"Jason"

            The letter was unexpected. He sat on the floor, staring at the envelope. Jenna. He hadn’t heard that name since it floated away with the oak leaves a few summers ago. He didn’t know many J names now that he thought about it. It wasn’t the Jenna on the return address that took him by surprise as much as the “Jason” inside.

            “Ed, what is that?” He shot up, turning around to face Leila, his wife. His pot pie cooking, Facebook stalking, dog breeding wife.

            “Nothing,” he said, not attempting to hide the envelope.

            She raised an eyebrow, “Then?”

            “It’s a work thing,” he said. He knew the word “work” would sift through her mind like nails on a chalkboard and she’d walk away swaying her birthing hips that can’t birth.           

            She shrugged, mimicking the image in his head perfectly as she went towards the living room.

            He opened the envelope again, forgetting how fast his heart was beating. Thump, thump, thumping on his guilt. One word stood out to him:

            CONSISTENT

            To think of what two little letters could do in front of that word almost made him laugh. Inconsistent. He could have had DNA 12, 13 or 12, 14 but he had 12, 15 and so did the tested “child”. He rubbed his thumb over the doctor’s handwriting at the bottom that read “Jason.”

            There were worse names. He knew Jenna picked that one because she used to cry from laughter at his fixation on little things like words and letters and whether the door was really locked.

            “I’m going to the grocery store,” Leila shouted. “Do you need anything?”

            He kept switching the sets of words that described his stomach and his soul. “No!”

            “No, thank you,” she said in an irritated tone. “No one respects me.”

            It’s true what they say about nagging. Husbands learn to block 90 percent of the nagging that doesn’t lead to a divorce and only briefly handle the other ten. He had gotten good at it after only five years of Leila after seven of Jenna. He had this idea that once he and Leila had make it eight years he could ignore all her nagging. They might get a divorce then but it would be okay because he would be over Leila. It was only an idea, though.

            He waited to hear the garage door close before picking up the home phone. He was one of the few members of his poker club that still had a house phone. It felt particularly heavy.

            He dialed five, then six, then ten digits. The ring bothered him because it seemed to get lower, lower, lower…

            “Hello?”

            “Oh, hi.” Her voice tickled his throat.

            “You called me, who is this?”

            “It’s Ed, Ed Bass?”

            “You got it?”

            “What?”

            “Did you get the letter or not?”

            “Oh—“ he gulped away from the phone. “Yeah, I did.”

            “And?”

            “It's dated five years ago."

            “Well, I was only pregnant for 9 months, what did you expect?”

            “So he’s a kid?”

            “It’s not like you would change any diapers, Ed. You hate dirt.”

            He laughed, surprising himself. “Should I meet him or?”

            “Should you?”

            “I just—“

            “You mean, may you?”

            “Yeah—“

            She coughed. There was some static and moving around of things that Ed couldn’t identify. He pressed his ear to the phone, wanting to absorb into it.

            “Hi,” a young, perky voice said.

            “This isn’t Jenna.”

            “Jason,” he giggled.

            Ed choked on his words. He set the phone done for a moment, a hand around his neck. He didn’t want to believe that he was unaware of the perky voice for five years. He hadn’t had the chance to overthink whether Jason learned to walk too late or too early, to say his first word with a lisp or without. He didn’t know what his first word was.

            “Jason, can you ask mommy something?”

            A giggle echoed, coming with a nod as Ed imagined it.

            “Ask her what your first word was.”

            He heard exchanged whispers.

            “Cheeeeeeeeese,” Jason said.

            “Cheese huh? That’s good.”

            “Gotta go dad.” Click.

             Ed desperately fought not to dial back. He should have said “goodbye, son.” or “son” or “bye, sorry son son my son.” Leila would be home in only a few minutes. The grocery store was a quick walk away and she took advantage of it to walk the huskies or poodles or whatever dog breed she was keeping this month. They had to win. They were her babies. He hadn’t felt that way no matter how many times he cleaned up their shit in the front yard.

 

            She had her babies so he could have his, right?

            He held the phone for a moment, setting it down after he heard the garage open. It wasn’t three more years till he was over Leila. It was three plus five plus the rest of Jason’s life.

