Final Letter

May 13, 2008

Dear Gary,
This semester has been tremendously helpful. I'd stopped writing for pleasure and hadn't tried particularly hard for many of my classes for the last few semesters. I'd also stopped reading, something I haven't done since I first learned to read. Through the exercises and discussions, I have found my love for writing and reading and, surprisingly, I have also found that I enjoy writing poetry.
One particularly helpful assignment was the psychic distance exercise. At first I did not understand how to illustrate psychic distance, although I'd read the instructions and examples multiple times. After submitting the assignment and reading your comments I was able to do the work again, this time properly.
Another assignment that was important for me was the Music and Metaphor journal. This exercise helped me realize that there were no good excuses for not writing because there is inspiration everywhere. By simply observing life and objects around my own home I was able to draw inspiration for poems and stories.
I think the most surprising realization for me was that I like writing poetry. I love the way that you can choose where to break your lines and choose to end a line with a particularly meaningful word. You can shape poems in whatever way you want to. I also love the simplicity of the language of most poems. Simple words conveying strong emotion is a wonderful art.
I appreciate your direction and support during this semester.

Carol

Five Frame Advancement

Angel
A concrete angel stands high above other headstones in the cemetery, her chubby hands folded in prayer. Her hair and dress have been molded to give the appearance of movement; their fluttering is permanent. The angel’s feet are bare. With her outspread wings she seems to be watching over the cemetery’s residents.
A maroon-colored car approaches. Its engine is loud and rattles and the car is old and in need of repair. The driver pumps the brake to get the car to stop and turns it off. After trying, unsuccessfully, to open his door, the driver curses and climbs out through the passenger’s side.
The man walks slowly and slightly hunched forward, though he is no more than 35 years old. His clothes are rumpled and he very likely slept in them. He is probably handsome, blond and blue-eyed, but his face is so contorted with sadness that it is hard to be certain. He hasn’t shaved in weeks. The man shuffles toward the angel and stops in front of it.
He stares at it for some time. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes and finally, he lays his head against the base of the statue, near the angel’s feet. The concrete is cool against his skin and he is thankful that he chose the angel, though he could no more afford her than he could afford his own rent.
Now he is sliding to his knees, a wail of grief silent on his lips, and he covers his face with his hands. His wife filed for a divorce today and he will not fight it. Their loss has created a rift that they cannot mend. The man lets his hands fall from his face and he looks at the angel whose hands are folded in a gesture mimicking his own. She seems to be telling him to keep it together for just a little longer.

Blueberry Pie

Original Submission for the Experiment and Tradition Module:

Blueberry Pie

A velociraptor enters my diner, shaking its head
it ordered a blueberry pie this morning
when he got it home he realized
it was undercooked.

I apologized,
feeling awkward while
it explained that today was his only day
off and now it was wasted.

I noticed that its claws were filed
To a blunt edge
It tapped them on the counter
while I boxed up another pie.

Apologizing again, I watched it leave
his tail swinging slowly
back and forth
still shaking his head.

Now with Gary's revision suggestions:

Blueberry Pie

A velociraptor enters my diner, shaking its head
it ordered (wrong verb tense or change "enters" to past tense) a blueberry pie this morning
when he got it home he realized
it was undercooked.

I apologized,
feeling awkward while
it explained that today was his only day
off and now it was wasted.

I noticed that its claws were filed
To a blunt edge
It tapped them on the counter
while I boxed up another pie.

Apologizing again, I watched it leave
[his](need that?) tail swinging slowly
back and forth
still shaking his head.

INteresting, Carol. There's medicine for velociraptor issuues. You don't need to suffer:) Again, review my comments and suggestions for direction.
Gary

Final Submission:

Blueberry Pie

A velociraptor entered my diner, shaking its head
it ordered a blueberry pie this morning
when he got it home he realized
it was undercooked.

I apologized,
feeling awkward while
it explained that today was his only day
off and now it was wasted.

I noticed that its claws were filed
To a blunt edge
It tapped them on the counter
while I boxed up another pie.

Apologizing again, I watched it leave
tail swinging slowly
back and forth
still shaking his head.

Paddle

Original Submission for the Music and Metaphor Module:

We fill the photograph’s space, my father and I,
though small pieces of the scene are visible
we are in a canoe
a fishing net,
an oar and choppy gray-blue waves reflect
trees, some with leaves some with bare branches
behind us the sky has no clouds.

I am four years old
my father is drinking a beer
my mother is behind
the camera’s lens where she hides.
Our hair matches exactly, brown
and gold and messy and we
scowl at the camera
at her
at the unwelcome interruption.


My father already knows that he wants a divorce
in this photo
already has plans to rent an apartment
and the divorce counselor does not
ask me who I want to live with
they divide me between them
they learn to share and soon
my mother will have two new children to
focus on and won’t complain when
I move to my father’s.

Look. The print is faded.
He’s been dead one year
and seven months. I paddle the canoe across
the lake until my arms ache, paddle
so hard that my chest burns, paddle
all the way home.


Now with Gary's revision suggestions:

Pieces

We fill the photograph’s space, my father and I,
though small pieces of the scene are visible
we are in a canoe
a fishing net,
an oar and choppy gray-blue waves reflect
trees, some with leaves some with bare branches
behind us the sky has no clouds. (outstanding stanza great use of line breaks)


I am four years old
my father is drinking a beer
my mother is behind
the camera’s lens where she hides.
Our hair matches exactly, brown
and gold and messy and we
scowl at the camera
at her
at the unwelcome interruption.


My father already knows that he wants a divorce
in this photo
already has plans to rent an apartment
and the divorce counselor does not
ask me who I want to live with
they divide me between them
they learn to share [their divided daughter]just a suggestion and soon
my mother will have two new children to (I’m confused your siblings? Who??
focus on and won’t complain when
I move to my father’s.


Look. The print is faded.
He’s (I think you need to tell us this is your father—for clarity) been dead one year
and seven months. I paddle the canoe across
the lake until my arms ache, paddle
so hard that my chest burns, paddle
all the way home.

