Blog #20 Publication venue

Publication Venue Info

Essay: Home “Is Where My Heart Is”

Web Address: http://narrativemagazine.com/

Subject Matter: Narrative covers a large variety of subject matter. They accept nonfiction pieces from established as well as no established writes. The magazine covers poetry and any other type of prose writing from experience and non experienced writers.

Voice: Reflective, informative and personal narratives.

Form and Artistry: fiction, poetry, and nonfiction, including stories, novels, novel excerpts, novellas, personal essays, humor, sketches, memoirs, literary biographies, commentary, reportage, interviews, and features of interest to readers who take pleasure in storytelling and imaginative prose. All manuscripts should be in 12-point type, with at least one-inch margins, and sequentially numbered pages. Fiction and nonfiction should be double-spaced. Poetry should be single-spaced.

Length: Since I am going to submit mine through the “Reader’s narrative” my length limit is 1500 words. However, different works have different requirements check submission guidelines for more information.

Audience: Anyone who is interested in reading new and established authors, the general public.
Purpose: Narrative is dedicated to advancing the literary arts in the digital age by supporting the finest writing talent and encouraging readership around the world and across generations. Our online library of new literature by celebrated authors and by the best new and emerging writers is available for free.

To submit: They accept submissions only through their electronic submission system. they do not accept submissions through postal services or email. You may send them manuscripts for the following submission categories: General Submissions, Narrative Prize, Story of the Week, Readers’ Narrative, or a specific Contest. Your manuscript must be in one of the following file forms: .doc, .rtf, .pdf, .docx, .txt, .wpd, .odf, .mp3, .mp4, .mov, and .flv.
Reading Dates: Submissions may be sent to them at any time, year-round.
Fee: The reading fee is $20 for prose manuscripts, $10 for up to five poems, and $10 for audio submissions.

Pay: $150 for a Story of the Week, with $500 each for the annual Top Five Stories of the Week.—$150-350 for 500-2,000 word manuscripts.—$350-$1,000 for 2,000-10,000 word manuscripts.—$1,000-$5,000 minimum for book-length works, and we may offer more, depending on the length and nature of the work.—$50 minimum for each accepted poem and audio piece—They do not pay for Readers’ Narratives. But I am still able to win the $6000 grand prize to their contest if it is really good.

Other info: Reader’s Narrative may take the form of a short personal essay, a dispatch in story form, a reflection or meditation on crucial matters in one’s life (past or present) or in the larger social realm—matters such as questions of friendship, family or of politics, war, or the environment. We intend Readers’ Narratives to illustrate a dramatic turn in life—a moment of trouble or joy, insight, or revelation. And whatever else a Reader’s Narrative does, it should include the element of place—a strong sense of setting and how it shapes the events you’re writing about.
Ideas of place may go beyond geographical location to a time or stage of life; a room or aspects of home; a role within a community; relationships that define a moment; emotional states; physical conditions such as aging, athletic quests or challenges; we encourage you to think creatively about place not only as setting, but also manner of being.

Blog#20

When I was writing my essay on the house I was thinking about all of the different things that have happened to me in my house. More importantly I was thinking about how my house and my family had impacted the type of person I am today. It was very clear to me from the beginning of my thinking process that I somehow wanted to inter relate my house with my family and the experiences which I have lived in my house. Then someone in the class I don’t remember who suggested that I should use all the different room sin my house n order to show how each room has a different meaning. I thought that was a fabulous idea and I ran with it. And when I thought about I did see that each room had a particular story which I wanted to talk about and each room meant something different to me. Basically each room was a story in itself. As I mentioned in my essay I am a homebody so writing this essay was sort of like writing a diary for a therapy session it was an escape. It was also very personal. Some of the stories which I included in the paper I have frankly never told anyone like the one about the day I got fired from my first job. I like this essay over all I like the way it is formatted and I like what I wrote and how I wrote about it.

For revision of my essay process I wanted to focus on the title and also adding more dialog to the different scenes. I also wanted to describe some of the rooms with a little more details then I did on my first draft. I also though about changing the perspective of the essay to the perspective of other people mentioned in the stories and maybe even the tone. Nevertheless I decided to stick with my perspective in all of he stories because who better to tell you how I felt throughout the stories then myself, and frankly I cant say how other people felt in the stories.

