next morning.
“You were serious about that whole curfew thing?” he laughed, and went to bed.
He wasn’t into all of the drugs and drinking that went on at school, but it was more of him just making a statement to our parents. They never could control Seth, though. He was too much of a free spirit for them. They were predictable, calm and set in their routines. He was a tornado, acted on a whim and had a problem with authority. Seth was the most real, straightforward person I had ever known. If he had an opinion, he made sure everyone was going to know it. If he had a problem with you, he had no problem letting you know.
“I mean, it just doesn’t make sense,” Seth’s voice was an octave higher with anger and recaptured my attention. “I mean really, who is this guy to stand up there in church and tell you to love everybody just the way they are, the way God made them, and then outcast, persecute and ridicule anybody who isn’t just like him and all those other Bible pushing crazies? Like Mom and Dad. They would freak if they knew I was gay!”
He stopped storming around the room when he realized what he had just done and slowly turned back to me. I dropped my hair and he blew a nervous bubble, the pop echoing throughout the now dead silent room. My stomach anxiously turned over itself as I stood to face my twin brother. The thought of Seth being gay never crossed my mind. I mean, Seth never had a girlfriend, but he was a good-looking, nice guy. I figured all of the girls at our school just couldn’t handle his energy and rebellious attitude. I raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged and shot me a wavering smile. He had been so vulnerable in that moment. I had never seen him like that. Seth was always confident and aggressive with his beliefs and what he thought.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I still believe in God and all that jazz, I just don’t believe that all gay people are going to Hell. Why would God make me this way if He didn’t want me to be like this? It’s not like I chose this. I didn't wake up one morning and decide to be gay.”
I was speechless for a minute. It was usually pretty hard to get a word in edgewise with Seth, so I was used to letting him do most of the talking, but this was different. He was waiting for me to speak, but I didn't know how. I opened my mouth and hoped that whatever came out would be comprehendible.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, bro,” I said. “I love you no matter what. If that’s what makes you happy, then that’s what makes you happy. It’s Mom and Dad you’re going to have to deal with.”
Seth’s raised eyebrows crinkled slightly and his bottom lip quivered. He chewed his gum a little bit slower. I walked over to Seth and did what he only allowed me to do. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him, letting my hands run along his back as he cried for the first time I’d seen in years. He nodded against my shoulder and his chest heaved up and down with his ragged breaths.
“Thanks Trish,” he whispered.
And that was it. He didn't need to say anything else. We both knew what was headed his way whenever he decided to come out to my parents. It was only a couple of weeks later when my parents walked in on him. They were out for dinner and I was out at a study group, so of course Seth thought he had the house to himself. Apparently they came home early, and I came home to my father chasing Seth’s boyfriend out of the house and my mother screaming something about Hell. It was the most passionate and active I had seen them act about anything in my entire life.
They didn't speak to Seth for a month after that.
Then out of nowhere they started operation “Turn Seth Straight,” which was consequently also operation “Lose Your Son Forever.” They tried therapists, personal hypnotists, and of course priests. They had him in church Sundays as usual, but made him stay after and talk to the priest for at least an hour every week. It all burned Seth out like I never thought possible. I watched as my brother changed, morphed, all to try to win back some kind of love from our parents. His boyfriend broke up with him, which my parents saw as step one, because he couldn’t handle Seth’s subordination to my parents. Seth lost his spark, his drive, that personality that made him Seth. I tried to be there for him, support him against all of the lecturing and ridiculing from my parents, but there was no fire left in Seth’s eyes. All he ever wanted was to be accepted, understood; something he never got from my parents.
Of course, none of the therapists worked. Seth didn't magically turn straight, he didn't suddenly love church and he wasn’t the perfect son that my parents always wanted him to be. He wasn’t anything anymore. He never smiled, he was failing every class, and he didn't talk to anyone, barely even me. He was miserable. It was too much, even for Seth.