Outstanding work, Carol. If I’m not mistaken, you had concerns about writing poetry, but I think it’s where your natural voice lives. Review my comments and suggestions throughout for direction.
Gary

Final Submission:

Paddle

We fill the photograph’s space, my father and I,
though small pieces of the scene are visible
we are in a canoe
a fishing net,
an oar and choppy gray-blue waves reflect
trees, some with leaves some with bare branches
behind us the sky has no clouds.


I am four years old
my father is drinking a beer
my mother is behind
the camera’s lens where she hides.
Our hair matches exactly, brown
and gold and messy and we
scowl at the camera
at her
at the unwelcome interruption.


My father already knows that he wants a divorce
in this photo
already has plans to rent an apartment
and the divorce counselor does not
ask me who I want to live with
they divide me between them
they learn to share their divided daughter and soon
my mother will have a new husband to
focus on and won’t complain when
I move to my father’s.


Look. The print is faded.
My father has been dead one year
and seven months. I paddle the canoe across
the lake until my arms ache, paddle
so hard that my chest burns, paddle
all the way home.

Terminal

Original Submission for the Postcard Assignment

Henry had been working in the information booth of the Grand Central Terminal for 10 years. He’d taken the job in 1920, after he’d lost his job at a factory, intending on staying at the booth for only a few months to save up some money for his wife’s medications that never seemed to do much good. Instead, the cancer had killed her before his predicted months had passed, and he’d stayed on at the Grand Central. It seemed to him that working long hours here was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home, missing his dead wife. Each of his working days he stood in the booth, watching people. Some hurried past the information booth, while others stood around in groups and chatted. There were always couples parting; women and men who couldn’t stand being apart but for whatever reason, had to say goodbye. Smartly dressed children traveled with their parents and Grand Central employees scurried back and forth. Many travelers remembered him and stopped to say hello. Eventually someone would ask about the history of the place and Henry never tired of reciting the information. In October of 1871 the Grand Central, then called the Grand Central Depot, had opened. It had cost the enormous sum of 6.4 million dollars to build and was designed by architect John B. Snook. By the time Henry started to describe the 1902 train collision that had killed 17 people and injured 38 more, his audience was usually leaning in closely; Henry was a very engaging speaker.
His days off were also spent at the Grand Central, doing very much what he did while he was at work. Henry stuck close to the information booth, in case the young woman that worked for him on his free days could not answer questions that the patrons had. He swept when the floor became dirty and picked up discarded tickets and cigarette butts. Henry’s son, a grown man living six blocks from Henry’s apartment, would often ask him why he didn’t just stop working at the Grand Central and enjoy the rest of his years at home. He surely didn’t need the money. His son was, like many young men, preoccupied with leisure. He spent very few hours at work but was somehow still wealthy. Henry didn’t bother to explain to his son what the Grand meant to him since his son did not understand that you could love something so much that it seemed to capture and hold you to it. Still, everyday his son would come and bring Henry a sandwich in a brown paper sack. When Henry became ill his son complained to him that the long hours at Grand Central, inhaling all of those fumes and smoke, was to blame.

Henry worked at Grand Central Terminal until his death because, as he’d always said, when the sunlight streamed through the Grand’s windows it was like coming home.

Now With Gary’s Suggestions:

Title?

Henry had been working in the information booth of the Grand Central Terminal for 10 years. He’d taken the job in 1920, after he’d lost his job at a factory, intending on staying at the booth for only a few months to save up some money for his wife’s medications that never seemed to do much good. Instead, the cancer had killed her before his predicted months had (a bit wordy) passed, and he’d stayed on at the Grand Central. It seemed to him that working long hours here was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home, missing his dead wife. Sad!
Each of his (omit) working days he stood in the booth, watching people. Some hurried past the information booth (get rid of), while others stood around in groups and chatted. There were always couples parting; women and men who couldn’t stand being apart but for whatever reason, had to say goodbye. Smartly dressed children traveled with their parents and Grand Central employees scurried back and forth. Many travelers remembered him and stopped to say hello. Eventually someone would ask about the history of the place and Henry never tired of reciting the information (change to “script”). In October of 1871 the Grand Central, then called the Grand Central Depot, had opened. It had cost the enormous sum of 6.4 million dollars to build and was designed by architect John B. Snook. By the time Henry started to describe the 1902 train collision that had killed 17 people and injured 38 more, his audience was usually leaning in closely; Henry was a very engaging speaker.
His days off were also spent at the Grand Central, doing very much what he did while he was at work. Henry stuck close to the information booth, in case the young woman that (who) worked for him on his free days could not answer questions that the patrons had. He swept when the floor became dirty and picked up discarded tickets and cigarette butts.
Henry’s son, a grown man living six blocks from Henry’s apartment, would often ask him why he didn’t just stop working at the Grand Central and enjoy the rest of his years at home. He surely didn’t need the money. His son was, like many young men, preoccupied with leisure. He spent very few hours at work but was somehow still wealthy. Henry didn’t bother to explain to his son what the Grand meant to him since his son did not understand that you could love something so much that it seemed to capture and hold you to it. Still, everyday his son would come and bring Henry a sandwich in a brown paper sack. When Henry became ill his son complained to him that the long hours at Grand Central, inhaling all of those fumes and smoke, was to blame. Henry worked at Grand Central Terminal until his death because, as he’d always said, when the sunlight streamed through the Grand’s windows, it was like coming home.