            “I got some bananas,” Leila said, walking with three bags in hand. “A little help?”

            He grabbed a bag, setting it on the counter. Her hair frizzed out the way that Jenna’s didn’t and it bothered him.

            “I’m going to Wisconsin this weekend,” he said, pretending to be interested in the groceries.

            “What, why?” She took a can of beans from a bag.

            “Work. A conference.”          

            She nodded her head, “Was that the call?”

            “What?” He looked at her, confused. Then he remembered the perky voice. “Oh, yeah.”

            “You could’ve just told me right away,” she said, smiling. “Bring back some cheese.”

            He laughed. “Cheese, right.”

            He helped her put away the groceries, mentally calculating the little things that will lead up to meeting his baby for the first time.

Late Valentine's Day Prompt Post : "9, 10 Never Sleep Again"

           This wasn’t her first time here. The light fixture above her head flickered every thirty seconds. She knew because she counted them on her partially exposed thigh. She interpreted the flickering as Morse code from God: tequila Tuesday is not justified by coupling it with 50 cent tacos to create hashtag tequitaco tuesday. She laughed at herself thinking about hashtags in a room that hasn’t seen so much as a computer mouse in years.

            A deep thud echoed from the sole door that stood partially cracked open. She stretched her neck far enough to spot crimson stains on the door handle.  She bit her lower lip. All the movies that ever made her leave the light on at night alone in her flat seeped into her brain. She put her hands on the side of her head, hoping to shake “One, two, Freddy’s coming for you” out. She squeezed, unsure if she was hoping to take out the nightmare or praying for forgiveness for the nightmare she put herself in again.

            The door opened and a man with grey slacks, a tucked in off-white button down, and a loose tie stepped in. His eyes stared down at an open manila folder. This wasn’t the at least 210 lb man with severe rosacea. She hardly noticed her agape mouth. She relaxed in her chair, heat pooling into her cheeks as she felt a desire to smell the collar of his shirt so that it might tickle his neck. She bit her lip again, moving around her teeth the way she wanted to—

            “Miss—Ah, here we go. Lily, is it? And a Miss.”

            “Ex-cuse me?”

            He pulled out the chair across from her and took a seat, chuckling. “Oh, no no. I’m sorry, I can’t pronounce your last name.”

            “Vans-Bur-sick. Didn’t the other guy tell you?”

            “Other guy?” He looked up, pressing his lips together. “George? The uh—” he put his hands up around his waist a foot away from his shirt.

            She had unknowingly moved to the edge of her seat, leaning towards the table. She straightened her back attempting to look as uncaring as possible, crossing her arms. “Yeah, who are you?”

            He smiled. “I’m—”

            “No, you’re the good cop. And this isn’t necessary,” she said, lifting up her cuffed right hand.

            “I’m Adam Couldry.”

            “Well, thank God you didn’t say Freddy. I’m tired and pissed the fuck off, Adam. Mister, right?”

            His smile did a 180 that looked cute as hell and he set the manila folder on the table. “Lily—“

            “No. I already got hammered with questions about something I did not, I repeat, I did not do. This is my purse. I got it as a gift. I’m not even Christian,” she said, laying her head on the table. “Jesus Christ.”

            “We got the video footage back,” he said, handing her a stack of black and white still photos of the Nordstrom’s Lily wandered drunk in with her girl “friends”. She titled her head up enough to glance at the photos. He eyes burst like dandelion seeds. The slender woman in the photograph had hair two shades darker than her own. Random images of a knocked over pyramid display coupled with a trail of urine, no wait, tequila (right?) flashed in her head, fading even quicker. Déjà vu is one way to put it, she thought. The images continued to flash in and out to the echo of her own voice whispering “I’ll never do it again.”

            He began to organize them back into a pile, “You’re free to go. We know you didn’t take anything.”

            She stared at the table long after the pictures had been removed.

            “Miss, I mean, Lily? It’s getting late. You better get home.” He freed her hand, walking over to the door.

            She stood up, her heart dropping into her stomach. She was leaving. She remember last year shoved against the two way mirror, asked to whisper, always whisper to the people that heard it as yelling.