Blog # 19

A perfect ten
She was sitting next to the meadow reading her favorite book To Kill a Mockingbird. It was the fourth of July and she was saving my seat as we were waiting for the annual fire works show. She knew I loved to be next to the water every year to watch the show. I was about ten yards away she couldn’t see me yet, but I could certainly see her. Her beauty is outstanding but the way her hair looked that day gave me goose bumps on the back of my neck and on my arms. What can arouse such an emotion? It was her long curly brunette hair. The weather was fitting; it was about eighty degrees and windy. The sun was just about to set and the rays were bouncing off of her scalp with majesty. When I approached her the first thing I did was smelled her hair, she was astonished. “What are you doing” she asked? All I could think about was how her hair smelled like strawberries kiwi, and mangos ummmmmmmm. When I touch her soft lovely brown hair makes me feel as if the entire world could pass me by and I would feel a thing. I love rubbing her scalp before we go to sleep, I love resting next to her and feeling her hair gently caressing my face with the tenderness of an angel. One

She was the sweetest person I have ever met. She treated me as if I was the most important thing in her world. Nothing came before me. She called me every morning as soon as she awoke. I was the last person she spoke with before she went to sleep. I was number one in her heart and in her thoughts. Every time we spent time together she never left my side. She consistently grabbed my hand as we were walking and never took the lead but made sure to stay next to me when we were standing o walking. Her utter and absolute attention of me made me feel special, I truly felt as if I was the king and she was my queen. My perfect companion, the person who would support me through hell and back, who would defend me of murder, the person who would defend me at all cost. Two

The day was meant to be a great day, and it was. I had all of my friends over and once again I was entertaining the crowd making everybody feel pleasant. As I was about to get up to go get another dozen beers she suddenly took my breath away. She looked fabulous in those pants, which fit her like a glove. Her thick thighs looked so succulent and dazzling, I was in love. Her pants were the color khaki and they had ripples coming up on the sides of them. From the front her thighs looked just as a beer bottle turned upside down, her curves render me speechless. The rest of the party all I could do was look at her and most of all at her legs thighs and buttocks. There is something in me that goes crazy for that part of a woman’s physique, the curves in the legs and backside make me want to give her the world, ill do anything she pleases as long as I could caress her smooth legs from toe to waist. Some may say she’s over weight but to me she is just right. Three

She works so hard. She is a full time students and a full time waitress. She needs a brake and I wish I could give it to her. Her independent spirit fascinates me, they she is always trying to figure out new ways to better herself makes me want to put a ring on her finger. I call her a “go getter”, because anything she wants or admires she goes and gets it. Everything she sets her sights to she finds a way to get, hey that’s how she got me. She is an independent queen who will not stop till she reaches the mountain top. She works till two to three in the morning sometimes, but she never slips up with her class work, and when she becomes a pharmacist she’ll see that her hard work has finally paid of. I admire her willingness to continue no matter what the odds are; her nature will never let her stop because she is an independent spirit. Four

Whenever I look at her I get lost in her beautiful dark brown eyes. I especially love the way the glare bounces off of them when the sun hits her or when a flash of a camera hits her pupils. Her stare is all I can remember whenever we are apart. When she looks at me her eyes evoke our first kiss, our first touch, our first gaze at one another. The first time I looked at her I envisioned us together her eyes told me everything she was everything she is and everything we were going to be. When I look at her striking brown, auburn when they hit the sun, eyes I see the most stunning woman I have ever glanced at. Just by looking in her I my heart is in ease, all my troubles depart, and tomorrow becomes a new beginning. I get lost in her eyes, they portray my deepest emotions, they tell the story of us. Five

No matter how much women have progressed and evolved from being less than a man to powerful independent individuals, they still have it the worst. They have to work that much harder to attain the same respect or position as a man. They have to deal with societies ridicule and demotion; they have to withstand the fact that they are judged by their figure and looks before they are judged by their brains. Nevertheless, what can never be taken away from a woman is her fighting spirit. A woman’s soul encompasses the tribulations of menstruation and the hardships of child bearing. Through it all a woman conserves her elegance and her grace. A man could never be a woman; he would never be able to accomplish all of the feats that a woman has to go through on a daily basis. Her persisting spirit, which is able to overcome any storm, is a woman’s greatest attribute and the reason why I love her. Six
One kiss says it all. They say that the way you truly know if you could be with somebody is if you are able to kiss that person with affection and tenderness. She has the softest lips I have ever felt. They feel like marshmallows and taste like heaven. When we kiss we feel as if we never want to leave each other; our kisses possess our emotions and passions for each other. A kiss starts it all. It starts a relationship and it starts love; the right kiss can start a lifelong devotion to a person that can never be broken or forgotten. To be able to kiss somebody and feel comfortable is something special that cannot be found in every other person, therefore when you find you somebody whom you can touch lips with and you feel your souls interlock then you should stay with that person for as long as you can. When ever we see each other we kiss as if there were no tomorrow, when we kiss we become one; and that’s why I’m with her. Seven