Revised after Gary’s Suggestions:

Terminal

Henry had been working in the information booth of the Grand Central Terminal for 10 years. He’d taken the job in 1920, after he’d lost his job at a factory, intending on staying at the booth for only a few months to save up some money for his wife’s medications that never seemed to do much good. Instead, the cancer had killed her before he knew it, and he’d stayed on at the Grand Central. It seemed to him that working long hours here was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home, missing his dead wife.
Each working day he stood in the booth, watching people. Some hurried past, while others stood around in groups and chatted. There were always couples parting; women and men, who couldn’t stand being apart but for whatever reason, had to say goodbye. Smartly dressed children traveled with their parents and Grand Central employees scurried back and forth. Many travelers remembered him and stopped to say hello. Eventually someone would ask about the history of the place and Henry never tired of reciting the script. In October of 1871 the Grand Central, then called the Grand Central Depot, had opened. It had cost the enormous sum of 6.4 million dollars to build and was designed by architect John B. Snook. By the time Henry started to describe the 1902 train collision that had killed 17 people and injured 38 more, his audience was usually leaning in closely; Henry was a very engaging speaker.
His days off were also spent at the Grand Central, doing very much what he did while he was at work. Henry stuck close to the information booth, in case the young woman who worked for him on his free days could not answer questions that the patrons had. He swept when the floor became dirty and picked up discarded tickets and cigarette butts.
Henry’s son, a grown man living six blocks from Henry’s apartment, would often ask him why he didn’t just stop working at the Grand Central and enjoy the rest of his years at home. He surely didn’t need the money. His son was, like many young men, preoccupied with leisure. He spent very few hours at work but was somehow still wealthy. Henry didn’t bother to explain to his son what the Grand meant to him since his son did not understand that you could love something so much that it seemed to capture and hold you to it. Still, everyday his son would come and bring Henry a sandwich in a brown paper sack. When Henry became ill, his son complained to him that the long hours at Grand Central, inhaling all of those fumes and smoke, was to blame. Henry worked at Grand Central Terminal until his death because, as he’d always said, when the sunlight streamed through the Grand’s windows, it was like coming home.


Show and Tell (pg 177)

Terminal

Henry had been working in the information booth of the Grand Central Terminal for 10 years. He’d taken the job in 1920, after he’d lost his job at a factory, intending on staying at the booth for only a few months to save up some money for his wife’s medications that never seemed to do much good. Instead, the cancer had killed her before he knew it, and he’d stayed on at the Grand Central. It seemed to him that working long hours here was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home, missing his dead wife.
Each working day he stood in the booth, watching people. Some hurried past, while others stood around in groups and chatted. There were always couples parting; women and men, who couldn’t stand being apart but for whatever reason, had to say goodbye. Smartly dressed children traveled with their parents and Grand Central employees scurried back and forth. Many travelers remembered him and stopped to say hello. Eventually someone would ask about the history of the place and Henry never tired of reciting the script. In October of 1871 the Grand Central, then called the Grand Central Depot, had opened. It had cost the enormous sum of 6.4 million dollars to build and was designed by architect John B. Snook. By the time Henry started to describe the 1902 train collision that had killed 17 people and injured 38 more, his audience was usually leaning in closely; Henry was a very engaging speaker.
His days off were also spent at the Grand Central, doing very much what he did while he was at work. Henry stuck close to the information booth, in case the young woman who worked for him on his free days could not answer questions that the patrons had. He swept when the floor became dirty and picked up discarded tickets and cigarette butts.
Henry’s son, a grown man living six blocks from Henry’s apartment, would often ask him why he didn’t just stop working at the Grand Central and enjoy the rest of his years at home. He surely didn’t need the money. His son was, like many young men, preoccupied with leisure. He spent very few hours at work but was somehow still wealthy. Henry didn’t bother to explain to his son what the Grand meant to him since his son did not understand that you could love something so much that it seemed to capture and hold you to it. Still, everyday his son would come and bring Henry a sandwich in a brown paper sack. When Henry became ill, his son complained to him that the long hours at Grand Central, inhaling all of those fumes and smoke, was to blame.
Henry worked at Grand Central Terminal until his death because, as he’d always said, when the sunlight streamed through the Grand’s windows, it was like coming home.

Opening Up Your Story (pg 225)

Henry had been working in the information booth of the Grand Central Terminal for 10 years. He’d taken the job in 1920, after he’d lost his job at a factory, intending on staying at the booth for only a few months to save up some money for his wife’s medications that never seemed to do much good. Instead, the cancer had killed her before he knew it, and he’d stayed on at the Grand Central. It seemed to him that working long hours here was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home, missing his dead wife.
Each working day he stood in the booth, watching people. Some hurried past, while others stood around in groups and chatted. There were always couples parting; women and men, who couldn’t stand being apart but for whatever reason, had to say goodbye. Smartly dressed children traveled with their parents and Grand Central employees scurried back and forth. Many travelers remembered him and stopped to say hello. Eventually someone would ask about the history of the place and Henry never tired of reciting the script. In October of 1871 the Grand Central, then called the Grand Central Depot, had opened. It had cost the enormous sum of 6.4 million dollars to build and was designed by architect John B. Snook. By the time Henry started to describe the 1902 train collision that had killed 17 people and injured 38 more, his audience was usually leaning in closely; Henry was a very engaging speaker.
His days off were also spent at the Grand Central, doing very much what he did while he was at work. Henry stuck close to the information booth, in case the young woman who worked for him on his free days could not answer questions that the patrons had. He swept when the floor became dirty and picked up discarded tickets and cigarette butts.
Henry’s son, a grown man living six blocks from Henry’s apartment, would often ask him why he didn’t just stop working at the Grand Central and enjoy the rest of his years at home. He surely didn’t need the money. His son was, like many young men, preoccupied with leisure. He spent very few hours at work but was somehow still wealthy. Henry didn’t bother to explain to his son what the Grand meant to him since his son did not understand that you could love something so much that it seemed to capture and hold you to it. Still, everyday his son would come and bring Henry a salami sandwich in a brown paper sack. The smell of the deli meat brought back memories of his wife fixing lunch for the three of them. When Henry became ill, his son complained to him that the long hours at Grand Central, inhaling all of those fumes and smoke, was to blame.
Henry worked at Grand Central Terminal until his death because, as he’d always said, when the sunlight streamed through the Grand’s windows, it was like coming home.