I don’t know why my parents were surprised when we found him face down on his bed with pills scattered around him. I think I felt the word get a little bit darker when I walked in his room. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. It was like a parallel universe. Like someone was trying to show my parents what could happen if they didn't accept Seth, and I just happened to be a witness. I remember my parents didn't even cry at first. There they were, staring at their daughter bawling over their son’s dead body, and they can’t shed a single tear. I don’t think it really hit them until the funeral.
Like my parents always made Seth go to church, I made them go with me to put flowers on his grave every month. It’s been a year since Seth died and a lot has changed. A lot has stayed the same, too, though. I still don’t know if my parents realize the influence they had on Seth. And I don’t know if I could ever make them understand the influence that had on me. I’m too afraid to tell them yet that Seth and I had more in common than anyone thought. That it wasn’t Seth who needed to find a nice girl. I’m afraid to tell my parents what I figured out after Seth died. I’m too afraid that they haven’t changed, that they wouldn’t understand me like they didn't understand Seth. I’m too afraid to tell them that I’m gay, too. Because I’m afraid of ending up like my brother.
Long Story
With God
I’m not sure if I still consider myself a twin since my twin died. And I can’t bring myself to say that he killed himself either. As far as I’m concerned, Seth died and that’s that. If anything, my parents killed him. I can understand their shock at his coming out, especially since they walked in on him with his boyfriend, not exactly the most preferable way to find out that your son is gay, but I don’t know how any parent could reject their child the way mine rejected Seth after that.
I never felt as strongly for God as my parents, but I also never rejected church like Seth did. Sure my twin brother still went to church, but that was really just to appease our parents. He believed in God, but the whole idea of church didn't agree with him.
It was too robotic and boring for Seth.
“Stand up, sit down, kneel, pray, stand up, pray, sit down,” Seth rolled his green eyes all the way back in his head whenever we talked about it.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and played with the ends as I listened to him complain and watched him whirlwind around his mess of a room. He kicked his mattress that sat on the floor with no bed frame and shuffled through the half empty soda bottles, bags of chips, papers (most of them sketches and doodles, not homework), until he found his stash of gum. For twins, Seth and I were like black and white. He was messy, liked to ruffle feathers, and always stood out. I was neat, more the type to stay in the background and go with the flow. But Seth was still my best friend. He unwrapped his gum, threw a piece in his mouth and started chopping, never losing a beat with his argument.
“I just don’t get it, Trish,” he threw up his hands. “You go to this place to hear the most hypocritical crock of shit.”
I tried to pay attention, but I was busy remembering the time my parents caught Seth chewing gum in church. He would always tuck it behind his back molar for Communion and wouldn’t spit it out for anything. They grounded him when they caught him and gave him a 10 pm curfew. Seth responded by wandering in at 3 am the next morning.
“You were serious about that whole curfew thing?” he laughed, and went to bed.
He wasn’t into all of the drugs and drinking that went on at school, but it was more of him just making a statement to our parents. They never could control Seth, though. He was too much of a free spirit for them. They were predictable, calm and set in their routines. He was a tornado, acted on a whim and had a problem with authority. Seth was the most real, straightforward person I had ever known. If he had an opinion, he made sure everyone was going to know it. If he had a problem with you, he had no problem letting you know.
“I mean, it just doesn’t make sense,” Seth’s voice was an octave higher with anger and recaptured my attention. “I mean really, who is this guy to stand up there in church and tell you to love everybody just the way they are, the way God made them, and then outcast, persecute and ridicule anybody who isn’t just like him and all those other Bible pushing crazies? Like Mom and Dad. They would freak if they knew I was gay!”