I remember our first date, I was so shy and she was bashful as well. We went to a local restaurant, my treat. For the first hour twenty minutes all we could do was look at each other and smile, how timid of us. Next thing I knew we were in a conversation about baseball, I couldn’t believe it, what girl likes baseball? She told me she was a pitcher for her high school softball team and from that moment on I was hooked. After we ate I took her to South Street Seaport in New York, we danced bachata and we sat by the pier and just talked. We spoke about various topics that night everything from politics to our hopes and dreams. That day started a long loving relationship; a year later we were still having profound and conscientious conversations. I could talk to her forever she is so bright, and even when we disagree on a subject we will never hold it against the other person; our love will never end in a dispute. I love her for her thoughts and insight into life. Eight

As I was walking down the side walk into the movie theater with my girl on my arm I couldn’t help but notice that her skin is the smoothest I have ever felt. It was almost like a touching a baby’s bottom. My imagination arose and I wondered to my self if she was that soft all over. To my amazement she was indeed soft all over. I asked myself “is every woman’s skin this soft?” No it was impossible not even my baby niece’s skin is this soft. She must take care of herself is what I thought. If I could touch a cloud I would imagine I would feel as soft and delicate as her skin. Nine

Trustworthy, reliable, somebody I can believe in and confide in, that would be my perfect woman. Before I can feel your skin I need to trust that you won’t leave me. Before we can have a conversation I need to know that I can confide in you my most intimate thoughts and feelings. Before we kiss I want make sure I can rely on you to tell me the truth. Before I can see your spirit I want you to trust mine. Before I get lost in your eyes I want to be able to depend on your words. Before I embrace your independency I want you to show me your ability to support. Before I fall in love with your body I want to fall in love with your intelligence. Before you can support me I want you to love and encourage yourself. Before I can feel your silky fresh hair I want to trust you.
Note: I don’t know how good this paper is, anyway its just a rough draft I’m sure I could do a better job if I fix it up a little. I hope you get the concept thanks for reading.

writing about fourth essay

I think for my fourth essay i will write about my grandfather and all of the things he has accomplished in his life. Or i was also thinking about writing the baseball field in which i used to play as a youngster which i discussed in my writing journal. i still need to do some more thinking on how i will develop the essay because i want to be a lot more specific for my next essay. i want to focus on one particular thing and not get off the subject like i felt i did in my third essay.

Blog #16 essay #3 my home

My graduation from high school was very special to me as I am sure it is special for every body. The day was like no other; although it was raining and muggy the entire day, my heart and spirit were still up. Now that I get to look back, I wonder what truly made that day so special. It might have been the fact that I no longer had to show my face in that dreaded place called Clifton High, or maybe that my summer vacation was about to begin, or that an old chapter in my life was closing and new one was opening up. In all reality I think it wasn’t any of those things, what really made that day special were the people that were around me to see that momentous day in my life.
“Edgar come down stairs everybody is ready to take the pictures” said my mother,
I was all dressed up but one of my accessories was still undone, my tie.
“Abuelo, can you do this for me” I said, “Si, come hear” said my grandfather, then as he was tying the noose he said “your grandmother and I are so happy and proud for you, you know Edgar, you’re a very special kid, and we all love you so very much”. A tear almost came down my face, but I had to keep it in because I didn’t want anybody to see me.
First, I took a picture with my grandparents, sister and niece, my aunt, and finally my mother; the feelings were unordinary I felt as if everything was right with the world. My family was around me, and we were all lauphing looking at each other feeling content with this milestone I had achived. In my family however, when one person accomplishes something great its not only a victory for that person it’s a victory for the entire family. Even thought I know felt good I know my family felt good with me and that made it even more special.
This particular scene took place in the living room of my house. Why do they call this room a living room? Nobody really lives there. I think I like the other name for that room better the family room because that is exactly what it is a room for the family. In many houses the family room is composed of a television, a couch, a love seat, and maybe a book shelf or something of that matter. My family room is a bit different. In a every house we have lived in my mother has been consistent about one thing she has never wanted a television in the living room. She says a television takes away from the real purpose of the family room, which she says is a room where the family is supposed to come together and talk and converse, hear each other out, “our therapy room.” I have always disliked this idea, especially when I didn’t have a television in my own room. Looking back, like everything else, she was probably right about this decision as well. The family room is the place where my family has become the tight nit family that we are. On a regular weekday we all get to my house late. And since the dining room is cold in the winter, and secluded in the summer, and also quite small; we all grab our food and we eat in the family room. There we talk about our day, our tomorrow, our dislikes, our complaints, and priorities. Most importantly we are aware of who we are living with. Everybody changes, and if you don’t communicate with the people you live with you’ll find out pretty soon that you dint know who your relatives are. My family has stayed together through the ups and downs because of our common ground, literally. The place where grow our kinship, our family room.