What’s At Stake? ( pg 94)

Terminal

Henry had been working in the information booth of the Grand Central Terminal for 10 years. He’d taken the job in 1920, after he’d lost his job at a factory, intending on staying at the booth for only a few months to save up some money for his wife’s medications that never seemed to do much good. Instead, the cancer had killed her before he knew it, and he’d stayed on at the Grand Central. It seemed to him that working long hours here was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home, missing his dead wife.
Each working day he stood in the booth, watching people. Some hurried past, while others stood around in groups and chatted. There were always couples parting; women and men, who couldn’t stand being apart but for whatever reason, had to say goodbye. Smartly dressed children traveled with their parents and Grand Central employees scurried back and forth. Many travelers remembered him and stopped to say hello. Eventually someone would ask about the history of the place and Henry never tired of reciting the script. In October of 1871 the Grand Central, then called the Grand Central Depot, had opened. It had cost the enormous sum of 6.4 million dollars to build and was designed by architect John B. Snook. By the time Henry started to describe the 1902 train collision that had killed 17 people and injured 38 more, his audience was usually leaning in closely; Henry was a very engaging speaker.
His days off were also spent at the Grand Central, doing very much what he did while he was at work. Henry stuck close to the information booth, in case the young woman who worked for him on his free days could not answer questions that the patrons had. He swept when the floor became dirty and picked up discarded tickets and cigarette butts.
Henry’s son, a grown man living six blocks from Henry’s apartment, would often ask him why he didn’t just stop working at the Grand Central and enjoy the rest of his years at home. He surely didn’t need the money. His son was, like many young men, preoccupied with leisure. He spent very few hours at work but was somehow still wealthy. Henry didn’t bother to explain to his son what the Grand meant to him since his son did not understand that you could love something so much that it seemed to capture and hold you to it. Still, everyday his son would come and bring Henry a salami sandwich in a brown paper sack. The smell of the deli meat brought back memories of his wife fixing lunch for the three of them. When Henry became ill, his son complained to him that the long hours at Grand Central, inhaling all of those fumes and smoke, was to blame. Henry’s doctor seemed to agree with his son and explained that the cigarettes mixed with the smells of the trains were causing an existing terminal condition to quickly become worse. If Henry stayed at the Grand, his doctor warned, he would not live more than a year. Henry worked at Grand Central Terminal until his death because, as he’d always said, when the sunlight streamed through the Grand’s windows, it was like coming home.

It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over (pg 239)

Terminal

Henry had been working in the information booth of the Grand Central Terminal for 10 years. He’d taken the job in 1920, after he’d lost his job at a factory, intending on staying at the booth for only a few months to save up some money for his wife’s medications that never seemed to do much good. Instead, the cancer had killed her before he knew it, and he’d stayed on at the Grand Central. It seemed to him that working long hours here was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home, missing his dead wife.
Each working day he stood in the booth, watching people. Some hurried past, while others stood around in groups and chatted. There were always couples parting; women and men, who couldn’t stand being apart but for whatever reason, had to say goodbye. Smartly dressed children traveled with their parents and Grand Central employees scurried back and forth. Many travelers remembered him and stopped to say hello. Eventually someone would ask about the history of the place and Henry never tired of reciting the script. In October of 1871 the Grand Central, then called the Grand Central Depot, had opened. It had cost the enormous sum of 6.4 million dollars to build and was designed by architect John B. Snook. By the time Henry started to describe the 1902 train collision that had killed 17 people and injured 38 more, his audience was usually leaning in closely; Henry was a very engaging speaker.
His days off were also spent at the Grand Central, doing very much what he did while he was at work. Henry stuck close to the information booth, in case the young woman who worked for him on his free days could not answer questions that the patrons had. He swept when the floor became dirty and picked up discarded tickets and cigarette butts.
Henry’s son, a grown man living six blocks from Henry’s apartment, would often ask him why he didn’t just stop working at the Grand Central and enjoy the rest of his years at home. He surely didn’t need the money. His son was, like many young men, preoccupied with leisure. He spent very few hours at work but was somehow still wealthy. Henry didn’t bother to explain to his son what the Grand meant to him since his son did not understand that you could love something so much that it seemed to capture and hold you to it. Still, everyday his son would come and bring Henry a salami sandwich in a brown paper sack. The smell of the deli meat brought back memories of his wife fixing lunch for the three of them. When Henry became ill, his son complained to him that the long hours at Grand Central, inhaling all of those fumes and smoke, was to blame. Henry’s doctor seemed to agree with his son and explained that the cigarettes mixed with the smells of the trains were causing an existing terminal condition to quickly become worse. If Henry stayed at the Grand, his doctor warned, he would not live more than a year. (My friend said that this needed a bit more explaining) His son told him to go rent a cabin in the Adirondacks and enjoy the peace and quiet. Henry refused; a peaceful, quiet life seemed lonely to him.
Henry worked at Grand Central Terminal until his death because, as he’d always said, when the sunlight streamed through the Grand’s windows, it was like coming home.

Final Submission

Terminal

Henry had been working in the information booth of the Grand Central Terminal for 10 years. He’d taken the job in 1920, after he’d lost his job at a factory, intending on staying at the booth for only a few months to save up some money for his wife’s medications that never seemed to do much good. Instead, the cancer had killed her before he knew it, and he’d stayed on at the Grand Central. It seemed to him that working long hours here was a hell of a lot better than sitting at home, missing his dead wife.
Each working day he stood in the booth, watching people. Some hurried past, while others stood around in groups and chatted. There were always couples parting; women and men, who couldn’t stand being apart but for whatever reason, had to say goodbye. Smartly dressed children traveled with their parents and Grand Central employees scurried back and forth. Many travelers remembered him and stopped to say hello. Eventually someone would ask about the history of the place and Henry never tired of reciting the script. In October of 1871 the Grand Central, then called the Grand Central Depot, had opened. It had cost the enormous sum of 6.4 million dollars to build and was designed by architect John B. Snook. By the time Henry started to describe the 1902 train collision that had killed 17 people and injured 38 more, his audience was usually leaning in closely; Henry was a very engaging speaker.
His days off were also spent at the Grand Central, doing very much what he did while he was at work. Henry stuck close to the information booth, in case the young woman who worked for him on his free days could not answer questions that the patrons had. He swept when the floor became dirty and picked up discarded tickets and cigarette butts.
Henry’s son, a grown man living six blocks from Henry’s apartment, would often ask him why he didn’t just stop working at the Grand Central and enjoy the rest of his years at home. He surely didn’t need the money. His son was, like many young men, preoccupied with leisure. He spent very few hours at work but was somehow still wealthy. Henry didn’t bother to explain to his son what the Grand meant to him since his son did not understand that you could love something so much that it seemed to capture and hold you to it. Still, everyday his son would come and bring Henry a salami sandwich in a brown paper sack. The smell of the deli meat brought back memories of his wife fixing lunch for the three of them. When Henry became ill, his son complained to him that the long hours at Grand Central, inhaling all of those fumes and smoke, was to blame. Henry’s doctor seemed to agree with his son and explained that the cigarettes mixed with the smells of the trains were causing an existing terminal condition to quickly become worse. If Henry stayed at the Grand, his doctor warned, he would not live more than a year. His son told him to go rent a cabin in the Adirondacks and enjoy the peace and quiet. Henry refused; a peaceful, quiet life seemed lonely to him.
Henry worked at Grand Central Terminal until his death because, as he’d always said, when the sunlight streamed through the Grand’s windows, it was like coming home.

