Response to T.C. Boyle

I thought this was a pretty great short story, however there were a couple things I didn't particularly like. The first is China's name. It is just a little too overtly political and chiding, but I appreciate that the message itself wasn't too obvious. There were a few things flying around; overpopulation, pregnancy as a negative thing, infanticide is ruinous (duh), and maybe abortion has a place in the scheme of things. Also, the perfect "nicest nice guy" Jeremy was right off the bat very callous about China's pregnancy. No nice guy is going to insist to his girlfriend "You have to get rid of it."
I'm very anxious (read: excited) to hear people respond to this in class. For some people I'm sure this was a very difficult read, what with the presumption by the characters that abortion is morally sound, the very hard to read imagery of the baby in a dumpster, the reference throughout the story to the baby as "it", but I rather enjoyed it. I'm curious if the writer intended this as a kind of warning to sexually active teens, or a reflection on the validity of capital murder charges for infanticide or what, but it was definitely interesting.

In the political atmosphere now there is very strong message that women are trying to get across, (one which I agree with) the idea of "my body, my choice, nobody else's business." This story, however brings to light problems with this mentality, in that China's decisions with how she manages her pregnancy end up effectively destroying Jeremy's life.

Response to Lost in the Woods

This exploration of the structure of stories focuses on on structure in particular. One that everyone can relate to and one that is tried and true; the lonely character who finds a friend. Antonya opens with the description of an NPR show This American Life, which is a great show, although I wish she hadn't mentioned it. It always seems when people mention that they listen to NPR it's always for the sake of telling people about it, and can sometimes come off as pretentious. Anyways, the show was about children and their capacity for narrative. It seems that all children love this structure or lonely individuals finding each other and coming to a happy, friendly resolution. The further exploration of this dynamic is the real meat of the article. The idea that endings have to be neat and happy and wrapped up is rightly challenged, and examples of endings that work well to leave the reader hanging are given. I think this is a great technique. I'm not personally a fan of stories that end up being resolved neatly. Things rarely are, so why would they in literature?
Typically however, character do "leave the woods" and this can mean many things. Either everything is honky-dory and friends are made and kept, or there's been some sort of personal sea change, or maybe more problems have cropped up. Either way, short stories are a good place for endings that are not neatly resolved. An ending that is wrapped up neatly and perfectly in just a few pages would just seem so trite.

In-class exercise: Beginning

Her way of staring was like a slap to the face that turned into a passionate kiss. It was wildly inappropriate, her way of staring at me. I liked it. I had seen other guys who had liked it too, and they would always perform the most miraculous emotional trust-fall. She would, of course, step back at the last moment, suddenly uninterested, and let them crush their trusting faces on the floor. But she had been staring at me a while. Maybe it had something to do with how I could show trust without falling face first onto the floor...

On Beginnings: Response to Hood

Never before have I seen such a thoroughly broken down example of beginnings except perhaps in Italo Calvino's If on a Winter's Night a Traveler, which wasn't quite so methodical in it's breakdown. The categorization of the types of beginnings (at least the ones that work) could potentially be an immensely useful tool for brain storming. I appreciate that Ann not only shows the reader examples of beginnings that work, many of them very prominent works, but she also guides the reader through why they work, and that is important. Especially when it comes to truisms and philosophical ideas, she shows that while opening a story with this can be very interesting, it is challenging to insure that the following work reflects and expounds and proves the philosophical statement put forth.

For someone interested in further exploration of beginnings, I reccomend the book I previously mentioned by Italo Calvino. The first chapter is an exploration of how people read and how they choose what they read; every other chapter is the beginning of a new story with new characters and a fresh set of circumstances. It all ties together brilliantly, but not incredibly neatly, more a well thought out reflection left for the reader to resolve than like a puzzle with the last piece waiting for you to push it in. With the beginning of each chapter the reader is drawn into a new world and consumed by the desire to know what happens next. This is something all writers aspire to do, and something that Calvino does again and again in his novel. Definitely worth looking into.

Unjust Appetites

Slightly different version of the poem I read in class. 

I can see it, through his guise,
The look of moral compromise.
His gaze, it lurks, it greasy slides
The slope of carnal want, reprised.
On her back, a burning light.
A glare of unjust appetite.

Filed lies grow his case.
His stare reflects absence of grace
All his charm, his wit and guile
Her nervous face, predation smile
She all her life was gullibized.
But I can see it, through his lies.
A wolf, in wait, to terrorize.