            “I’m so sorry to put you through this and on a Tuesday no less,” Adam said, holding the door open for her as her feet struggled to keep up with her legs.

            “It’s fine,” she said, feeling like the littlest girl in a Russian doll set.

            “I would offer to buy you tacos,” he laughed, “but they’ll be serving omelets in a few hours.”

            They exited the room into the unusually crowded hallway of uniforms. “I could go for one of those,” her voice cracked.

            He walked alongside her, an imaginary heater floating between them. “Oh, I mean. If you want?”

          She looked up at him, regretting it as soon she as she did. His eyes were a defibrillator to her buried pleasant feelings. Her heart was in her thighs by now. “Wh-what?”

            “I thought you were asking me to, uh, breakfast?” He scanned her face. “Wow, that is clearly inappropriate. I’m so sorry.

         She laughed, releasing the tension in her sweaty palms. “You apologize too much. I love breakfast.”

            “I get off at 7. Too early?”

            “Not early enough.”

            “Eight it is. The Broken Yolk across the way. Look for the cops standing outside with donuts in their hands.”

            She laughed harder than before, her heart back in her chest. A lady with a floor-length skirt pulled Adam aside and he disappeared into a filing room. She recognized the woman, forgetting her hair was black then. Her face bruised.

Her pace quickened as she got closer to the double doors at the entrance of the station. She clutched her purse as if it was the one Marge ran out with. The door were gray last night but she saw them blue as Adam’s eyes now. She thought about whether she would order a small dish, a big dish, or maybe two dishes to show she’s not guilty. She could stuff her face and hear the melody coming out of his mouth with the occasional head nod (sorry I’m eating and have drunchies from too much tequila and not enough tacos).

            When she got outside, the sun was peaking over the Broken Yolk. Cops cars lingered in front of it as lions would to their prey. She knew at any moment they might turn their heads to the scrawniest deer they’d ever see. Her stomach grumbled.

Lily began walking to where her car was park, less than surprised that it had been towed or borrowed by her “friends”.

             She crossed her arms, adjusted her coat, and went towards the city instead. She closed in on herself, putting together the pieces of last night’s advanced puzzle. Margaret (Marge) was there. Janie and Anne too. No, Anne bailed last minute. Marge saw the purse first. Lily touched the strap first. Anne would have said no.

            She rubbed her temples. She had laughed with Adam, but she might as well have been laughing at him. She stared at her boots clacking on the concrete. She was Freddy. She was the thing on the other end of the “3…4…lock the..."

            “Excuse me, Miss?”

            “I hate that word,” she said, turning to face a boy no older than seventeen with an apron around his waist. A hand drawn sign hung loose in his hands.

            She tilted her head, reading it: “Fresh scones, half off. Wow, how generous.”

            “They’re reallllly good. I promise.”

            “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” She took a step away, the thunder in her stomach sending a shower of laughter to the barista.

            He put a fist over his mouth to cover it up. “Being busy is okay too.”

            “I’m not--” she said, staring at the barista’s boring brown eyes. A knocking from inside her chest shook her. Adam’s face faded, the trail of tequila becoming a mustard-colored pool around a pyramid of designer purses. Numbers swam through the river, climbing up the shelves. Marge stood at the top, donuts floating out of her mouth.

            “Do you have…blueberry?”

            He smiled, nodding. “The size of your face if you could believe it.”

            “I’ll get a coffee too.”

Reader Response to Oates’ “Convalescing”

            I looked up “convalescing” before I began reading because I assumed it would play a role in the story. When I found the definition, the first thing that came to mind was an illness because that’s what I associate “recovering” with. I was impressed and shocked to come to find out that it was something even more complicated than that. I like that the beginning of the story is awkward because we have no idea what’s going on. There’s this random girl that David describes in comparison to his wife and we learn that he is answering her questions the way he thinks he should. I took this to mean that he wanted to appear to be normal because he was dying, but now that I understand the severity of his condition, I appreciate how Oates set us up for different possibilities before sending us in a distinct direction. Ambiguity reins the first couple of pages, especially when David displays emotional distance from Eunice: “He loved her but could not truly believe in this love” (1115). Is he distant because of his condition? Because he is just a bad father? We are eased into discovering his memory has been comprised instead of it being given to us all at once, which I enjoyed.

