Blog 15

Final Essay (Best)

My dad always used to ask me this one question and I could never really understand why. We would be floating around in the pool on a hot summer afternoon without a care in the world when all of a sudden “Are you sure you’re not gay?” Then there would be a very awkward pause where I would pretend as though I didn’t hear him correctly.  “I’m your father, I’d still love you no matter what.” Defensive wasn’t even the word for my reaction. I’d get damn right angry. “No!” I’d say with a dramatic roll of my eyes. Then I’d drift away and hope the issue was closed, and it was, until the next time he asked. That’s not a question that a son wanted to answer over and over again. I was a boy. I liked girls. All my guy friends in middle school liked girls. It was normal and so was I. I shouldn’t have had to prove it over and over again. I was just a late bloomer. That’s what my dad always said.

 

I remember it being so distinctive. Standing in my driveway with my best friend one day over the summer before I was to start the 8th grade; the last year of middle school before high school. I remember suddenly thinking to myself “I’m really not happy.” Maybe I was upset that school was going to start. Maybe I was just a little lonely. Everyone I knew was in a “relationship” it seemed. A label I use extremely loosely given the age of those involved at the time. Even my juvenile brain knew that it was silly and that none of them were real but just for show because it was the cool thing to do, but still. Maybe it was time to get a girlfriend. It was the normal thing to do and I was determined to be normal. I could be happy being normal. It all happened pretty quickly after that. I asked Rosa, my good friend since when diapers were still trendy (and who just happened to also be a girl) if she wanted to go out with me. She immediately responded to my instant message with a resounding “yes” and subsequent colon parentheses to show the closest thing to a smile she could through a computer screen. Ah, things were starting to look up. Now I could start getting out of this funk. The school year that followed was filled with our friends telling us how cute of a couple we made and love letters being exchanged in between classes for good measure. Relationships meant telling the other person you loved them as often as humanly possible. I was brilliant on paper – a regular Casanova – but things would always crumble when it came to actually being with her within the same physical space. I was terribly awkward. I could manage holding hands well enough, but beyond that, I was lost and Rosa never skipped a chance to tell me. The thought of kissing her terrified me to the point where it would make me nauseous. One day after school, she had finally gotten fed up with my lack of physicality and called me out on it in front of all our friends. I could do nothing but stare at her. My stomach went all in knots and my palms began to sweat. Everyone watched as I crashed and burned. I finally worked up the nerve to go in for a kiss but apparently had waited too long because she turned away from me. That make it even worse. It was definitely not part of the rules. Vomit inducement was probably not what she had had in mind when she signed up to be with me. But it was my first relationship ever. There were things to get used to. It would just take a little time .

 

My father used to have a lot of friends. That was before he found out that his business partner, and longtime friend, was stealing money from him and my dad lost all hope in humankind; basically becoming a recluse. Before that, there would always friends of his at home. My parents loved to entertain and they loved disco music so almost every Saturday afternoon, my house was filled with both. The women would sit in the kitchen or in the living room chatting while the guys lounged in front of the television watching sports and drinking scotch. I lived in a cliché. The men would yell and scream and curse and I was expected to sit with them and act in kind. My dad knew very well that I was not into sports. He made me try out for just about every single one when I was younger and I hated them all, until I tried out for baseball. I actually really liked it until my dad decided to be a coach and never wasted an opportunity to tell me how bad I was at throwing. Baseball lost its magic after that. Anyway, I would just be sitting with the guys who smelled like scotch and think about another book I wanted to buy or something when I’d hear, “look at that little faggot.” or, “what a fairy.” as they stared at the screen talking about some unfortunate member of the team they were watching. I knew what these words were in reference to. It wasn’t a favorable position to be in. It’s a good thing I was straight then.