He stopped storming around the room when he realized what he had just done and slowly turned back to me. I dropped my hair and he blew a nervous bubble, the pop echoing throughout the now dead silent room. My stomach anxiously turned over itself as I stood to face my twin brother. The thought of Seth being gay never crossed my mind. I mean, Seth never had a girlfriend, but he was a good-looking, nice guy. I figured all of the girls at our school just couldn’t handle his energy and rebellious attitude. I raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged and shot me a wavering smile. He had been so vulnerable in that moment. I had never seen him like that. Seth was always confident and aggressive with his beliefs and what he thought.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I still believe in God and all that jazz, I just don’t believe that all gay people are going to Hell. Why would God make me this way if He didn’t want me to be like this? It’s not like I chose this. I didn't wake up one morning and decide to be gay.”
I was speechless for a minute. It was usually pretty hard to get a word in edgewise with Seth, so I was used to letting him do most of the talking, but this was different. He was waiting for me to speak, but I didn't know how. I opened my mouth and hoped that whatever came out would be comprehendible.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, bro,” I said. “I love you no matter what. If that’s what makes you happy, then that’s what makes you happy. It’s Mom and Dad you’re going to have to deal with.”
Seth’s raised eyebrows crinkled slightly and his bottom lip quivered. He chewed his gum a little bit slower. I walked over to Seth and did what he only allowed me to do. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him, letting my hands run along his back as he cried for the first time I’d seen in years. He nodded against my shoulder and his chest heaved up and down with his ragged breaths.
“Thanks Trish,” he whispered.
And that was it. He didn't need to say anything else. We both knew what was headed his way whenever he decided to come out to my parents. It was only a couple of weeks later when my parents walked in on him. They were out for dinner and I was out at a study group, so of course Seth thought he had the house to himself. Apparently they came home early, and I came home to my father chasing Seth’s boyfriend out of the house and my mother screaming something about Hell. It was the most passionate and active I had seen them act about anything in my entire life.
They didn't speak to Seth for a month after that.
Then out of nowhere they started operation “Turn Seth Straight,” which was consequently also operation “Lose Your Son Forever.” They tried therapists, personal hypnotists, and of course priests. They had him in church Sundays as usual, but made him stay after and talk to the priest for at least an hour every week. It all burned Seth out like I never thought possible. I watched as my brother changed, morphed, all to try to win back some kind of love from our parents. His boyfriend broke up with him, which my parents saw as step one, because he couldn’t handle Seth’s subordination to my parents. Seth lost his spark, his drive, that personality that made him Seth. I tried to be there for him, support him against all of the lecturing and ridiculing from my parents, but there was no fire left in Seth’s eyes. All he ever wanted was to be accepted, understood; something he never got from my parents.
Of course, none of the therapists worked. Seth didn't magically turn straight, he didn't suddenly love church and he wasn’t the perfect son that my parents always wanted him to be. He wasn’t anything anymore. He never smiled, he was failing every class, and he didn't talk to anyone, barely even me. He was miserable. It was too much, even for Seth.
I don’t know why my parents were surprised when we found him face down on his bed with pills scattered around him. I think I felt the word get a little bit darker when I walked in his room. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. It was like a parallel universe. Like someone was trying to show my parents what could happen if they didn't accept Seth, and I just happened to be a witness. I remember my parents didn't even cry at first. There they were, staring at their daughter bawling over their son’s dead body, and they can’t shed a single tear. I don’t think it really hit them until the funeral.
Like my parents always made Seth go to church, I made them go with me to put flowers on his grave every month. It’s been a year since Seth died and a lot has changed. A lot has stayed the same, too, though. I still don’t know if my parents realize the influence they had on Seth. And I don’t know if I could ever make them understand the influence that had on me. I’m too afraid to tell them yet that Seth and I had more in common than anyone thought. That it wasn’t Seth who needed to find a nice girl. I’m afraid to tell my parents what I figured out after Seth died. I’m too afraid that they haven’t changed, that they wouldn’t understand me like they didn't understand Seth. I’m too afraid to tell them that I’m gay, too. Because I’m afraid of ending up like my brother.
"with God"
Colleen Mundy
Long Story
With God
I’m not sure if I still consider myself a twin since my twin died. And I can’t bring myself to say that he killed himself either. As far as I’m concerned, Seth died and that’s that. If anything, my parents killed him. I can understand their shock at his coming out, especially since they walked in on him with his boyfriend, not exactly the most preferable way to find out that your son is gay, but I don’t know how any parent could reject their child the way mine rejected Seth after that.