Revised

Civilization    

I’m lying on a warm boulder. My motorcycle, a particularly old Honda specimen, sits resting on its kickstand beside. The weather has been immaculate all day; not a wisp of cloud has shown itself and the overlooks on Mount Cheaha were having their intended calming effect. Sometimes I came out here just to catch a breath. When things got a little intense it was nice having a place to go where the air was clean and the cell phone reception was bad. This time was a little different though. There wasn’t really anything in particular that was bothering me when I left. That was the problem; there wasn’t anything wrong, but there wasn’t anything right either. It was like I was living in an old folk’s home. They try to make every day seem different, a different menu, a different activity maybe, but the actuality of the repetition is numbing. The fluorescent bulbs; someone dies occasionally.

I had just moved into a different, yet equally shitty apartment before I decided to take off, before I decided that I was done being stagnant. I was still in the process of getting rid of all my things. What I hadn’t been able to sell immediately I left in my unlocked apartment. Thank God everything was still boxed, that would probably help it go faster. I was planning on putting a craigslist ad reading: “free shit” up next time we got somewhere with some wireless internet. However, I didn’t want to stop in civilization until we at least got through Chattanooga.

            My buddy Sam is parked next to my bike. He hasn’t uttered a word in a few hours, God bless him. This is the sort of retreat Sam is used to. He’s always had family money and he’s a rambler. Sam has always been a good drinking buddy but he’s become my best friend of late.  He knows I don’t want to talk, so we don’t. He’s never bought me anything besides the occasional drink until today when he bought me a helmet with a full visor. I had been bitching about eating bugs for a while. Maybe he got sick of it.

I’m belly down, spread eagle, looking sideways off my perch like some kind of despondent lizard. The boulder seems to be tentatively overlooking the expanse, like its standing on its tip toes to get a better view. Directly north, the distant pale hills look interesting from my prone perspective. Their faces have the blue-green stubble of pine and are intermittently scarred with the pockmarks of rock outcroppings. I readjust to alter my perspective, and Sam cranks his bike. I reluctantly roll over and slide slowly off the boulder, dropping next to my Honda. I’ll admit, we have been here too long. I crank it up and listen to the burble as I strap on my helmet and backpack. We had been sitting for a couple of hours, so we sit for a few minutes more while my old bike warms up. There’s something ethereal about the low rumble of a motorcycle idle in the absence of all other noise. I click my bike into gear and Sam deftly follows suit.  

“We need gas, you know.”

Ah, the brevity of real friendship.

After rolling off the mountain we eventually find a gas station. Gas stations don’t necessarily count as civilization. You get out of them what you put in. You can either go in, buy a few things and make nice with the cashier or you can easily pay at the pump and leave without seeing a soul. We didn’t really need gas immediately, but if we were making a straight shot through Chattanooga without stopping at another station we would need it. We both pull up to the pumps and begin the process of refueling. I swipe my card and get the message, “PLEASE SEE ATTENDANT.”  Sam’s transaction goes off without a hitch. Ugh, I guess this is civilization. I trudge towards the entrance and see the eyes of an attendant peeking through the window. He looks to be a pale young kid, probably not even twenty. The door jingles with bells as I cross the threshold. I hate that.

“You here to ride the mountain, huh?”  

Great, I have to answer questions.

“Yup,” I lied.

Apparently this mountain is a big destination for motorcyclists. What with its twisty roads and its recognition as being the highest point in Alabama, I could see why, but we were just passing through. After looking down for a moment, the pale kid spoke again.

“Well, your card’s been declined, sir. Do you have another card or something?”

I didn’t. Shit.

“Hold on,” I muttered, as I jingled out the door. “Dude, Sam. My card just got declined.” Sam stared at me blankly.

“And?” 

“Could you help me out until I figure out why?” Sam stared again.

“Man, you’re never going to figure anything out. Just use your cash for now. I already bought you a two hundred dollar helmet today.”

“All right, fine. Thanks, Sam.” I said the last part with sincerity, and Sam caught it. I glanced at my visored helmet sitting on the bike and reflected on how all those bug splatters would have felt on my bare face. Seriously. I reset the pump and filled her up; it didn’t take more than thirty seconds.

After paying the pale kid, we cruised down the road for another hour or two until dusk. Sans any verbal communication, we pulled into a camp site and began making camp. We had done this before. I pitched the tent and hung up our supplies where the animals couldn’t get to them while Sam set about building a camp fire and preparing dinner. I occupied myself with collecting firewood until dinner was ready. We ate in silence. My fork scraped the plate and then Sam said,

“So what are you going to do when the cash runs out?”

I only had about four hundred dollars left. Total.

“I dunno, man. I’m trying not to think about it.”

“Well you have think about it at some point, you don’t want me paying your way, do you?”

“You know I don’t,” I said.

