CYOA:This Must Be the Place

When watching Prime I was astounded by the sense of intimacy the filmmakers achieved in their work. In under ten minutes I felt like I had a good sense of what Prime Burger was like. The interviews were calm and natural and the immaculate camera work was captivating and revealing. Many of the slow pans across the front of the restaurant were effective because, to me, they reflected the relaxed atmosphere of the place. Shots varied from close-ups on food to minute capturing of wall fixtures.

Film as a profile has a visual element working to its benefit. Where lines of words would normally need to be deployed, the filmmaker can instead just show this through the lens. But Prime did not feel like a lazy documentary; the cameramen used their equipment like pens to craft a cohesive narrative. The interviews augmented the work as well and tied everything together.

CYOA Response: Gamer

"The Most Dangerous Gamer" felt more like a portrayal of Taylor Clark's admiration of Jonathan Blow than an in-depth depiction of his character. Perhaps what made me think this was her choice to insert the bit of dialogue in which she analyzes the meaning of his previous game. I get it. This what supposed to inform non-gamers about Blow's past work. However,  instead of being intrigued by the atomic bombs, I was appalled by Clark's blatant bragging. You made Blow smile. Great.

And if that was not enough self-indulgence, Clark transcribes Marc ten Bosch's rant about some 'fourth dimension.' The article lost me here. Because Clark did a poor job of earning my attention and trust in the first part of her profile, I was not willing to attentively read about game play-intensive analysis.

Clark clearly admires Blow. She at one point in the article calls him a "Spiritual seeker," an alliteration I find vague and inaccurate. That Blow could be pursuing profound spirituality through the context of a video game was not justified in her article. I felt as if I hardly got a handle on Blow, perhaps knowing only that he was, as Clark constantly reminded us, very wealthy and successful.

Maybe this is all just a reaction stirred up by the fact that I am an outsider to the video game world. A non-gamer. But Clark could have at least extended a hand and invited me in, if only briefly.

Reading Response: Telling True Stories

Because there were so many disparate messages and bits of advice in our reading for the week, I am going to focus on one story in particular to ground my discussion. Phillip Lopate's "The Personal Essay and the First-Person Character" was a useful article on the multifaceted nature of the word "I" in a personal essay. Lopate begins by acknowledging the importance and basic need for a writer to use the word when writing about one's self. The problem is not in the usage of the word but rather in the assumed weight it carries. Lopate says in page 78, "I swarms with a lush, sticky past and an almost fatal specificity, whereas the reader encountering it for the first time in a new piece of writing sees only a slender telephone pole." What Lopate is saying is one must build up this "I" with specific details that distinguish the first person in the narrative. This resonated with me because I will often drop an "I" in a personal essay and assume it says more than it really does.

To remedy this problem, Lopate suggests we strengthen our work with conflict. Through conflict an original narrator is born. Conflict in a story has the potential to both test the narrator and cause specific details about one's life to be revealed. To fully achieve this status of well-rounded narrator, one must distance one's self from the writing in order to better understand how the reader will view your work.
Lopate's article was a useful tool for sharpening my first-person narration and like the rest of "Telling True Stories," is something to which I will be often referring.

Response to Shooting an Elephant

Orwell's brilliant narration and gift for story-telling are seen throughout "Shooting an Elephant." Having read his memoir, "Down and Out in Paris and London," I was accustomed to Orwell's no-nonsense style of non-fiction. In "Down and Out," Orwell recounts his experiences of poverty in the two cities to expand upon a greater theme of human suffering. In "Shooting an Elephant," Orwell uses his experience as an officer in Burma to critique imperialism and its effects on everyone involved. What was most climatic for me was when he was holding his gun and looking at the elephant, realizing that he was there against his will, feeling mainly like an 'absurd puppet.' His pressure did not come from his higher-ups but instead from the thousands of natives around him. He felt compelled to shoot the elephant because it was what the people expected him to do. The image of a single British officer surrounded by a crowd of Burmese citizens is very striking and potent. It symbolizes the absurdity of the British rule in the area. How so few people could rule over such a populous country is as amazing as it is perplexing. Perhaps in Burma the British were not so different from the mammoth elephant at which Orwell shot: a dwarfing power whose presence would soon be terminated.