            The complexity of emotions that comes from losing one’s memory is carried out in the most intricate, beautiful way possible. Some phrases/sentences had be dumfounded to say the least. One passage in particular that struck me was “He was being drawn back into life like a minor thread, drawn into a complicated tapestry of vivid, major colors, a tapestry that would tolerate him” (1115). We get both the image of a thread that already tells us how far he is for reality, but the tapestry coupled with it encompasses his situation well. This image of the thread and tapestry is repeated, grounding me in some of the confusion he has with his own accident. Another line that hit me hard was “But David had not died and had lain bleeding for twenty minutes in the hot searing metal of his car, among the expensive smashed gadgets and ripped upholstery, while traffic went on by. Yet he did not truly remember those twenty minutes” (1118). I found this contradicting and powerful in the sense that he is constant battling between what he really remembers and what he is only learning throughout the whole piece. There is a constant tug and push that I almost found frustrating every time he got into a conversation with someone. For example, with Taylor he claimed he knew him, and then later asks who him and his wife are. I wanted to remember as much as he did even if I never knew them at all. I aligned myself with David because we both enter this story with beginner’s mind. It also scared me to even think about the possibility that I might not be myself.

            The wife’s affair completely took me by surprise. How terrible to remember the one thing you don’t want to remember? Although, the ending caught my interest, particularly: “Perhaps his wife had not committed adultery, perhaps he had imagined everything? He was still a convalescent and people must treat him with gentleness” (1126). I was wondering what the class made of this statement. Do you think he made up this situation? I can see it going either way because it’s odd and unrealistic for him to remember the one terrible thing that could happen. It’s even more suspicious that he makes the comment about his wife going to the parking garage alone because “it isn’t always just a woman’s purse they want” (1117). We get this dialogue before learning about the supposed affair so maybe David is just paranoid? But it could be that he wants to deny the affair completely and wants to blame his memory loss. He says people “need” to treat him nice, is that to say he is going to milk this fact in order to guilt trip his wife? But I also wonder why Oates ends with the mention of the affair. Maybe someone has a different interpretation of this ending.

           

Reader Response to Loh’s “My Father’s Chinese Wives”

           One thing that stood out to me was how consistent the voice is in this story. We have to get filled in on a lot of information that leads up to the point of a 70 year old man wanting to take up a new wife. This information was incorporated with the narrator’s humor so that it was more conversational. An example of this is in the beginning when she says: “Question: At this point, is my father even what one would consider marriageable?” (896). Not only does this peak my curiosity to learn about the dad, but it’s also a playful way of saying “are you serious?” I couldn’t help but picture this daughter about ready to bang her head into a wall several times throughout. I felt equally as irritated at the father throughout because of how close she brings us in just by the diction.

            At one point she repeats the fact that her father uses a “Frosted Flakes box” for everything, which I found hilarious. It’s funny, but because she repeats it I can tell how irritated she is as if she’s sitting right in front of me. Something else I appreciated that goes along with the cereal are all the little details the narrator includes to give us a better sense of the father, herself, and the sister. She tells us he does push-ups several times a day on the beach in a speedo, that Kaitlin hasn’t called her father in years, and that Jenna’s clients include “Kraft Foods and Motorola” (900). I found these to be enlightening to me personally because you can tell a lot about a character by what they do. We don’t get a lot of dialogue from each character, which usually would be a problem for me, but in this case it works because we have enough details to compensate.

            When Kaitlin and Jenna go home for dinner and the father makes the crude comment “This meat…is very greasy” (904), I thought the suspense built up to Zhou’s reaction was done well in such a short amount of time. This scene in particular stuck out to me because I normally wouldn’t expect much of someone making a mean comment, especially considering the father isn’t the nicest person. Yet, the narrator shows that “both sides of his mouth deepen,”  “Zhou Ping’s face goes blank,” and we get this paragraph of the narrator guessing what might happen. My heart started beating a little faster at this moment because I thought Zhou might hit him or something. And the suspense increases with Zhou titling her head back, ambiguously leading up to her tremendous laughter. Suspense is difficult to achieve, at least for me, because it’s hard to write something that’ll make the reader feel that anxiety/edge-of-seat sensation because your perspective might be different. But I think this is accomplished well because Jenna has built the entire story up to this particular moment effectively so that we find ourselves right there with her, scared of what the 70 year old man is going to do.  