My house represents my family, but it also represents my peace and harmony. Besides beaing a place for the family, a home is a place for the self. If anyone asked me to choose one place and only one where I would spend the rest of my life it would have to be my room. I have always considered myself a home-body, a person who’d rather be home than in the streets. And my favorite place in my house is my room, my sanctuary, where I reach serenity.
When I was sixteen I started working in a foot locker in my local mall. As a matter a fact the first time I ever went to that mall was to apply for a job; because for the first two years of living in NJ we didn’t have a vehicle and it simply did not interest me. Anyway I worked there for one and half years, and then because of an issue I rather not get into I got fired. What a horrible feeling that is, especially when its your first job and your still a teenager. Being fired feels as if the entire world has gone dark, there is no daylight no electronic lights, the entire world is in complete darkness. By this time I had already piles up a stack of bills. I was paying my siter back for a loan she gave me to buy my car, I was pay my car insurance (which is ridicoulsly high for a teenager in NJ), my phone bill, my gas and car maintenance, and I was helping my mother out with groceries and other bills of the house. So when I got fired I had no idea how I was going to deal with all of this bills let alone tell my family.
It was a Saturday, and I had just came into to work at two when my manager pulls into the back and gives me the bad news, my heart dropped. What do I do now? I went to my car turned on the ignition and went to the only place I thought about going, my house. The house was empty, feeling in a state of numbness I took my jacket off and went to my room fell face first on my bed and took a nap. I recommend that treatment for anyone who finds themselves in some type of turmoil, go home and take a nap. When I awoke I still had the same problems but they somehow didn’t feel as bad or as trouble-ling. I woke up to the most soothing voice and the tender hands of my mother. She immediately knew something was wrong I was never home that early. She caressed me and asked me what was wrong I told her she gave me a hug and told me to not worry about anything; everything was going to be ok. And it sure was, two weeks later I got a call from Circuit City in Union, I went for an interview and I started working for them.
If my mother had told me the same thing in any other place in the world I don’t think it would have had the same impact on me. Nevertheless the tranquility of my room mixed with her motherly voice gave me peace and serenity. I am not ashamed to say; in fact I’m proud to say that I am a mama’s boy. I am much too big now, but when I was younger whenever I had a nightmare the first place I went was to my mother’s bed. When your small there’s no better place to sleep the nudged under you mother’s back. The warmth and scent are quite unique the feeling of belonging is like no other. When we lived in an apartment in Washington Heights, my mother’s bedroom was the place where my sister and I gathered to watch our nightly Spanish soap operas before we went to sleep. It’s amazing to see now how my nieces and nephews, when all five are in my house, at one point or the other, seem to find themselves in the same situation; my mother on the bed and the kids surrounding her watching television. It’s almost as if my mother was mother goose and doesn’t matter whether it’s her own kids or her children’s kids’, her bed always feels the softest and the most welcoming.