The Fog

This is the poetry assignment from the Speak Memory module

Original submission:

The Fog

The fog rolls in, clammy and moist,
caressing my grandmother’s house and surrounding it completely.
I watch it happen and feel suffocated.

I quietly sit on the couch and read a book about a boy
who has such grand adventures that I almost vibrate with longing.
When a giggle escapes it is quickly slapped down
By my grandmother’s narrowed eyes, one gray and one blue.

The couch is covered in a thick crocheted blanket
of green, orange, cream, and brown.
It scratches my skin and leaves red welts on pale skin
I do not complain.

A large, gray, bearded schnauzer patrols the halls lined with photographs
though he is so old that his imaginary foes are blurred by blindness.
Black and white miniatures of relatives I have never met stare blankly from plain bronze and black frames.
Their mouths are tight-lipped and disapproving.

The fog rolls in, clammy and moist,
caressing my grandmother’s house and surrounding it completely.
I watch it happen
and feel suffocated.

Now with Gary's revision suggestions:

A Fog

The fog rolls in, clammy and moist, I love fog!
caressing good word here my grandmother’s house and surrounding it completely.
I watch it happen
and feel suffocated.


I quietly sit on the couch and read a book about a boy
who has such omit grand adventures that I almost vibrate with longing.
When a giggle escapes it is quickly slapped down
By my grandmother’s narrowed eyes, one gray and one blue. great stanza, just works


The couch is covered in a thick crocheted blanket
of need this word? green, orange, cream, and brown.
It scratches my pale skin and leaves red welts on pale skin omit (on pale skin)
I do not complain.


A large, gray, bearded schnauzer patrols the halls lined with photographs
though he is so old that his imaginary foes are blurred by blindness. yes
Black and white miniatures of relatives I have never met stare blankly from plain bronze and black frames.
their mouths tight-lipped and disapproving.


The fog rolls in, clammy and moist,
caressing my grandmother’s house and surrounding it completely.
I watch it happen
and feel suffocated.

Outstanding, Carol. Your strongest piece to date!! Review my comments for direction, and again, consider my comments, changes, and additions concerning your poem, for someplace in the middle is probably your finished piece.
Gary

This is the final poem:

The Fog

The fog rolls in, clammy and moist,
caressing my grandmother’s house and surrounding it completely.
I watch it happen
and feel suffocated.
I sit quietly on the couch and read a book about a boy
who has such freedom that I vibrate with longing.
When a giggle escapes it is quickly slapped down
by my grandmother’s narrowed eyes, one gray and one blue.

The couch is covered in a thick crocheted blanket
green, orange, cream, and brown.
It scratches my pale skin and leaves red welts
I do not complain.

A large, gray, bearded schnauzer patrols the halls lined with photographs
though he is so old that his imaginary foes are blurred by blindness.
Black and white miniatures of relatives I have never met stare blankly from plain bronze and black frames.
Their mouths tight-lipped and disapproving.

The fog rolls in, clammy and moist,
caressing my grandmother’s house and surrounding it completely.
I watch it happen
and feel suffocated.

Shears

This is the poetry assignment from the Introduction to Poetry module

Original submission:

Shears

They are reminiscent
Of something you’ve seen on the Discovery Channel.
The powerful jaws of a crocodile
Consuming its prize

Your fingers manipulate them quickly
Slicing and cutting with ease.
They are like the crocodile’s jaws
Traumatic, terrifying, and tragic.


Now with Gary's revision suggestions:

They are reminiscent do you need this word? I like it better w/out reminiscent.
Of something you’ve seen on the Discovery Channel. a lot of good this reference does for me :)
The powerful jaws of a crocodile
it consumes its prize

Your fingers manipulate them quickly again, do you need this??(them quickly)
Slicing and cutting with ease. consider getting rid of "and"
They are like the crocodile’s jaws
Traumatic, terrifying, and tragic. good sounds repetition

Again, Carol, consider my comments and suggestions for direction. Plus, I'd like to know why every new line uses upper case letters? That's an old fashion format by today's standards.
Gary

This is the final poem:

Shears

They are something
you will see on a nature show.
The powerful jaws of a crocodile
it consumes its prize.

Your fingers manipulate
slicing, cutting with ease.
They are like the crocodile’s jaws
traumatic, terrifying, and tragic.