 

High school was about to start. Just a few months away. Rosa and I were going to be going to St. Mary’s together. What a treat. My sister had gone there and my parents figured that if it was good enough for her, it was good enough for me. Then one day a representative from this private college prep school came by and made a presentation in my class. It was an all-boy school but that honestly didn’t mean anything to me. It was prestigious. They had a reputation. I wanted in. It was also quite far from St. Mary’s, and I was okay with that. I convinced my folks to let me take the entrance exam, took the test, passed it, and became an honorable student of Saint Joseph’s High School. I excitedly went up to my girlfriend in the hall the day after I found out to tell her the great news. “That’s great! Congrats.” I don’t think she understood what I meant. “I got in,” I repeated. Her face suddenly changed. She was a statue. “Oh.” And that was the end of my very first relationship.

 

You know how they say high school is the best time of your life? Exactly, you’ve never heard that because it’s just so blatantly untrue. High school was hell and the absolute worst four years of my life. I was depressed all the time. I couldn’t get away from it. It was as if all happiness had been sucked out of my life. There is no way to explain it without sounding like an angsty little teenager, but that’s exactly what I was. Nothing made it go away. I was full of anger and jealousy. I would look at the guys in my classes and hate them but could not for the life of me figure out why. I think it was because they were what I wanted to be. They weren’t questioning themselves constantly and they seemed genuinely happy. Then again, I think I played the role of happy teenager pretty well only because no one ever said anything to the contrary. I felt as though keeping everything to myself would be better than sharing because if I told anyone what was really going on, I’d be shipped away to some hospital like certain friends of mine had been. I turned to cutting because it was something I could control. It would put me in pain but at least it was pain that I could explain. Faulty reasoning but it’s all I had. I did it right on my wrists, easily visible to anyone willing to ask. But nobody ever did.

 

Being in a high school whose student body was entirely made up of males probably cemented the fact that I was what I was and that it was no longer realistic to just think otherwise. All of my fellow students didn’t have the added distraction of having females in their classes but for me, a hormone-crazed sixteen-year-old, all I had were constant reminders of what I was. Being gay was a part of me. I was who I was and it wasn’t going to be changed. That didn’t mean I had any intentions of sharing it with anyone. I would remain silent. Gay guys got too much unwanted attention. They were looked at differently. During my Sophomore year, there was a boy who transferred out of our class and the rumor was because he was a bisexual and that that was not acceptable. Whether he left because he was being ridiculed or because the school asked him to was never made clear. No one really made fun of anyone at my school though so I was inclined to believe the latter. Either way, I was definitely not ready to risk anything. My life was rough enough. I didn’t need any more reasons to be sad.

 

Life went on, I had a couple of other fake relationships to try and play off as though I was “normal” and everything else remained the same. Uneventful. High School was finally over and I was ok with that. I had survived several suicidal gestures involving pain killers and had come out the other end. I learned to be numb to everything. I was unwilling to let the depression get the best of me, to the point where a gesture would become a definitive act, but that didn’t mean happiness would just flow over me. My only option was to become numb. I had come to terms with being gay, but couldn’t tell my parents, so I decided to just not care anymore. About anything. This is how the beginning of my college life went. I didn’t want to die anymore but living didn’t really hold much splendor either because I had resigned to be alone. I was stuck forever in the middle .

 

            You know how sometimes you get epiphanies while taking a shower or on a long drive home from work? Well I had one too one fateful morning. It happened just as I was waking up. Almost as though the thought had come to me deep in the night and was just anxiously waiting to come to light when I awoke. As I opened my eyes, it’s like I was seeing a different world than I had been in the night before and I was overcome with the realization that just because I didn’t want to come out to my parents, didn’t mean I could tell anyone. My father was a recluse, remember? He barely spoke to anyone anymore apart from my mother. And my mother was not one to associate with anyone my father didn’t associate with because that’s what a good wife does apparently. That day, I decided it was time to change. I began telling my closest friends about who I was and was met with overwhelming acceptance. That day – that moment upon waking up one random morning after years of heartache – changed my life drastically. Suddenly I was taking charge of my life. It was, after all, my life and I would be damned if I wouldn’t at least try to enjoy it. And then, almost all at once, all the things I had wanted in years passed were making their way towards me. I didn’t have to keep as many secrets anymore. I could go out and search for someone to be with whom I actually wanted to be with. And I found him. All because I finally decided that I had the right to be happy.