Floating People (2)

Floating People

Cam Stewart

There is a line of cars waiting to leave the island. It grows with each halting Saab and Cadillac. To leave Grosse Ile, an island in the Detroit River, one can choose from two bridges: the Toll Bridge or the Free Bridge.

Today I was without tokens and chose the Free Bridge- an obvious mistake. The bridge is now sluggishly opening to make way for an approaching barge or recreational yacht. When a bridge opens, a large red light glows over the entrance. This means there is no escape. Unless you are in the very rear of the line, you are forced to wait while your day is put on hold for an oversized boat. Such an absurd inconvenience is the humor of living on an island.

Grosse Ile is tucked between Canada and a town called Trenton. Roughly 10,000 people reside on the island, most of whom frequent one of the many golf and yacht clubs.

Behind me the line of cars is now spanning the length of Grosse Ile Parkway. The Dirtbombs’ raucous guitars blast from my speaker for a moment before fading out. During the fade-out, I hear the siren of an ambulance. First a light whistle, the sound builds into a piercing cry as it joins the line of cars. I wonder whether or not the driver will commit to waiting with the rest of us, leaving its desperate passenger to the mercy of an open bridge. Or will it turn around; pull a sharp U and head for the Pay Bridge?

The image of an injured person pawing at the walls of the motionless ambulance makes me feel a strange anger. It is not so much directed at the bridge, but at the helpless situation.

I think of how many times I have crossed this bridge without even acknowledging it. So frequently have I driven over the water, seen the shimmering river below me and thought nothing of it.

Life on an island involves constant leaving and returning. Because we are surrounded by water, we are not a physical part of the continental United States. However subtle this disconnect may seem, it is at play in the conscience of every island resident. When we are leaving home we are returning to the mainland, when we are leaving the mainland we are returning home.

And because of our physical disconnect, we establish for ourselves our own identity- one of tennis courts and swimming pools, one of kayaks and Sperry’s. While I used to think of these things as unique, I see now they are characteristic of infinite other suburbs. Over the years I have been digging deeper to find a defining feature of my hometown- I have found it in the way Grosse Ile blends the American dream with wild plant and animal life.

There are no white picket fences to mark property lines. We have trees instead. Pine and maple trees dwarf many of the houses; their bodies are nature’s demarcation. The lush vegetation on our island also helps diminish the 1950’s nuclear-family-image you might expect. That, and the coyotes.

Coyotes roam the island, often favoring the open terrain of golf courses, feeding on the infinite population of deer and rabbits. Twice I have seen them, crossing the street like pedestrians, carrying themselves to another forest.

 On summer nights it is not unusual to hear the hum of a jet ski echoing from the river, the buzzing of cicadas singing their August hymn and the howls from a pack of coyotes. It is a strange, sonorous harmony found only on Grosse Ile.

But our floating town is not a famous place. We residents of Grosse Ile locate ourselves to the unfamiliar by holding up our right hand and pointing to a vague space below our thumb. We are the small tear of land in the Detroit River. When we cannot hold up a hand to locate our town, we describe it in rough proximity to Detroit. To someone out of state, Grosse Ile becomes “About 25 minutes south of Detroit.”

We dwell on a place we feel is unique and charming, but are forever finding it to be non-existent to the rest of the world. Once a troublesome thing, I now find the mystery of Grosse Ile to be of great intrigue.

That few people have seen the sunrise over Canada from our shores gives me a sense of pride. I scan up and down the line of cars and am thankful to live in a place that is both distant and similar to the rest of the state.

Somewhere in the back I notice the ambulance is still flashing its lights. People are now exiting their cars to see what the prolonged delay is all about. I see two men from separate cars shake hands, smile and then point to the bridge, acknowledging their familiarity with both each other and the situation. They gesture and talk like two people in on the same joke.

Just as the men get back inside their respective vehicles, I see the ambulance cut and maneuver into the opposite lane. As it completes its 180-degree turn, it restarts its siren and drives hastily away from our line. In a quick dissolve it makes its way for the Toll Bridge, leaving our town of mysterious beauty.

Franklin Outline

Complication: Bridge Opens and I am forced to wait in a line of cars
Development: 1. I think about how many times I have crossed the bridge
                       2.By doing so, I re-assess island life and what defines my hometown
                       3. I realize the things that actually make Grosse Ile unique
Resolution: I find that Grosse Ile is both similar to Michigan but also different. What defines the islands is its strange beauty and location and in this I redefine how I view home.