The Ogre and the Girl

This is the short story assignment from the Plot, Perspective and Point of View Module

Original Submission:

The Ogre and the Girl

Once upon a time there was a young girl whose quest it was to free her village from the terribly high tax laws that an evil king imposed on them. Many villagers were starving and sick because of their inability to pay for food or health care. Though she did not know exactly how she would make the tyrant listen to reason, she knew she must try.
The king lived several days’ ride from her home, so she borrowed her father’s snowy white horse and set out on her journey. The girl soon realized, however, that the horse was much thinner and weaker than he used to be, and did not have enough energy to take her all the way to the evil king’s castle. “I know that you are tired and hungry. I will come back for you and, once the king fixes that horrible tax law, you will be fat with grain!” The horse snorted and rolled its’ eyes as she tethered him to a tree.
Now on foot, she continued on her way. She hummed and skipped as she went along but, after only a few short hours, she knew that she was lost and too exhausted to go any further. Her feet ached and, with the sun slowly going down, she became panicked. “Please, somebody help me”, she cried, “I am terribly lost!” Almost immediately, a huge ogre appeared.
“I see that you are lost and in need of help,” said he, “I believe that I can offer assistance.”
“With all due respect, sir, I cannot possibly see how a big, stupid ogre could help me,” said she.
“I have something that will take you to wherever you wish to be.” He produced from his satchel a straw hat. “Put this hat on, make your request, and it will be done.”
The girl was worried that this gift might come at a cost, but when she asked what his price was, the ogre simply said that he wished for her to be successful in her journey, so that her people would be fat and healthy. Being so young, the girl did not think about it another moment and, closing her eyes, promptly put the hat on her head. “Please take me to the evil king’s castle, hat!” When she opened her eyes, she was in the king’s courtyard. She requested and, surprisingly, was granted, a meeting with king and so she began to make her speech. The tyrant listened to her and, she feared, was about to throw her out, when he surprised her by clapping his hands. He told her that in all of his years, he had never heard a better speech and would lift the tax law at once. It appeared that the straw hat had the magical power of persuasion, too.
When she returned to her village, a thunderous roar of applause greeted her. It seemed that an errand boy for the king had returned the tax money to the villagers. For the next few years, everyone grew fat and healthy and content.
Then, on the third year anniversary of the tax law removal, as the young and heroic girl was hanging up her laundry outside, she saw the ogre coming out of the forest towards her. When he reached her, he smiled and commented that, as he’d wanted, her villagers had become as fat as they could be. She nodded and thanked him.
“No need to thank me, it is I who should be thanking you. You, as naïve as can be, have single-handedly fattened up your villagers. I should thank you because that is exactly the way I like my food!” The young girl scarcely had time to protest when he picked her up and swallowed her whole.

Now with Gary’s revision suggestions:

Once upon a time there was a young girl whose quest it was to free her village from the terribly high tax laws that an evil king name? imposed on them. Many villagers were starving and sick because of their inability to pay for food or health care. Though she did not know exactly how she would make the tyrant listen to reason, she does she have a name? new she must try. purposeful narration and characters begining to take shape how about setting? Show readers what this village looks like
The king lived several days’ ride from her home, so she borrowed her father’s snowy white horse seems a bit predictable, the wht. horse, get crazy, since this is a "fantasy" tale, dig deeper into your bag of tricks:) and set out on her journey. The girl soon realized, however, that the horse was much thinner and weaker than he used to be, and did not have enough energy to take her all the way to the evil king’s castle. at this point I'd really like names, readers identify with names and how we see characters so dev. this people w/more dimension
“I know that you are tired and hungry. I will come back for you and, once the king fixes that horrible tax law, you will be fat with grain!” watch comma splice The horse snorted and rolled its' no apostrophe eyes as she tethered him to a tree. so here's what I'm thinking: a talking horse is unusual but not unique, which brings me to what I said above about getting crazy here, get my point?
Now on foot, she continued on her way. She hummed and skipped as she went along but, after only a few short hours, she knew that she was lost and too exhausted to go any further. farther Her feet ached and, with the sun slowly going down, she became panicked. “Please, somebody help me”,place comma inside qmarks she cried, “I am terribly lost!” Almost immediately, a huge ogre appeared. “I see that you are lost and in need of help,” said he, period here not comma “I believe that I can offer assistance.”
“With all due respect, sir, I cannot possibly see how a big, stupid ogre could help me,” said she. what's the ogre look like, sound like smell like etc??
“I have something that will take you to wherever you wish to be.” He produced from his satchel a straw hat. “Put this hat on, comma splice make your request, and it will be done.”
The girl was worried that this gift might come at a cost, but when she asked what his price was, the ogre simply said that he wished for her to be successful in her journey, so that her people would be fat and healthy. Being so young, the girl did not think about it another moment and, closing her eyes, promptly put the hat on her head. “Please take me to the evil king’s castle, hat!” When she opened her eyes, she was in the king’s courtyard. She requested and, surprisingly, why surprisingly? dev. show readers the conflict don't assume we know what you know was granted, a meeting with king and so she began to make her speech. The tyrant listened to her and, she feared, was about to throw her out, when he surprised her by clapping his hands. He told her that in all of his years, he had never heard a better speech and would lift the tax law at once. It appeared that the straw hat had the magical power of persuasion, too. what was the speech like? you're going to leave the readers hanging?
When she returned to her village, a thunderous roar of applause greeted her. It seemed that an errand boy for the king had returned the tax money to the villagers. For the next few years, everyone grew fat and healthy and content. for readers to believe in the success of her speech, we need to know its content in some form or another Then, on the third year anniversary of the tax law removal, as the young and heroic girl was hanging up her laundry outside, she saw the ogre coming out of the forest towards her. okay don't you remember how much comma splices make me nuts :) When he reached her, he smiled and commented that, as he’d wanted, her villagers had become as fat as they could be. She nodded and thanked him.
“No need to thank me, it is I who should be thanking you. read my mind You, as naïve as can be, have single-handedly fattened up your villagers. I should thank you because that is exactly the way I like my food!” great twist The young girl scarcely had time to protest when he picked her up and swallowed her whole. perfect ending

HI Carol. Fun story. REview my comments for direction Over-all I'd like to see more characterization and dev. on the setting. Your narration is on target. –Gary

This is the final story:

The Ogre and the Girl

Once upon a time there was a young girl called Mary who lived in a village located at the base of a very tall mountain. Each house in the village was a different combination of colors-a red house with a yellow roof, a blue house with a green roof, and so on. Mary had the daunting quest of freeing her village from the terribly high tax laws that an evil king named Yossarian imposed on them. Many villagers were starving and sick because of their inability to pay for food or health care. Though she did not know exactly how she would make the tyrant king listen to reason, Mary knew she must try.

King Yossarian lived several days’ ride from her home, so Mary borrowed her father's phoenix to ride and set out on her journey. Unfortunately while Mary and the phoenix were stopped at a stream for water the phoenix, like every phoenix eventually does, burst into flames and died.