Reading Response for “Events at Drimaghleen” by William Trevor

           I found most of my enjoyment from this story to come in weird, unexpected ways. I hope I’m not the only one who found it hilarious in certain parts, particularly in the beginning. I enjoyed the formal tone, such as in “On the farm, discussion was rarely apt; there being no profit in it; it followed naturally that grounds for disagreement were limited.” I couldn’t help but laugh at the seriousness of this statement because it’s a fancy way of saying the couple didn’t talk much. I also laughed (yes, out loud) to the assumptions the couple goes on when they’re driving to the Butler’s. They map out this whole scenario in their minds up to a year from the present without knowing what really happened.

I enjoyed the little details given at the beginning as well, such as the string that Mr. McDowd ties around his coat to go out to the cows. The details helped me picture this couple very average farm folk. The most intriguing aspect of this story is the realness of it. There’s a very harsh reality implemented throughout that I think the formal tone lends well to. It presents everything as is without a bias. One example of this is before the couple leave to find their daughter, the narrator says “The breakfast was placed on the table because no good would come out of not taking food.” I could relate to this well because when I’m distressed, I tend to think: might as well eat something. Everyone eats their feelings now and again, and it provided a good pause for the author to tell us more about the McDowds. The brutality of the scene at the Butler’s is something I appreciated because it spared no gruesome details. We get full emotion and the text reads like an emotional trance: “Mrs. McDowd screamed, and then she was aware that she was lying down herself, clasping Maureen’s body. A moment later she was aware that her husband was weeping piteously…” Phrases like “lead body” and “blood on the ground already turned browned” caused a chill up my spine, but a welcome one. I love creepy stories and I didn’t expect the story to take this turn.

I was thinking of what was said in class about not writing violence for the sake of violence. I wasn’t sure how you could write about real violence while having a purpose for it. I think this story is a good example of how violence is used to make a point. It is used to expose the naivety of the couple, the reality of the media and journalism in general. It shows what happens when city clashes with country. I could relate to what the Hetty Fortune and her partner were doing because I’ve worked for a newspaper before. Although they might have not been out to get the couple, they might as well have. The newspaper romanticizes their daughter and the events, at the same time treating her like a lunatic. I like that the author decides to include the article in the paper rather than summarizing it because we don’t know exactly what the couple talked about so it’s interesting to see what the newspaper has to say first. When we get the couple reactions afterwards, that’s when I kind of went “oh, shit.” The couple traded money for something they could not fully comprehend and it ended in a disastrous way. All of this sets up for no possibility of a happy ending, but as weird as it sounds, I loved that about the whole piece.

 

Reading Response for Danzy Senna’s “Admission”

            I was captured from the beginning. The opening line, “the letter was unexpected”, held a lot of weight. I asked myself, what letter and from whom? Or to whom? It’s the kind of line that a person should use to hook in a reader. From then on, I stayed hooked. I appreciated how easy it was to follow along. We move naturally from the letter to dialogue between Cassie and Duncan and then to when the two went to the Institute for the first time. The instances of flashback or background info didn’t feel out of place because Senna maintains homeostasis throughout.

            An example of this is on page three when someone from Cassie’s playgroup says “I head Will and Jada got wait-listed,” immediately followed by “The Institute for Early Childhood Development.” I knew the subject was going to focus on the school by that statement, yet Senna didn’t simply go on a rant about the school. She eases us into it through the circumstances that led to Duncan and Cassie eventually visiting the Institute. Another thing that made this story more accessible and easier to empathize with was the modern euphemisms and pop culture references. I’m known to read novels from way back when and a lot of things go right over my head. One line that stuck out to me was “You have to be Google-worthy.” Senna name drops celebrities I recognize to help illustrate how prestigious the school is, but this hit the mark. Being internet famous is all the rage so I completely understood how elite the families attending would be.