Choose Your Own Assignment

New Yorker Sonic Youth Piece


Sasha Frere Jones'  article on the legendary band Sonic Youth is a fine example of profiling a group of people. He combines lush, descriptive language with concrete history to weave a narrative that is both insightful and engaging. 
We chose this article because we thought it was a good example of how to write about music and audio, and we thought that reflecting on writing about something that is heard could give the class an advantage when it comes to doing our final audio-based project. 

1. How does Frere-Jones use non-music specific language to describe to the reader what he is hearing?
2. How does Frere-Jones use the band's latest release to expand and reflect upon the band's 30-year history?
3. Do you think that Frere-Jones integrates elements of storytelling and fact (such as album releases, changes in band lineup, etc) in such a way that the profile flows and is cohesive?

Reading Questions

In "Mrs. Kelly's Monster," Franklin diverts the focus from Mrs. Kelly to Dr. Ducker. Initially reading the story, one would think it was Mrs. Kelly's story. However, later in 'Writing for Story," Franklin explains it was a piece on Dr. Ducker. Where in the story did Franklin provide insight into Ducker's experience? How early did he foreshadow that this piece would focus on the struggles faced by Ducker?

In Section Five, Franklin describes the importance of a 'Resolving Focus.' Why is this resolve so essential to a piece, and does it always have to be structured at the end of a work?

'Writing for Story' Response

Jon Franklin's guide to storytelling was overall a useful read, one often filled with potent tips to craft a fine piece of journalism. His book read like that of a man reflecting heavily on his successes and sharing them with his reader. While for the most part I was pleased to read about these narrative triumphs, his statements of bragging sometimes weighed the prose down with ego.

Introducing us early on with his work was a strong technique. It allowed the reader to analyze the work of the man teaching you his lessons. "Mrs. Kelly's Monster" was a well-organized piece that was fully aware of its overall intention: to bring the reader into the mind of Dr. Ducker through the vehicle of Mrs. Kelly and her condition. When I first realized this I thought it was a cold technique, I I thought he should have focused more on the tragedy of Mrs. Kelly's death. Reading further into his book, however, showed me that a piece of narrative journalism does not have to have a happy ending. As long as that ending expands on some greater human condition. In this case it was Dr. Ducker's ability to transition from one failure into  pursuing something he could conquer. One issue I had with his piece, perhaps stemming from my background in fiction writing, was his dependence on the usage of onomatopoeia. All of the 'pop pop pop's' felt a bit trite.

Franklin's book assessed many key parts to crafting a captivating, fresh piece. In section Five he outlines structure. Something with which I was previously unfamiliar was the "Complicating Focus." Franklin writes, "The first focus in any story is the 'complicating focus.' This is the one in which the writer sets the stage for, and finally reveals, the event that complicates the character's life," (Franklin, 100). What Franklin is describing is the importance of placing other minor focuses on details in the character's life, all of which will eventually hook the reader and call back to one another.

Franklin also emphasized the importance of finding a story with a complications and resolution. A story without one or the other will be an uninteresting to a larger audience. "A resolution, like a complication, can either be physical or psychological, external or internal," (Franklin, 77). Here Franklin explains that a resolution does not have to be some neat, happy ending. What instead needs to occur is a significant change, for better or worse, in the character's life or conscious.

Franklin's book on craft was an interesting look into the mind of a man with his fair share of successes in the journalism field. It's a guide to which I will be referring often.

Writing for Lives

For most of college I have been writing fiction. I have been creating fictional characters leading fictional lives. Their actions are all the creations of my imagination. I decide what consequences their actions have. 
Therefore, writing an honest piece of non-fiction was initially a huge challenge for me. Suddenly I could not lie or expand in depth about a fictional character. What a dilemma. From writing this piece, I learned some valuable things, though. I was forced to judge closely the way my memory recalled certain events- such as that day I waited in an endless line to cross a bridge. Expanding on one event and taking it into another narrative about my hometown in general was also a great challenge. I still think I can improve on this. Through this piece I wanted to convey the problematic way I view my home town. My love for where I grew up is real, but it is not unconditional. I wanted to take the absurdity of an ambulance having to wait for a bridge to close and relate it to the greater theme of island life in general. This technique will be made more clear through a series of close revisions, looking at how each sentence is functioning in the piece as a whole. I want to further elaborate on the complex beauty of my hometown while expanding on this greater theme.