Now on foot, she continued on her way. She hummed and skipped as she went along but, after only a few short hours, she knew that she was lost and too exhausted to go any farther. Her feet ached and, with the sun slowly going down, she became panicked. “Please, somebody help me,” she cried, “I am terribly lost!” Almost immediately, a huge ogre appeared. “I see that you are lost and in need of help,” said he. “I believe that I can offer assistance.”

“With all due respect, sir, I cannot possibly see how a big, stupid ogre could help me,” said she, eyeballing his oversized girth, his awkward fleshy fingers, and his oily gray skin. He smelled strongly of rancid meat. “I have something that will take you to wherever you wish to be.” He produced from his satchel a straw hat. “Put this hat on make your request and it will be done.” The girl was worried that this gift might come at a cost, but when she asked what his price was, the ogre simply said that he wished for her to be successful in her journey, so that her people would be fat and healthy. Being so young, the girl did not think about it another moment and, closing her eyes, promptly put the hat on her head. “Please take me to the evil king’s castle, hat!” When she opened her eyes, she was in the king’s courtyard. She requested a meeting with king Yossarian and was soon standing in front of where he sat on a great bejeweled throne and so she began to make her speech. She explained that people were starving and, if they died, who would be left for him to rule over? If he were a good and just king his subjects would follow him without question but if he continued to tax them to death there would almost certainly be talk of an uprising. The villagers would have no other choice. The tyrant listened to her and, she feared, was about to throw her out, when he surprised her by clapping his hands. He told her that in all of his years, he had never heard a better speech and would lift the tax law at once. It appeared that the straw hat had the magical power of persuasion, too.

When she returned to her village, a thunderous roar of applause greeted her. It seemed that an errand boy for the king had returned the tax money to the villagers. For the next few years, everyone grew fat and healthy and content.

Then, on the third year anniversary of the tax law removal, as the young and heroic girl was hanging up her laundry outside she saw the ogre coming out of the forest towards her. When he reached her, he smiled and commented that, as he’d wanted, her villagers had become as fat as they could be. She nodded and thanked him.

“No need to thank me. I should be thanking you. You, as naïve as can be, have single-handedly fattened up your villagers. I should thank you because that is exactly the way I like my food!” The young girl scarcely had time to protest when he picked her up and swallowed her whole.

Some Things Fall Apart

This is the short story assignment from the Characters, Dialogue and Setting module.

Original Submission:

The year that Anne turned thirty-four, she celebrated alone. Her husband called from his job as a bank manager on the morning of her birthday. She had been staring at herself in the cracked vanity mirror and did not realize that the phone had rung until she heard his smooth voice on the answering machine. She pictured him in his office, leaning back in his chair, his arms folded behind his head. She had once found his arrogance attractive.
“Hey beautiful. I’ll meet you at the restaurant where I first set eyes on you. 6:30. I’ll see you tonight.” He clicked off.
Anne frowned at her image. They hadn’t met at a restaurant. She knew this was his way of staying out late with someone else. He would insist he’d sat at some restaurant, on some street, waiting for her, and that she was the one who’d forgotten. Six years ago when they’d met, Anne had been working in a scuba diving gear shop. He’d been looking for diving gear to go diving in the bay with his boss. His smile had been easy, and she’d been attracted to that. Money had not been an issue, and she was attracted to that, too. Six weeks later, she had quit her sales clerk position and moved into his apartment with him. They got married on a whim one foggy Saturday morning. He said that she was too beautiful to bother with work, and instead she should start looking for a house for the two of them to build their life together. She’d scoured the real estate listings and made dozens of calls, and finally chose a house on the beach, old and big, but in excellent condition, or so the owner assured her. There was a trellis on either side of the front porch, with dark pink flowers growing and twisting up each one.
“The foundation is solid,” the owner assured her,” and it has a brand-new roof.”
Anne hadn’t been listening particularly closely; she’d been picturing her husband’s smile and the way he traced letters on her back, while she tried to guess what he’d written. She’d pictured herself sitting in the wide chair on the porch, while he husband plucked a few flowers from the trellis and wound them through her long dark hair. Every evening he would come home and cook dinner with her, popping blueberries into her laughing mouth. Of course, none of that happened. A week after they’d moved in, her husband started working late. Soon after, the pipes in the basement burst, and she’d run up and down the stairs, helplessly filling and emptying buckets. When she’d tried to call her husband at work, his assistant assured her that he would call her back. She’d fallen asleep waiting on so many occasions that she’s stopped calling at all. After the incident with the pipes, the house had slowly fallen apart. The wallpaper was peeling. The porch boards were loose. When it rained, the water would drip into the bathroom from the ceiling. Her husband never noticed a thing wrong with the house and every morning he’d say, I must be the luckiest guy around. I’ve got a beautiful wife and a beautiful house.” Anne wondered if he called his the women he’d been seeing beautiful too. Now, when he spoke to her, she could only hear the dripping ceiling and the creaking boards. She could feel it falling apart.
Turning from the mirror, she rolled the idea of living with his infidelities in her mind. It did afford her a lot of free time. She wandered into her husband’s office and sat at his computer to send an email to her mother. As she logged into the account, she noticed a small box next to his desk lamp. She hesitated only a moment before opening it. It was a lovely deep blue sapphire ring, set in white gold. She loved sapphires and thought that perhaps he had seen how he was hurting her. Turning the ring over between her finger she realized that the initials were not her own.

Now with Gary's revision suggestions:

title?