I never felt as strongly for God as my parents, but I also never rejected church like Seth did. Sure my twin brother still went to church, but that was really just to appease our parents. He believed in God, but the whole idea of church didn't agree with him.
It was too robotic and boring for Seth.
“Stand up, sit down, kneel, pray, stand up, pray, sit down,” Seth rolled his green eyes all the way back in his head whenever we talked about it.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and played with the ends as I listened to him complain and watched him whirlwind around his mess of a room. He kicked his mattress that sat on the floor with no bed frame and shuffled through the half empty soda bottles, bags of chips, papers (most of them sketches and doodles, not homework), until he found his stash of gum. For twins, Seth and I were like black and white. He was messy, liked to ruffle feathers, and always stood out. I was neat, more the type to stay in the background and go with the flow. But Seth was still my best friend. He unwrapped his gum, threw a piece in his mouth and started chopping, never losing a beat with his argument.
“I just don’t get it, Trish,” he threw up his hands. “You go to this place to hear the most hypocritical crock of shit.”
I tried to pay attention, but I was busy remembering the time my parents caught Seth chewing gum in church. He would always tuck it behind his back molar for Communion and wouldn’t spit it out for anything. They grounded him when they caught him and gave him a 10 pm curfew. Seth responded by wandering in at 3 am the next morning.
“You were serious about that whole curfew thing?” he laughed, and went to bed.
He wasn’t into all of the drugs and drinking that went on at school, but it was more of him just making a statement to our parents. They never could control Seth, though. He was too much of a free spirit for them. They were predictable, calm and set in their routines. He was a tornado, acted on a whim and had a problem with authority. Seth was the most real, straightforward person I had ever known. If he had an opinion, he made sure everyone was going to know it. If he had a problem with you, he had no problem letting you know.
“I mean, it just doesn’t make sense,” Seth’s voice was an octave higher with anger and recaptured my attention. “I mean really, who is this guy to stand up there in church and tell you to love everybody just the way they are, the way God made them, and then outcast, persecute and ridicule anybody who isn’t just like him and all those other Bible pushing crazies? Like Mom and Dad. They would freak if they knew I was gay!”
He stopped storming around the room when he realized what he had just done and slowly turned back to me. I dropped my hair and he blew a nervous bubble, the pop echoing throughout the now dead silent room. My stomach anxiously turned over itself as I stood to face my twin brother. The thought of Seth being gay never crossed my mind. I mean, Seth never had a girlfriend, but he was a good-looking, nice guy. I figured all of the girls at our school just couldn’t handle his energy and rebellious attitude. I raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged and shot me a wavering smile. He had been so vulnerable in that moment. I had never seen him like that. Seth was always confident and aggressive with his beliefs and what he thought.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I still believe in God and all that jazz, I just don’t believe that all gay people are going to Hell. Why would God make me this way if He didn’t want me to be like this? It’s not like I chose this. I didn't wake up one morning and decide to be gay.”
I was speechless for a minute. It was usually pretty hard to get a word in edgewise with Seth, so I was used to letting him do most of the talking, but this was different. He was waiting for me to speak, but I didn't know how. I opened my mouth and hoped that whatever came out would be comprehendible.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, bro,” I said. “I love you no matter what. If that’s what makes you happy, then that’s what makes you happy. It’s Mom and Dad you’re going to have to deal with.”
Seth’s raised eyebrows crinkled slightly and his bottom lip quivered. He chewed his gum a little bit slower. I walked over to Seth and did what he only allowed me to do. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him, letting my hands run along his back as he cried for the first time I’d seen in years. He nodded against my shoulder and his chest heaved up and down with his ragged breaths.
“Thanks Trish,” he whispered.