A home is about the family, without the family a home would simply be a house, it is where a person interacts with not only their family but their friends. I have the pleasure of having a backyard. This is a big deal for me because its recent I wasn’t born with a backyard, therefore every summer I try to throw as many barbecues as I possibly can. The deck in my backyard is where I have enjoyed my friends and my family the most. I am the king of the grill all I hear is
“Edgar put another one on” or “damn man you burned the $&% out of this.”
Nevertheless the most significant instance in my back yard didn’t happen with a crowd of people but between two people, myself and my grandfather. My grandfather is an evangelical pastor, and a very well read man, so whenever I have philosophical questions about life the person I am fortunate to talk to is my grandfather. When I was fifteen I frequently pondered about the meaning of life, why were we here? And one summer afternoon my grandfather attempted to give me an explanation. One of the things which I appreciate about my grandfather is the fact that when I ask such questions he doesn’t simply give me the “Christian” answer, he’ll try to give me a profound logical answer. For this question he was quite explicit he said “Edgar what you have to understand is that life is a journey, and everyone’s journey is different, therefore there isn’t one definitive answer as to why God created you or anyone else”. I was quite confused. “So what your saying is that at one point or another I’ll find out the meaning of my life is, but what if I die before I do” I said. He answered by saying “the other thing you have to remember is that you aren’t in this world by yourself, everything you do whether you realize or not affects if not one several people”
“Its almost like a domino affect what you do today will some how affect somebody tomorrow, so make sure everything you do will impact the people around you in a good way”
That became my motto; from that day on I try to have a positive impact on everybody I come across. I also know however that what I may find to be the right thing, might be the wrong thin for somebody else, and that is why he said “the people around you.” That took me like two years to figure out, I am not perfect and I can’t change he entire world by myself, but I could damn sure affect the people I’m around.
They say a house isn’t a home without family. For me that is definitely true. I love my house but without the experiences which I’ve had with my family my house would simply be a place. However it has more meaning than that, it’s my place of peace, kinship, and my identity.

Blog #15 places

List of important places
1) My elementary school
2) Foot Locker in Willowbrooke mall- first job
3) The barber shop where I work at now
4) Girlfriends house where I lost my purity
5) My grandparents house in D.R.
6) Field where I played baseball almost every day for five years
I had to pick my sister and her kids up this weekend in NY and I decided to pass by that field. The first thing that really captured me was to see how small it looked as opposed to how I remember it in my memory. How in the world were my friends and I able to play game after game in such a small area. The quality of the field was very poor as well, no wonder ground balls were so hard to get. That place brought back a lot of memories, about my youth , my friends, and the fact that this place made me so happy I had no worries when I touched the grass, I kinda felt the same way when I stepped on it this time too. Looking around the field I could picture my friends and I fighting over who was going to bat first, whose ball was whose at the end of the day, whether a ball was homerun or not because there isn’t a fence but just trees. The field looks like it hasn’t been used in years, I wonder if anyone plays there anymore, although it is almost winter. i wanna come twenty uears from now and see that feelings arise then, because in the present i feel sad that i cant go back to those times of my life when i really didnt have any responsibilities.

Blog 14 intor of Third essay

When thinking about an object which I would like to base my story around the first and most important thing I think about is my house. A house becomes a home when there is love and unity in it. A place where I feel safe, loved, warmth like no other place on the face of the planet. I have lived in five houses my entire life, but out of those houses I have always lived in one home. No matter where my next house will be, I will still carry on the same morals and virtue which I received in my mother’s home. This particular house in which I am living in at the current moment has a thousand stories to tell. All of the stories connect directly to my support system, my family, my home. I remember very vividly my high school graduation, and most importantly the moments before and after my high school graduation which occurred in my house with my family. Taking pictures with my mother, my grandparents, my aunts, sisters and nephews, my grandfather tying the knot on my tie, my girlfriend writing “grad 05” on the back of my car, etc. Those are the moments which I remember from my graduation and they all happened in my house more importantly my home. Or I can write about the time that I got fired from my first job and felt helpless, felt as if the world had crumbled down on my shoulders, the first place I went was my home. There I knew I was going to be able to recoup get back up and start all over. My house is the place where I start and finish my day, my place of reflection, source of love and hope, the place where I feel certain in this uncertain world my home.

I will need time to think about which occasion I will write about, there are many. I will also need input from my peers on whether this is a correct topic or if it is even a topic of interest.