Blog 14

"How many Cubans does it take to get a turkey out of the oven?" It's random, I know, and a bad joke at that, but still. It’s the last trivial thing I ever heard before my life basically changed forever. Is that dramatic? I don’t think so. How would you feel if you found out for the first time after twenty-three years of living that your grandfather had been in a concentration camp? How would you feel after learning that information, casually, just before sitting down for Thanksgiving dinner? As if it were just the weather.

Grandpa. The man who had been in a bad car accident just before you were born, rendering him brain damaged and perfectly content just sitting in his chair all day staring at the television. Not saying a word unless he needed a cigarette or to go to the bathroom. You know, the basics. Apparently he used to be hysterical. Always willing to crack a smile and spread it around. Everyone says I’m just like him. Or how he used to be, I mean.

That was the man who wanted a better life for his family. Who decided to leave a country that punished its people just for speaking out of turn. That was a man who spent two years in the sugar cane fields and who only got to see his daughters and his wife maybe every six months if he had enough to bribe the guards.

That was the man I had shared the same blood with, and I only knew him as my silent grandpa, sitting in his chair and watching the television. It made me angry that they had waited this long to tell me all this.

But then I thought on it some more that night. Long after the last piece of pumpkin pie was cut and I was back in my own bed. I remembered that, sometimes, when I was sitting with my grandfather and watching a channel that I couldn’t understand in Spanish, sometimes he would turn to me and for no reason in the world that I could figure, he’d smile.

By the way, it takes three Cubans and a Dominican to get a turkey out of the oven.

Blog 13

Draft of reflective essay

I used to keep a journal way back when. Back in the days when there seemed to be a lot going on in my life and I was less capable of dealing with it. I had to write, I thought, to vent and release all these nasty little feelings I would be stuck with otherwise because I could never tell another soul about them. These writings were often terribly dramatic and therefore, in retrospect, disingenuous. I had grown into the habit of writing things and making sure it was as sensational as I could for risk that it would otherwise be boring to look back on and read. I thought it was the most personal writing I could muster until I took this course. Creative nonfiction taught me what personal writing really was.

I learned that truly writing about oneself meant feeling awkward

Blog 11

Drafty writing/ideas for short essay 2.

I think I'd want this essay to be a bit on the lighter side of things. I feel as though my writing so far has been very personal, which is great, but also focusing on some of the darker sides of my life. I want to write about an important experience that I've gone through but also try and keep it more amusing than anything else.

That's why I think I'm going to write about my time working at Spencer Gifts. It was my first real job ever and the first step of me becoming independent from my parents so it was very important to me. It also taught me so much more about working with people and helped me grow into someone less shy in dealing with strangers. I used to be very shy and found it awkward dealing with strangers but after working in such a crazy store, and dealing with the equally crazy clientele, I have a plethora of stories from which to choose from. I think I might talk about a typical friday night at the mall while working in the store and choose one of the more memorable characters i've come into contact with.

For instance, The man who had speakers hiding in his pants, blasting the "Requiem for a Dream" soundtrack who believed he could control time with an Apple computer mouse. Or the young boy whose parents let him run out of the store with posters and throw them over the railing on the second floor where the store was located.

So many stories to choose from and either one of them, I think, is worthy of being written down.

Rhetorical Analysis: Publication Venue Handout

The Pinch 

The Pinch is a journal of fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, and visual art produced by the MFA program at the University of Memphis.


Background:

The journal is published biannually. Work that has appeared in The Pinch has been reprinted in the Best American Essays and Best American Nonrequired Reading. Two stories that have previously been published in The Pinch have been short-listed for the Pushcart Prize.