The year that Anne turned thirty-four, she celebrated alone. Her husband called from his job as a bank manager on the morning of her birthday. She had been staring at herself in the cracked vanity mirror and did not realize that the phone had rung until she heard his smooth voice on the answering machine. She pictured him in his office, leaning back in his chair, his arms folded behind his head. She had once found his arrogance attractive.
“Hey beautiful. I’ll meet you at the restaurant where I first set eyes on you. 6:30. I’ll see you tonight.” He clicked off. His voice clicked off? Anne frowned at her image. They hadn’t met at a restaurant. wow! tough blow! She knew this was his way of staying out late with someone else. He would insist he’d sat at some restaurant, on some street, waiting for her, and that she was the one who’d forgotten. Six years ago when they’d met, Anne had been working in a scuba diving gear shop. He’d been looking for diving gear to go diving in the bay with his boss. His smile had been easy, and she’d been attracted to that. Money had not been an issue, and she was attracted to that, too. Six weeks later, she had quit her sales clerk position and moved into his apartment with him. I can see the moving in part, but she quit her job too? Some backstory or commentary about Anne's "issues" is needed here to reconcile this extremely...hasty decision They got married on a whim one foggy Saturday morning. He said that she was too beautiful to bother with work, and instead she should start looking for a house for the two of them to build their life together. She’d scoured the real estate listings and made dozens of calls, and finally chose a house on the beach, old and big, but in excellent condition, or so the owner assured her. There was a trellis on either side of the front porch, with dark pink flowers growing and twisting up each one.
“The foundation is solid,” the owner assured her,” and it has a brand-new roof.”
Anne hadn’t been listening particularly closely; she’d been picturing her husband’s smile and the way he traced letters on her back, while she tried to guess what he’d written. She’d pictured herself sitting in the wide chair on the porch, while he husband plucked a few flowers from the trellis and wound them through her long dark hair. Every evening he would come home and cook dinner with her, popping blueberries into her laughing mouth. Of course, none of that happened. A week after they’d moved in, her husband started working late. Soon after, the pipes in the basement burst, and she’d run up and down the stairs, helplessly filling and emptying buckets. When she’d tried to call her husband at work, his assistant assured her that he would call her back. She’d fallen asleep waiting on so many occasions that she’s stopped calling at all. After the incident with the pipes, the house had slowly fallen apart. The wallpaper was peeling. The porch boards were loose. like her husband :) nice symbolismmmmmmmm When it rained, the water would drip into the bathroom from the ceiling. Her husband never noticed a thing wrong with the house really? that doesn't seem right to me. maybe he noticed (who doesn't notice burst pipes!) but looks elsewhere, like his so called marriage and every morning he’d say, "I must be the luckiest guy around. I’ve got a beautiful wife and a beautiful house.” Anne wondered if he called his the women he’d been seeing beautiful too. Now, when he spoke to her, she could only hear the dripping ceiling and the creaking boards. She could feel it falling apart. again, apt symbolism
Turning from the mirror, she rolled the idea of living with his infidelities in her mind. It did afford her a lot of free time. a biting good point She wandered into her husband’s office and sat at his computer to send an email to her mother. As she logged into the account, she noticed a small box next to his desk lamp. She hesitated only a moment before opening it. It was a lovely deep blue sapphire ring, set in white gold. She loved sapphires and thought that perhaps he had seen how he was hurting her. Turning the ring over between her finger she realized that the initials TMD were not her own.

Hey Carol,
Great story; excellent writing. Anne is truly an ordinary character in a very ordinary setting (fantastic symbolism) who finds something extraordinary that changes her life in a small but very significant way. Review my comments for further direction.

Gary

This is the final story:

Some Things Fall Apart

The year that Anne turned thirty-four, she celebrated alone. Her husband called from his job as a bank manager on the morning of her birthday. She had been staring at herself in the cracked vanity mirror and did not realize that the phone had rung until she heard his smooth voice on the answering machine. She pictured him in his office, leaning back in his chair, his arms folded behind his head. She had once found his arrogance attractive.
“Hey beautiful. I’ll meet you at the restaurant where I first set eyes on you. 6:30. I’ll see you tonight.” He voice clicked off.
Anne frowned at her image. They hadn’t met at a restaurant. She knew this was his way of staying out late with someone else. He would insist he’d sat at some restaurant, on some street, waiting for her, and that she was the one who’d forgotten. Six years ago when they’d met, Anne had been working in a scuba diving gear shop. He’d been looking for diving gear to go diving in the bay with his boss. His smile had been easy, and she’d been attracted to that. Money had not been an issue, and she was attracted to that, too. Six weeks later she moved into his apartment with him. They got married on a whim one foggy Saturday morning. He said that she was too beautiful to bother with work, suggesting that she quit her job, stay home, and start looking for a house for the two of them to build their life together. Anne readily agreed because she had always secretly wanted someone to take care of her. She’d scoured the real estate listings and made dozens of calls, and finally chose a house on the beach, old and big, but in excellent condition, or so the owner assured her. There was a trellis on either side of the front porch, with dark pink flowers growing and twisting up each one.
“The foundation is solid,” the owner assured her,” and it has a brand-new roof.”
Anne hadn’t been listening particularly closely; she’d been picturing her husband’s smile and the way he traced letters on her back, while she tried to guess what he’d written. She’d pictured herself sitting in the wide chair on the porch, while he husband plucked a few flowers from the trellis and wound them through her long dark hair. Every evening he would come home and cook dinner with her, popping blueberries into her laughing mouth. Of course, none of that happened. A week after they’d moved in, her husband started working late. Soon after, the pipes in the basement burst, and she’d run up and down the stairs, helplessly filling and emptying buckets. When she’d tried to call her husband at work, his assistant assured her that he would call her back. She’d fallen asleep waiting on so many occasions that she’s stopped calling at all. After the incident with the pipes, the house had slowly fallen apart. The wallpaper was peeling. The porch boards were loose. When it rained, the water would drip into the bathroom from the ceiling. Her husband pretended not to notice the house’s disrepair and every morning he’d say,"I must be the luckiest guy around. I’ve got a beautiful wife and a beautiful house.” Anne wondered if he called his the women he’d been seeing beautiful too. Now, when he spoke to her, she could only hear the dripping ceiling and the creaking boards. She could feel it falling apart.
Turning from the mirror, she rolled the idea of living with his infidelities in her mind. It did afford her a lot of free time. She wandered into her husband’s office and sat at his computer to send an email to her mother. As she logged into the account, she noticed a small box next to his desk lamp. She hesitated only a moment before opening it. It was a lovely deep blue sapphire ring, set in white gold. She loved sapphires and thought that perhaps he had seen how he was hurting her. Turning the ring over between her finger she realized that the initials JKL were not her own.