And that was it. He didn't need to say anything else. We both knew what was headed his way whenever he decided to come out to my parents. It was only a couple of weeks later when my parents walked in on him. They were out for dinner and I was out at a study group, so of course Seth thought he had the house to himself. Apparently they came home early, and I came home to my father chasing Seth’s boyfriend out of the house and my mother screaming something about Hell. It was the most passionate and active I had seen them act about anything in my entire life.
They didn't speak to Seth for a month after that.
Then out of nowhere they started operation “Turn Seth Straight,” which was consequently also operation “Lose Your Son Forever.” They tried therapists, personal hypnotists, and of course priests. They had him in church Sundays as usual, but made him stay after and talk to the priest for at least an hour every week. It all burned Seth out like I never thought possible. I watched as my brother changed, morphed, all to try to win back some kind of love from our parents. His boyfriend broke up with him, which my parents saw as step one, because he couldn’t handle Seth’s subordination to my parents. Seth lost his spark, his drive, that personality that made him Seth. I tried to be there for him, support him against all of the lecturing and ridiculing from my parents, but there was no fire left in Seth’s eyes. All he ever wanted was to be accepted, understood; something he never got from my parents.
Of course, none of the therapists worked. Seth didn't magically turn straight, he didn't suddenly love church and he wasn’t the perfect son that my parents always wanted him to be. He wasn’t anything anymore. He never smiled, he was failing every class, and he didn't talk to anyone, barely even me. He was miserable. It was too much, even for Seth.
I don’t know why my parents were surprised when we found him face down on his bed with pills scattered around him. I think I felt the word get a little bit darker when I walked in his room. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. It was like a parallel universe. Like someone was trying to show my parents what could happen if they didn't accept Seth, and I just happened to be a witness. I remember my parents didn't even cry at first. There they were, staring at their daughter bawling over their son’s dead body, and they can’t shed a single tear. I don’t think it really hit them until the funeral.
Like my parents always made Seth go to church, I made them go with me to put flowers on his grave every month. It’s been a year since Seth died and a lot has changed. A lot has stayed the same, too, though. I still don’t know if my parents realize the influence they had on Seth. And I don’t know if I could ever make them understand the influence that had on me. I’m too afraid to tell them yet that Seth and I had more in common than anyone thought. That it wasn’t Seth who needed to find a nice girl. I’m afraid to tell my parents what I figured out after Seth died. I’m too afraid that they haven’t changed, that they wouldn’t understand me like they didn't understand Seth. I’m too afraid to tell them that I’m gay, too. Because I’m afraid of ending up like my brother.
Long Story
With God
I’m not sure if I still consider myself a twin since my twin died. And I can’t bring myself to say that he killed himself either. As far as I’m concerned, Seth died and that’s that. If anything, my parents killed him. I can understand their shock at his coming out, especially since they walked in on him with his boyfriend, not exactly the most preferable way to find out that your son is gay, but I don’t know how any parent could reject their child the way mine rejected Seth after that.
I never felt as strongly for God as my parents, but I also never rejected church like Seth did. Sure my twin brother still went to church, but that was really just to appease our parents. He believed in God, but the whole idea of church didn't agree with him.
It was too robotic and boring for Seth.
“Stand up, sit down, kneel, pray, stand up, pray, sit down,” Seth rolled his green eyes all the way back in his head whenever we talked about it.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and played with the ends as I listened to him complain and watched him whirlwind around his mess of a room. He kicked his mattress that sat on the floor with no bed frame and shuffled through the half empty soda bottles, bags of chips, papers (most of them sketches and doodles, not homework), until he found his stash of gum. For twins, Seth and I were like black and white. He was messy, liked to ruffle feathers, and always stood out. I was neat, more the type to stay in the background and go with the flow. But Seth was still my best friend. He unwrapped his gum, threw a piece in his mouth and started chopping, never losing a beat with his argument.
“I just don’t get it, Trish,” he threw up his hands. “You go to this place to hear the most hypocritical crock of shit.”