The journal was founded by William Page in 1980, under the name Memphis State Review. The journal's name was changed to River City in 1988 and to The Pinch in 2006.

Among the writers whose work has appeared in the journal are Robert Bly, Philip Levine, Mary Oliver, Robert Penn Warren, Margaret Atwood, Donald Justice, Marvin Bell, Dinty W. Moore, Adrienne Rich, Lucille Clifton, Mary Gaitskill, John Updike, Linda Gregerson, Bobbie Ann Mason, and Scott Russell Sanders.

Submission Requirements (In their own words):

In truth, we are just looking for strong voices and well-written prose and poetry. We want beautiful, muscular work with strong emotional threads. We want to read essays, stories, and poems that move us, provoke us, and excite us.

We accept submissions between August 15th and March 15th.

All submissions should include a brief cover letter that includes contact information (name, address, phone number, email) and a self-addressed stamped envelope for our response. We do not read submissions outside the deadlines. Manuscripts or other materials will be recycled. We do not return manuscripts.

All submissions must be previously unpublished. The Pinch purchases first North American serial rights upon acceptance; after publication, rights revert back to the author. Payment for publication is two copies of The Pinch issue in which the work appears. We accept simultaneous submissions.

Send only original work. If your work quotes or borrows from other work, that source should receive credit. If we suspect work to be plagiarized, we will assume good faith, but we’ll still investigate and contact the appropriate authorities.

You can submit either ONLINE or BY MAIL!

Online

Please select the genre for which you are submitting for and then pay the $3 reading fee. Subscribers can submit for free through the “Subscriber’s Submission” category. People expressly solicited by a member of The Pinch staff can also submit for free through the “Solicited Submission” category. We do NOT accept submissions via email.

Creative Nonfiction:
Manuscripts should be typed and double-spaced. Please use 1″ margins and include page numbers. Manuscripts should be no more than about 5,000 words.

By Mail

Creative Nonfiction:
Manuscripts should be typed and double-spaced. Please use 1″ margins and include page numbers. Manuscripts should be no more than about 5,000 words. We do not accept email manuscripts. Address to CREATIVE NONFICTION EDITOR.

Contests: 

The Pinch Literary Awards in Fiction and Poetry 2012
Sponsored by the Hohenberg Foundation

Fiction First Prize: $1,500.00. Judged by Justin Torres.
Poetry First Prize: $1,000.00. Judged by Nicky Beer.

ENTRY PERIOD:
December 15th – March 1. Entries not postmarked within the reading period will be discarded unread.

PUBLICATION:
All entries are considered for publication. First, second, and third place winners will be selected from each category. The first place fiction winner, along with all three poetry winners, will be published in the Spring issue following announcement. Second and third place winners in fiction will be given high-priority consideration for publication, but because of space, cannot be guaranteed. Due to the high volume of submissions, any prize winners will be ineligible for contest participation for three years.

CONTEST RULES:
Only unpublished work will be considered. Simultaneous submissions are welcome, but notify us immediately if work is accepted elsewhere. No refunds will be issued. Manuscripts will not be returned. You may submit entries online via the link below or via mail. Emailed entries will not be considered.

Blog 9

For my first short story, I want to talk about an experience that happened to me over the thanksgiving weekend. Very casually, while sitting in my aunt's kitchen, my family began talking about their time in Cuba as children and I learned things I had never known before. Things like the fact that both of my grandfathers had been in concentration camps and about how mistreated they were by the Cuban government upon leaving the country.

I want to focus the short piece on my initial reaction to this information. It was groundbreaking for me and it altered my perceptions of my family and my heritage.

Blog 8

I definitly want to work on my second long essay more because I think there is more that I can work with to expand it. As per our conference, I'm going to try and be a bit more daring and include more personal stories within the narritive. There needs to me more experiences in the story to make it more personal and possibly more relatable. I'll write the version I would never let anyone read in private, then see what pieces of it I can use in the final draft for the class.