            The piece felt real, raw, and believable. I admire the topic being discussed, especially considering I go to Chapman. The whole private versus public school dilemma comes across many parents and can affect critical parts of your life. What I appreciate even more is that Senna takes this dilemma and goes through the emotions of it in the perspective of a mother from a poor background. If that kind of thin doesn’t spark sympathy and emotion, I don’t know what does. The line “neither  father not son saw her where she stood in the shadows” (15) perfectly encompasses Cassie’s dilemma. Her thoughts are being pushed aside while she tries to keep the best in mind for her family. Even if this is somewhat like a slice of life piece, the oddity of the woman Penny begging Cassie to come to the Institute really spices things up. I honestly didn’t know or completely understand her begging, but maybe someone else does and will mention it in class? I found it creepy to say the least.

            Something I love and tend to do in my writing is repeating specific images. Cassie fixates on the girl who’s hair burnt off. She brings it up in the beginning and then later on when she is holding Cody. She notes the outcome of that experience with Tasha as being when she told “her first lie, or the first she’d been conscious of telling, anyway” (32). Lying and flashbacks to school are recurring themes that aren’t overt enough for the casual reader to notice. Cassie brings up lying to others often, which I liked because the whole time she is fighting back her wishes to send Cody to the Institute and lying to herself. She recalls the details of her childhood and the kids she knew, but also some of Duncan’s experiences in school. She makes the comment that it seems “fresh” in his mind, keeping it fresh in my mind as well. It helped me understand that a lot of why Cassie wants Cody to go to the Institute is so he doesn’t have to be nice to a Tasha or be bullied by his name.

 

Reader Response to Ann Beattie’s “Snow”

           
            This was a whirlwind of a story. The little details such as the chipmunk and snowplow served as anchors throughout some of my confusion. I finished reading without completely understand the plot, but emotionally I think I grasped what Beattie wanted to convey. I liked that I got a good sense of the contrast between the narrator and her lover through the different perspectives each had about their time at the snow.

            The narrator sees her lover as a “crazy king of snow” and romanticizes many aspects of her time there. The fireplace is enchanting because it spurs all these stories that also have romantic elements to it. I could tell how in love the narrator was just by the things she picked up on. She sees the walls as having grapes with the “vine popping through, the way some plants can tenaciously push through anything”, which I saw as her seeing life and the romance flourishing.  The imagery is beautiful in this perspective and it made me believe that these things were exactly as they are. Until we get the lover’s perspective, I felt as convinced as the narrator that love was literally in the air.

            When the shift in tone occurs, we lose that white innocence for something darker, drearier. The narrator carries an emphasis on “night” and “black.” The lover has a more realistic, even pessimistic view of their time together. This is a story I think a lot of people can relate to and even learn from. We all tend to look at things we want through this narrow lens and are unable to use rationality to see what’s really going on. I find it interesting that we get the narrator’s intimate details about the event, but only an analysis of her lover’s. We know how she feels about the walls, the people, and the snow. Yet we don’t know how he feels about those things, perhaps because he didn’t think much of them at all? I also found it interesting that the chipmunk serves as a point of consistency for both persons. The characters view them differently, but they both see the animal running off to some purpose. I can't quite figure out how I feel about it, but it piqued my interest.

            My favorite part of this story is when the narrator poses the question: “Who expects small things to survive when even the largest get lost?” I found this true to the narrator because we only get the moments she chooses to share and not the other details. She has isolated the instances that are persistent in her mind because the bigger idea, which I saw represented through the image of snow, is that she loved someone and they didn’t love her back the way he should have. It’s the image of snow and the snowplow that carries weight even after she visits that place again. I related this to my life because there are some little things I remember so vividly and other times that span across months that I only remember vaguely.

           

 

Reader Response to Richard Bausch’s “Letter to a Young Writer”

   

            My first reaction to this is piece is: what didn’t I learn/admire? I initially appreciate the intro to the commandments, particularly “the last negative thing you head has sunk deeper into you and has lasted a longer time than any other comment.” I couldn’t find this to be any truer. One of the last workshops I did, I received several negative comments about my portrayal of setting. In essence, the majority said it just wasn’t there. This bugged me to the point of me overcompensating on my next piece. I didn’t think it was normal to internalize those criticisms, but if Bausch says it is, I can learn and move on.