I tried to pay attention, but I was busy remembering the time my parents caught Seth chewing gum in church. He would always tuck it behind his back molar for Communion and wouldn’t spit it out for anything. They grounded him when they caught him and gave him a 10 pm curfew. Seth responded by wandering in at 3 am the next morning.
“You were serious about that whole curfew thing?” he laughed, and went to bed.
He wasn’t into all of the drugs and drinking that went on at school, but it was more of him just making a statement to our parents. They never could control Seth, though. He was too much of a free spirit for them. They were predictable, calm and set in their routines. He was a tornado, acted on a whim and had a problem with authority. Seth was the most real, straightforward person I had ever known. If he had an opinion, he made sure everyone was going to know it. If he had a problem with you, he had no problem letting you know.
“I mean, it just doesn’t make sense,” Seth’s voice was an octave higher with anger and recaptured my attention. “I mean really, who is this guy to stand up there in church and tell you to love everybody just the way they are, the way God made them, and then outcast, persecute and ridicule anybody who isn’t just like him and all those other Bible pushing crazies? Like Mom and Dad. They would freak if they knew I was gay!”
He stopped storming around the room when he realized what he had just done and slowly turned back to me. I dropped my hair and he blew a nervous bubble, the pop echoing throughout the now dead silent room. My stomach anxiously turned over itself as I stood to face my twin brother. The thought of Seth being gay never crossed my mind. I mean, Seth never had a girlfriend, but he was a good-looking, nice guy. I figured all of the girls at our school just couldn’t handle his energy and rebellious attitude. I raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged and shot me a wavering smile. He had been so vulnerable in that moment. I had never seen him like that. Seth was always confident and aggressive with his beliefs and what he thought.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I still believe in God and all that jazz, I just don’t believe that all gay people are going to Hell. Why would God make me this way if He didn’t want me to be like this? It’s not like I chose this. I didn't wake up one morning and decide to be gay.”
I was speechless for a minute. It was usually pretty hard to get a word in edgewise with Seth, so I was used to letting him do most of the talking, but this was different. He was waiting for me to speak, but I didn't know how. I opened my mouth and hoped that whatever came out would be comprehendible.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, bro,” I said. “I love you no matter what. If that’s what makes you happy, then that’s what makes you happy. It’s Mom and Dad you’re going to have to deal with.”
Seth’s raised eyebrows crinkled slightly and his bottom lip quivered. He chewed his gum a little bit slower. I walked over to Seth and did what he only allowed me to do. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him, letting my hands run along his back as he cried for the first time I’d seen in years. He nodded against my shoulder and his chest heaved up and down with his ragged breaths.
“Thanks Trish,” he whispered.
And that was it. He didn't need to say anything else. We both knew what was headed his way whenever he decided to come out to my parents. It was only a couple of weeks later when my parents walked in on him. They were out for dinner and I was out at a study group, so of course Seth thought he had the house to himself. Apparently they came home early, and I came home to my father chasing Seth’s boyfriend out of the house and my mother screaming something about Hell. It was the most passionate and active I had seen them act about anything in my entire life.
They didn't speak to Seth for a month after that.
Then out of nowhere they started operation “Turn Seth Straight,” which was consequently also operation “Lose Your Son Forever.” They tried therapists, personal hypnotists, and of course priests. They had him in church Sundays as usual, but made him stay after and talk to the priest for at least an hour every week. It all burned Seth out like I never thought possible. I watched as my brother changed, morphed, all to try to win back some kind of love from our parents. His boyfriend broke up with him, which my parents saw as step one, because he couldn’t handle Seth’s subordination to my parents. Seth lost his spark, his drive, that personality that made him Seth. I tried to be there for him, support him against all of the lecturing and ridiculing from my parents, but there was no fire left in Seth’s eyes. All he ever wanted was to be accepted, understood; something he never got from my parents.