Blog 6

Feedback: Id like to know if I should elaborate more on some of the experiences I mentioned within the story. Should I go into more detail.


My dad always used to ask me this one question and I could never really understand why. We would be floating around in the pool on a hot summer afternoon without a care in the world when all of a sudden “Are you sure you’re not gay? I’m your father, I’d still love you no matter what.” Defensive wasn’t even the word for my reaction. I’d get damn right angry. “No!” I’d say with a roll of my eyes. Then I’d float away and hope the issue was closed, and it was, until the next time he asked. That’s not a question that a son wanted to answer over and over again. I was a boy. I liked girls. All my guy friends in middle school liked girls. It was normal and so was I. I shouldn’t have had to prove it over and over again. I was just a late bloomer. That’s what my dad always said.

I remember it being so distinctive. Standing in my driveway with my best friend one day over the summer before I was to start the 8^th grade; the last year of middle school before high school. I remember suddenly thinking to myself “I’m really not happy.”Maybe I was upset that school was going to start. Maybe I was just a little lonely. Everyone I knew was in a relationship it seemed. Even my juvenile knew that it was silly and that none of them were “real” but just for show because it was the “cool” thing to do, but I still. Maybe it was time to get a girlfriend. It all happened pretty fast after that. I asked Rosa, my good friend since pre-k (who just happened to also be a girl) if she wanted to go out with me. She immediately responded with a resounding yes. Ah, things were starting to look up. Now I could start getting out of this funk, right? Even though I spent half of the year sharing secret love letters with Rosa during class and everyone said that we looked cute together, I couldn’t get away from this underlying feeling of gloom. If anything, as the year moved on, it only got worse.

My father used to have a lot of friends. That was before his business partner stole money from him and my dad lost all hope in humankind; becoming a recluse. Before that, there would always friends of his at home. My parents loved to entertain. The women would hang out in the kitchen or living room chatting while the guys were in front of the television watching sports and drinking scotch. I lived in a cliché. The men would yell and scream and curse and I was expected to sit with them and act in kind. My dad knew very well that I was not into sports. He made me try out for about ten different kinds when I was younger and I hated them all, except baseball. I actually really liked it until my dad decided to be a coach and ruined it all. Anyway, I would just sit with them and think about another book I wanted to buy or something when I’d hear, “look at that little faggot.” Or,“what a fairy” as they stared at the screen talking about someone on the team. I knew what these words were in reference to. It wasn’t a favorable position to be in. It’s a good thing I was straight then.

High school was about to start. Just a few months away. Rosa and I were going to be going to St. Mary’s together. What a treat. My sister had gone there and my parents figured that if it was good enough for her, it was good enough for me. Then one day a representative from this private college prep school came by and made a presentation in my class. It was an all-boy school but that honestly didn’t mean anything to me. It was prestigious. They had a reputation. I wanted in. I convinced my folks to let me take the entrance exam, and they finally caved. Took the test, passed it, and became an honorable student of Saint Joseph’s High School. I excitedly went up to my girlfriend in the hall the day after I found out to tell her that I had gotten in. “That’s great! Congrats.” I don’t think she understood what I meant. “I got in” I repeated. Her face suddenly changed. She was a statue. “Oh.” And that was the end of my very first relationship.

High school was hell. The absolute worst four years of my life. I was depressed all the time. I couldn’t get away from it. It was as if all happiness had been sucked out of my life. There is no way to explain it without sounding like an angsty little teenager, but that’s exactly what I was. Nothing made it go away. I was full of anger and jealousy. I would look at the guys in my classes and hate them but could not for the life of me figure out why. I turned to cutting because It was something I could control. It would put me in pain but at least it was pain that I could explain. Faulty reasoning but it’s all I had. I did it right on my wrists, easily visible to anyone willing to ask. But nobody ever did.