“Well then think. What are you going to do?”  

Sam was pressing me, but I needed it. I’ve been moping for two days now, not speaking and trying not to think. Now I had to.

“I don’t know. Move somewhere? Keep riding?” I replied, desperate for an answer that didn’t involve returning to that stale retirement home of a town. Sam continued,

“Man, you know you can’t do that. You have no money. You can’t just move somewhere. You have an apartment with the next two months’ rent paid back home. Maybe if you went back and sold the rest of your stuff you would have enough to move, eh?”

I sat silently for a while, weighing this idea against the pleasant thought of never going back. I didn’t have that much stuff. I spoke, breaking the silence, but just audible over the crackle of the dying fire.

“I just know that if I go back I’ll probably get stuck there again.”

“Aw, poor little guy,” Sam jeered.

I don’t like being mocked, and Sam didn’t understand anyways. He can leave any time he wants, and he does so often. If I could drop everything and just leave every once in a while maybe I wouldn’t be so damn morose.

“You’re a dick, Sam.”

I didn’t mean it. He really wasn’t that far off the mark by making fun of me. I mean, I see the people around me settling into this routine, perfectly content to repeat the same cycle over and over. I don’t know. Maybe they’re not content. Maybe they’re just better at this than I am. Maybe I am being a bit of a child by acting out and running away. It was like I was a groom who gets cold feet the day of his wedding, realizing the finality of his decisions, the monotony of his future. Sam sat watching me while I thought; eventually the fire burnt out. Sam flipped one of the bigger logs and blew on it. Flame slowly grew along its length.

“I’m sorry, dude,” He said.

“It’s cool,” I affirmed, as Sam rose towards the tent.

As Sam lay snoring in the tent, I sat staring vacantly, searching myself for strength, an easy answer, anything. It is times like this that I wish I was religious. By the next morning I had resigned myself to my fate. I would return to that god-awful town, but I promised myself I wouldn’t let myself get drawn into the cycle that everyone else seemed content to perpetuate. I would pare my living expenses down to a minimum and save enough to actually go somewhere, permanently. Hopefully somewhere where there were no fluorescent lights. I wished that I could skip the dreary period of frugality and monotony, but in my experience I’ve never seen a wish granted. Sam rose early and we silently cooked breakfast on the fire I had kept all night. He led the way as we left, and as he turned back in the direction of home on the way out, I figured he either had inferred my resignation or he was leaving me to figure it all out for myself; I liked to think the former. The ride home was a little more brisk. Sam rode the twisties with a fervor I hadn’t seen before, and I had to push my old Honda and myself just to keep up. Sam was a skilled rider, and there were a few harrowing moments during my efforts to make up some distance where I came close to eating some pavement. At a few points I felt like he really was trying to lose me, but once we hit the interstate he slowed down to a steady cruise and we made the ride home without any problems. Sam rode with me all the way to my dull apartment. I guess to make sure I was actually going home; maybe he was worried I would do something stupid. I wouldn’t. I knew the value of life; I was just having trouble attaining it. It was Sunday. He hung around for a while before heading home. We agreed to meet for drinks later, on me. I would go to work the next day, and as miserable as it may be, sitting under the huge banks of fluorescent lights, at least now I had something worth working towards.

Response to Megan

And They Say, "Äll's Fair, In Love and War" is story where Megan in high school, dealing with her mom (who is struggling with her role as a single mother) and a relationship with a delinquent. The story reaches a climax when Megan fights her mom in the parking lot outside her high school. I wasn't sure how I felt about the opening paragraph. It worked fine, but I feel like the story would have been served better by starting after the first line break. It still sets up the story, but doesn't give away the climax and it also grabs attention more since there are things happening/characters being introduced and not just a personal reflection. The description of Shawn's crimes is pretty funny, very dry humor. I couldn't really figure out the relationship with Shawn, however. There are times when Megan mentions romanticism and love and even an engagement, but there is no display of emotion between the two. She even says "There weren't any tears of happiness, or even a joyous embrace."
The build to the climax was well done, it took two nearly and a half pages of build from when I realized they were going to fight until the initial strike landed, but it was all a good rise. I do wish there had been a bit more dialogue surrounding the mom's confrontation with Shawn as once again, I feel like this is a strength here that is under-utilized. I really liked how the fight doesn't play out at all like how she thought it would in her head. There is a lot of weak attempts at strikes, and as Megan begins scraping her mother with her cleats, her mom grabs her by the hair. This was my favorite part. Megan realizes, "Oh, shit. This is why girls pull hair in fights..." I got a little confused towards the end when she's talking about the Spanish teacher, but I liked the story overall