Floating People

Cam Stewart

There is a line of cars waiting to leave the island. It grows with every halting Saab or Cadillac. To leave Grosse Ile, an island in the Detroit River, one can choose from two bridges: the Toll Bridge or the Free Bridge.

Today I was without tokens and chose the Free Bridge- an obvious mistake. The bridge is now sluggishly opening to make way for an approaching barge or recreational yacht. When a bridge opens, a large red light glows over the entrance. This means there is no escape. Unless you are in the very rear of the line, you are forced to wait while your day is put on hold for an over-sized boat. Such an absurd inconvenience is the humor of living on an island.

Grosse Ile is tucked between Canada and a town called Trenton. But we are not Canadian (and we certainly are not from Trenton!). Roughly 10,000 people reside on the island and many of these people frequent one of the various golf and yacht clubs.

Behind me the line of cars is now spanning the length of Grosse Ile Parkway. The Dirtbombs’ raucous guitars blast from my speaker for a moment before fading out. During the fade-out, I hear the siren of an ambulance. First a light whistle, the sound builds into a piercing cry as it joins the line of cars. I wonder whether or not the driver will commit to waiting with the rest of us, leaving its desperate passenger to the mercy of an open bridge. Or will it turn around; pull a sharp U and head for the Pay Bridge?

The image of an injured person pawing at the walls of the motionless ambulance makes me feel a strange anger. It is not so much directed at the bridge, but at the helpless situation.

I think of how many times I have crossed this bridge without even acknowledging it. So frequently have I driven over the water, seen the shimmering river below me and thought nothing of it.

Life on an island is a series of leaving and returning. Because we are surrounded by water, we are not a physical part of the continental United States. However subtle this disconnect may seem, it is at play in the conscience of every island resident. When we are leaving home we are returning to the mainland, when we are leaving the mainland we are returning home.

And because of our physical disconnect, we establish for ourselves our own identity- one of tennis courts and swimming pools, one of kayaks and Sperry’s. Parents drive along the river to drop their children off at Middle School, watching the sunrise over the water. Our homes are a makeshift combination of the American Dream and wild plant and animal life.

There are no white picket fences to mark property lines. We have trees instead. Pine and maple trees dwarf many of the houses; their bodies are nature’s demarcation. The lush vegetation on our island also helps diminish the 1950’s nuclear-family-image you might expect. That, and the coyotes.

Coyotes roam the island, often favoring the open terrain of golf courses, feeding on the infinite population of deer and rabbits. On summer nights it is not unusual to hear the hum of a Jet Ski echoing from the river, the buzzing of cicadas singing their August hymn and the howls from a pack of coyotes. It is a strange, sonorous harmony found only on Grosse Ile.

Like a giant exhalation from Canada, the wind blows waves that scrape at our shores. When winter comes and the waves subside, the river freezes; the white space like a natural bridge to a foreign country.

However bizarre this place might seem, however famous you may guess it to be: it is not.  We residents of Grosse Ile locate ourselves to the unfamiliar by holding up our right hand and pointing to a vague space below our thumb. We are the small tear of land floating calmly in the Detroit River. When we cannot hold up a hand to locate our town, we describe it in rough proximity to Detroit. To someone out of state, Grosse Ile becomes “About 25 minutes south of Detroit.”

We dwell in a place we feel is unique and charming, but are forever finding it to be non-existent to the rest of the world. This residential contradiction can certainly make one feel as insignificant as someone living in a normal suburb!

Perhaps this is the source of our “GI Pride.” Perhaps we are slowly trying to come to terms with what the rest of the state already knows: that although we are floating we are no different from the rest of Michigan.

Somewhere in the back I notice the ambulance is still flashing its lights. People are now exiting their cars to observe the bridge clasp itself shut. I see two men from separate cars shake hands, smile and then point to the bridge, acknowledging their familiarity with both each other and the situation. This does not surprise me.

Just as the men get back inside their respective vehicles, I see the ambulance cut and maneuver into the opposite lane. As it completes its 180-degree turn, it restarts its siren and drives away from our line. In a quick dissolve the ambulance becomes distant, just one more vehicle crossing water to get from one part of Michigan to another. 

(For Lives)