Being in a high school whose student body was entirely made up of males probably cemented the fact that I was what I was and that it was no longer realistic to just think otherwise. Being gay was a part of me. I was me. That didn’t mean I had any intentions of sharing it with anyone. I would remain silent. Gay guys got too much unwanted attention. They were looked at differently. During my Sophomore year, there was a boy who transferred out of our class and the rumor was because he was a bisexual and that that was not acceptable. Whether he left because he was being ridiculed or because the school asked him to was never made clear. No one really made fun of anyone at my school though so I was inclined to believe the latter. Either way, I was definitely not ready to risk anything. My life was rough enough. I didn’t need any more reasons to be sad.

Life went on, I had a couple of other fake relationships to try and play off as though I was “normal” and everything else remained the same. Uneventful. High School was finally over and I was ok with it. I had survived several suicidal gestures and had come out the other end. I learned to be numb to everything. I was unwilling to let the depression get the best of me, to the point where a gesture would become a definite act, but that didn’t mean happiness would just flow over me. My only option was to become numb. I had come to terms with being gay, but couldn’t tell my parents, so I decided to just not care anymore. About anything. This is how the beginning of my college life went. I didn’t want to die anymore but living didn’t really hold much splendor either because I had resigned to be alone. I was stuck forever in the middle.

One day, something happened. Something that I cannot explain even until today. I woke up one morning and had an epiphany. I realized that just because I couldn’t tell my parents, that didn’t mean I couldn’t tell anyone. From that day on, Things got better. I told my closest friends, met an amazing guy, and decided to finally take charge of my life. I decided that I had a right to be happy.

Blog 5

***Apparently this only saved as a draft and was not posted last week***

Potential story ideas for this one might be a little more difficult. I feel as though I want to go deeper into something more personal for me.

I can talk about the process i went through coming to terms with my sexuality...or something

Blog 4

Notes: I Have to focus on the message of my story. I have an idea but need to flesh it out more.

Paradigm Shift

My room has always been much smaller than I would have preferred it to be. Moving into what was once our guest room on the first floor from my even smaller nursery on the second would grant me, I thought, a bit more space and freedom from the rest of my family. Independence – or as close to it as a 13 year old could hope for. I no longer had to worry about being caught doing my homework at all hours of the night by my parents because they saw a light was on, acting like a beacon to signal my constant procrastination.  I could listen to my music as loudly as I wanted without having my sister pound on the wall separating our rooms because I was distracting her from her sticker collecting adventures. Clearly more important than whatever I had going on. If only I had a wall to pound on every time she decided to belt out and butcher whatever top 40 tune was on the radio during family road trips. I was finally free(ish) from the shackles of close-quarter-living and I felt like I could breath a little easier. The new room looked huge, until I got all my furniture and belongings into it. Sweet lord, I had a lot of stuff. I made a mental note to keep things organized. Probably should have written that down.

           

The Incident

The days of sleeping with a nightlight had long since passed so the pitch-darkness I woke up to didn’t feel frightening at all. What was a little unnerving, however, was the figure of a man I saw standing in the corner of my little room. It wasn’t threatening, but it was not someone I felt as though I could have a cup of coffee with either. He just stood there and suddenly I realized that I was sitting up in bed. I didn’t remember getting up like that but there I sat. Almost as though I had woken up that way. I knew for a fact that I was indeed awake. People think differently in dreams and this was not a dream. I stared at the silhouette and even though I couldn’t distinguish any facial features whatsoever, I felt as though he was staring right back. No, I didn’t feel it. I knew it. Silence fell and it was just the two of us now. I started to pick up on a slight shuddering. It wasn’t coming from me - I stayed perfectly still - but my room was most definitely starting to vibrate. Not as though there was an earthquake, but more akin to a shaky video camera recording. None of my possessions seemed to be affected by it even while it continued to escalate and grow more violent. It got to the point where my entire room became a large blur and I couldn’t make out a single thing, except for the shadow of a man standing in the corner staring at me. He stood perfectly still.