Of course, none of the therapists worked. Seth didn't magically turn straight, he didn't suddenly love church and he wasn’t the perfect son that my parents always wanted him to be. He wasn’t anything anymore. He never smiled, he was failing every class, and he didn't talk to anyone, barely even me. He was miserable. It was too much, even for Seth.
I don’t know why my parents were surprised when we found him face down on his bed with pills scattered around him. I think I felt the word get a little bit darker when I walked in his room. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first. It was like a parallel universe. Like someone was trying to show my parents what could happen if they didn't accept Seth, and I just happened to be a witness. I remember my parents didn't even cry at first. There they were, staring at their daughter bawling over their son’s dead body, and they can’t shed a single tear. I don’t think it really hit them until the funeral.
Like my parents always made Seth go to church, I made them go with me to put flowers on his grave every month. It’s been a year since Seth died and a lot has changed. A lot has stayed the same, too, though. I still don’t know if my parents realize the influence they had on Seth. And I don’t know if I could ever make them understand the influence that had on me. I’m too afraid to tell them yet that Seth and I had more in common than anyone thought. That it wasn’t Seth who needed to find a nice girl. I’m afraid to tell my parents what I figured out after Seth died. I’m too afraid that they haven’t changed, that they wouldn’t understand me like they didn't understand Seth. I’m too afraid to tell them that I’m gay, too. Because I’m afraid of ending up like my brother.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Final Paper
Esthetics Essay
By Matt Carroll
This semester was very interesting because of the wide variety of stories we’ve read, the advice given in workshops, and the exercises done in class. There have been numerous tools I’ve learned that helped improve my writing.
Structure
When looking back on my first story at the beginning of the semester Paying the Toll, I realized how underdeveloped it was. It lacked a proper structure that could help advance the story the way I meant it to. I thought one of the more interesting stories that helped me realize how important structure was Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried. O’Brien had a different style than anything I’d read before. He used repetition to his advantage and everything he put in his story had a significant meaning. Every phrase either developed the story or foreshadowed something that was referred to later. Also, O’Brien is very good at writing something and then proving it like on page 478 “The things they carried were largely determined by necessity.” He later proved this by using the title line they carried and he would give an example of the function of the object in the soldier’s life.
When I wrote the story Memoir I had a few of those ideas in mind. It was the first time in class that I had a good story arch. I felt my structure was better than the previous stories I wrote. I determined that if I mentioned a briefcase in the first act of the story that it, much like a main character, needed to play an important role in the third act of the story. The difference between the first draft of Memoir and the second draft was my ability to create a functional world. Part of this is attention to detail and learning how to read as a critic.
Learning to Read
I am a Psychology major, and in this section of academia I’ve read studies that are peer-reviewed articles on a topic with thick terminology. Writing can be very plain, technical, and straightforward. The best part of this class was the wide variety of stories that made me question structure and the intentions of the writer. Usually when I read something I take it at face value and I suspend my disbelief to enjoy the story. In this class I was able to question what the writer was doing and the universe the writer created.
I think I didn’t really start doing this until we met the visiting writers. It was a great thing for my writing to meet these men because they talked about why they wrote their stories the way they did, as well as their intentions. I think the first time I truly starting reading and writing with a critical mindset was with Roald Dahl’s Taste. If I were to read this story with the mindset I had before meeting the writers I don’t think I would have enjoyed how well Dahl knew his material on wine tasting, the fine details that impressed me, as well as the little things he mentioned in the beginning of the story, such as the quiet server, that had a huge impact at the end of the story, like the server revealing the protagonist’s plot. Between the visiting writers and Taste I felt like I could sit down and read something, see the tiny clues the writer leaves in the first act, and use that in my own writing. In my revision of Memoir, the writing due the week of the Dahl reading, I felt like I really used this new revelation to my advantage. I mentioned the main characters forgetfulness, his wife away on business, and other small details about the briefcase that become major factors in the third act of the story. I felt like I could design a story better after that week of class.