The first two points Bausch makes, which is to read and imitate are important to me and go hand in hand. When I’m stuck, I like to look at other work for inspiration, even if I’m writing a chapter for a novel and going to read a poem. Often times I feel that my writing isn’t sophisticated enough or is missing some cohesive element to bring it together. Reading other authors helps me see the variety of styles there are when it comes to writing and allows me to experiment. I don’t read as often as I’d like, but I think I’m going to start following the six authors a year idea.

            Commandment number three is of the utmost important because of exactly what he says: “if you hope to produce something that will stand up to the winds of criticism and scrutiny of strangers, you’re going to have to work harder than you have ever worked on anything else in your life.” This is something I’m working on because I find every excuse in the book to set aside writing during the day to do other things that are clearly less productive. Talking to the other Creative Writing majors, I learned that very few of them do that much writing outside of what is required in classes and workshops. The best advice I’ve ever gotten was to write something every day, even if only for 5 or 10 minutes. I think the word that Bausch uses, which is “habit” is completely appropriate a goal I have. I want to make my writing a habit to the point where it equates to brushing my teeth in the morning.

            The last few points that struck me were to “do not think. Dream” and “don’t compare yourself to anyone.” I am the queen of overthinking. I find free writes both terrifying and rewarding because some of my best writing comes out that way. When I sit down at my laptop and try to plan a story, I realize my mistake is planning in the first place. I agree that I need to “just dream it up and let the thing play itself out as it seems to want to.” I think it’s great to view your writing as a living, breathing entity. It has a heartbeat and a mind that wanders just as much as you do, even if your thoughts and your writing’s thoughts do not match up. The other commandment of not comparing yourself to others is crucial because I think a lot of writers forget there is no specific way you need to write so it’s pointless to feel bad because someone else is praised for their work and you aren’t. There’s competition in any field, especially ones where there are no real rules to govern your writing.

 

Reader Response to Kate Chopin’s “The Story of An Hour”

           One thing I truly admired about this story was the transformation of the plot. The tone at the beginning paints Mrs. Mallard to be frail by talking about her “heart trouble.” Yet in just a short amount of space, the story eases into a tone that is less restrictive, more “free” as Mrs. Mallard says herself. I didn’t notice that things were changing because I became enwrapped in the story. Each paragraph of the story transitions well into the next one such that there is a continuous flow. An example of this is when she is sitting in the chair and she feels something “creeping out of the sky” and tries to “beat it back with her will.” Then she exclaims her freedom and “the look of terror” leaves her. I assumed the author was setting up for a deeper sense of grief that she would find in those clouds, but it turned out to be the opposite. It felt like a natural change and I believed it.

 

            I also appreciate the simplistic, yet moving descriptions in this piece. The author used diction that created a clear image in my head. One instance of this is when the narrator says “her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her.” This caused me to pause because it held a lot of weight in my mind and I imagined a bunch of random thoughts with legs running with picket signs through her head. Other powerful images such as “the delicious breath of rain was in the air” and “a sob came up her throat and shook her” minimized distance between me and Mrs. Mallard. Although the story is told from third person, I felt in tune to her thoughts and feelings because they were portrayed in an accessible way.  

            I was intrigued by the end of the story and had to ask myself why the author would choose to build up this incredible story about an elderly woman finding an escape from her mundane life only to have it thrown out the window when her husband comes back. I like the circularity of the piece so that it starts and ends with this “heart trouble.” I contemplated the last few words, “of the joy that kills”. My interpretation of this is that she was so consumed by the joy of having a reason to live out her long days that in the end it killed her because it was swept right from under her. This ending gave me a completely different perspective on the piece as a whole because we go from clouds, no obligations, to a sudden halt. Everything in the piece is gradual up until Mrs. Mallard’s death. It got me thinking about the title, specifically the “hour”. I’m not sure the exact time elapsed while she was in that room but I like to think she was at peace for that hour, but like all things, time goes on. That hour ended and so did her future. It is bittersweet knowing that she won’t live out the rest of her days, but she wouldn’t be able to live them how she wanted with her husband back.