Up to this point there had been no sound whatsoever. That was quickly broken with what I could only describe as the shrill and ear-splitting shrieking of a woman. It not only filled my ears but my entire body. I could feel the sound piercing through my very core and, as though my senses had finally caught up to the situation I found myself in, I was suddenly filled with an unbridled terror. I lay back down in my bed and assumed a fetal position while the chaos continued to go on around me. I closed my eyes – tight enough that they actually started to hurt – and just waited. My heart beat so brutally in my chest that I thought it would surly stop at any minute. I knew he was still watching me. Seconds crawled by and then the screaming finally stopped only to be replaced by the sound of glass shattering. A lot of glass.

Silence fell once again but I dared not open my eyes. I continued to lie there for sometime until an extreme and fatigue overcame my mind and body and I fell back to sleep. 

The little girl with bells on

I remember sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen many years before she had passed away. She was cooking one Cuban dish or another absentmindedly as she listened in to the conversation my mother and me were having. The kindness of strangers was the main topic of our discussion, which was brought on by a news report of a good Samarian that had just been shown on the otherwise ridiculous Hispanic broadcasting network. My mother started recalling when she was a child living back in the homeland and that on several occasions, she would have episodes of sleepwalking. She recounted that on more than one night, she would find herself out in the middle of the street and that strangers who happened to be driving by would find her and escort her back into the house and alert my grandparents. It got to the point where they had to attach little bells onto my mother’s arms to keep her from wandering out into the night alone.

 

Blog 3

Coming up with a topic to write about as my first paper has proved to be more challenging than I had originally anticipated. I feel like there are two prominent ideas that come to mind when someone is asked to write a story of creative nonfiction. One is to shy away and close yourself off from anything too deep or personal. It's not always easy to share your inner most thoughts with a class full of somewhat strangers. However, the polar opposite thought might occur and that is to immediately and right out the gate jump to the deepest, most personal and revealing tale about yourself that you can. While this might seem like the "right" thing to do, if one does it simply to be a spectacle, I feel as though that is being disingenuous and that is not what the genre is all about. I could talk about a lot of dramatic things that happened to me during my relatively short years of living, but the question of whether I should or not jumps to mind and makes me nervous.

Having done that exercise last week and thinking about what I saw in my head leads me to think I should write about my mother and certain experiences that took place with her. I can think of one conversation in particular that might make for a decent story. The tale of a boy coming out to his mother is something I'm sure someone might want to read about but, and probably more importantly, it might something that I HAVE to write about given the fact that I haven't been able to get it out of my head since last week. It's not an extraordinary story, but it's something.

Blog 2

Definitions tend to never sit well with me, especially when being applied to such complexities such as a genre of literature. Definitions are black and white and can apply certain and strict rules to whatever they're referring to and literature is something that is constantly changing and adapting to the context in which it is being created around. Creative nonfiction is the same way. Besides the fact that it is still a relatively new genre, it is still a work of art, to a certain extent, and this will have to be open to interpretation just like any other work.

If a definition must be applied, however, I suppose there are a handful of cornerstones that would have to be set in place. One being that CNF has to be about the truth. It has to be inspired by actual events, people, and emotions that the author had experiences with. This doesn't mean that it has to be a dry reselling of events that took place, however, which is where the creative part comes into play. The only other rule that I would say was worth applying is the fact that whatever story is being written, the author must, to the best of their ability, keep to the truth. They must be honest with themselves and any other persons who appear in their writing. However, if what is true to the author is not the same as what was true for someone else in the same situation, the author only has a responsibility to what they felt at the time. As long as they've strived to be as truthful with themselves as possible.

Blog 1

From what I've been able to gather, attributes of creative nonfiction can be a little varied. What I know for sure is that, obviously, whatever stories are told in this genre are ones that actually took place. They are either direct recollections of actual events or based on events that the author is attempting to remember as closely as possible. Originally, I thought creative nonfiction was just ones memoirs written more like poetry rather than just straight narration but there seems to be more to it than that. I'm curious about what different things comprise the genre as and look forward to learning about them.