Exercises in Class
How Much Do You Know About Your Characters? Before I read that in class assignment I couldn’t recall my main character’s birthday or favorite color. I thought this was a great exercise and I really used it when I designed my characters in my main project Sunsets on the Far Side of the World. When writing about any of the characters in this story I felt like I had a good grasp on who they were, an intimate grasp that helped me relay to the reader what I tried to portray. In my story I mention that Edmond is the type of guy who can’t cut a loss. I then “Find the bruise and put my thumb on it,” which is something I really tried to use with most of my writing now. The “bruise” idea ties directly into some of the aforementioned ideas about using the little things in writing to reveal import things in the climax of your story arch.
The second set of exercises on facial expression using comic book techniques was very interesting. I’m a comic book buff (Anything X-Men and Batman usually work for me) and it makes sense for a writer to be able to visualize what happened in a scene. To show an expression instead of revealing it is much more powerful. In my revision of Memoir I try to do this, and there were some parts of Sunsets on the Far Side of the World, where I felt I really grasped that idea. I plan on using the exercise we did in class later on in Sunsets: “They watched him step off the ship with eyes wide open and pupils dilated, mouths rounded like the barrel of a smoking gun, and foreheads wrinkled as their heads slightly tilted back to sit squarely on their tensed shoulders,” whereas before I would have simply wrote they were surprised to see him.
Most Influential Story
My main project is Sunsets, and I think the most influential story read in this class was The Master of Monterey By Lawrence Coats. I started reading the book at the beginning of the year and I thought it was unfortunate it took me so long to read because of time constraints until I looked at the division of the book as short stories. After that I really savored the book.
The reason why the book was so influential on my writing is because it takes something that is very real and believable and puts a twist of fantasy and fiction to it. That’s what I wanted to try and capture when I wrote Sunsets, I wanted a world with fantasy aspects to become believable. An example of this was the description of the unusually tall Commodore with a “question-mark shaped body.” Other examples included Hannibal Memory’s unusually obese body, or the description of Arcadia and her family history with the bull. I also liked the style Coates used in his writing.
In the future I would love for my writing to be similar in style to John Cheever’s. Good-bye, My Brother had a great writing style I will use as inspiration in my future writings. His writing was elegant, understandable, and revealed character through the character’s actions. An example of this was the separated sibling, Lawrence, watching everyone play backgammon. Cheever showed the family tensions through one night of backgammon and he also revealed something about each character and their tie to the family in these actions.
Workshops
I thought the workshops were a great tool to improve my writing. In the span of the semester I had four opportunities to have my writing workshopped. This was a valuable tool for the class because style problems, punctuation, grammar, and other errors were pointed out. The most valuable part of the workshops was the gentle-constructive criticisms that helped me pay attention to the small details of a story. As Lawrence Coates mentioned in his presentation: research and the details of writing help portray the story the way you want.
The biggest lesson I learned from these workshops are to “Keep your thumb on the bruise” when you write, story arch, and personally I learned how bad grammar and punctuation can really impact (badly) what your readers think of your writing. Everyone in the class was so kind at pointing out the errors, and they were really helpful, but it made me realize that to be a good writer you have to be a student of English theory, criticism, and the technical parts of writing the language.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
critical response #9
I liked “Phone Tag” that Max wrote. I really liked the style in which part of the story was written. It was clever to tell a good chunk of the story through a character checking his voicemail messages after work and waiting for the elevator. I thought the character development of Chuck could have been better and the plot explained better. From the first part of the story I thought that Chuck was a quiet and passive guy who then later ends up playing an elaborate prank on the narrator. It seemed out of character but maybe if later on Chuck’s different personalities are discussed it could make the prank and his actions before that seem more realistic. The plot seemed to jump from one scenario about a peaceful man at work to that of a man who carries a gun and empties his briefcase so as not to be identified if his body is found at the scene before jumping into a taxi to go kill the man that he believes has kidnapped his family. This explaining would make the story a lot stronger. But I like the voice the narrator has throughout the story. It was fun to read and it kept me on my toes.
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