BLog # 13 clothing

She looked so beautiful sleeping like an angel on my mother’s bed. Her hair was loose and you could still see the sweat beads running down her forehead. She must have been tired after me and she ran around the entire house, or at least it seemed, chasing after one another. Even thought we had been running all day she still smelled as if she was straight out of the shower. Her mother had taken off her sandals and placed them on the side of the bed. She was wearing a red and white shirt with a really cute flowering pattern on them. Like most of her clothing, which matches, her short baby blue jeans also had flowers on the pockets. All of her outfits have some type of design which coordinates with the other part of the outfit whether it be a blue dress with a coordinating blue Sunday hat with matching circles, or a her pink and white pajamas one of which has a picture of Dora the explorer on the top sweater and Boots, who is the monkey, on the pants. Her shirt was made out of cotton but it wasn’t like a regular “shirt” cotton it was more of the “dress” cotton. It was sleeve less too. You could also see stains on the shirt, maybe it was from the spaghetti she was eating earlier before that day, and a pink stain from the juice she was drinking. She didn’t have any jewelry she never wears jewelry although she does have her ears pierced. I wondered what she was thinking about while she was in her deep sleep because her eyes were twitching as the frequently do when she’s sleeping. Who knows? What I do know is that I’ve never seen a more lovely big check, beady eyes, pointy forehead, and petite nose person in my entire life. Somehow I wish she never grew out of her Cinderella sandals which she still isn’t able to put on for her self.

BLog 12 stroy of a picture

I love pictures, I love taking pictures, and I love looking at pictures and reminiscing about the time and place and story the picture is telling. I choose to write about a very simple picture. The picture is of me as a baby (maybe eight months) on my mothers lap with my two sisters who were about 10 and 12 at the time standing beside my mother. We were in my grandfather’s house, in their terrace. It was night time so you cant really see the background but my grandmother has a whole bunch of different weird plants decorated all around the terrace so you can a couple of those in the back; you can also see the bars of the terrace. The picture was shot in the Dominican Republic where there is a lot of poverty and a lot of thieves so the back of the house had, and is, surrounded with bars so that thieves don’t come into rob the house. Anyways, my sister Laura is on the left (she’s the ten year old) wearing a blue dress whose color is washed out (80’s style). My sister Michelle is wearing a pink sweater with a purple skirt with the sleeves on her sweater rolled up again 80’s style. My mother is wearing like a white shirt with light pink pants and I’m wearing socks with a blue and white baby outfit (you know the ones that look like a one piece bathing suite made out of cotton). I don’t know who took the picture but I can almost guarantee it was my grandfather, like me he’s sentimental with memorandums. The interesting thing about this picture and the reason I decided to write about it is because of my mother “smile” in the picture. And the look in her eyes, she looks sooo tired and anguished as if the entire world was on her shoulders. Her eyes are open but you can see that she’s forcing herself to keep them open. Who knows when was the last time she had a goodnight sleep. At the time she was working, and taking care of three kids one of who was new born by herself without any help from anybody. Even thought she has make on you can still see the brown bags under her eyes. And her smile, it’s almost as if she is forcing it like if she is saying in her “Omg just take the picture already”. You know I could never imagine what a woman has to go through when she has a child out of wed-lock, but I can sure tell the pain in my mother’s eye from this picture. The pain, the pain, but out her pain and sacrifice and commitment to raise me up right she struggled but made me a man. I love her so much. Thank you mommy.
Ps. Dr. Chandler, I spoke with my mother about the picture I described in class and I found out what was going on that day and who took the picture. The picture was actually taken by my aunt’s ex husband, husband at the time, and he took it because that day I had received the police shirt from one of the members of church who was an officer. I had been asking for that shirt for a long time and when I got it I felt so proud and I didn’t want to take it off for days. Its funny, I actually wanted to wear that shirt to school, never did thank god, but I though if I wore to school all of the kids would have been all over me asking how I got it, so on. After that I dot two more of those shirts and I think I still have them till this day, its amazing the happiness those shirts brought me, things that simple would never bring that kind of happiness these days, anyways just wanted to tell you that.

Blog # 11 Story of an object

The process of looking for only one or two objects that I have a special connection to is very difficult because there are many objects that I could tell many stories about. For now I am going to pick my baseball glove which I have had since I was eleven years old and I still use to this day.
MY glove and I go a long way back it has brought me many enjoyable moments. One in particular which comes to my mind is a story that is troubling but funny at the same time. Before I start it I just wanted to say that nobody got hurt during this incidence. It was another summer day in a hot New York summer. My best friend Samuel and I went to play catch like we did seemingly every other day that summer of 1999. The Yankees were on a tremendous winning streak, I remember that quite vividly because I wanted o go play catch that particular day because of it. It was a rather gloomy but humid day. Samuel and I went o the usual park but since it had been raining earlier in the day we decided to play on the side walk rather then in muddy field. The park was very solitary since it was right next to a highway behind a hospital and the only ones that played there were Samuel and I. we had two usual neighbors however, a crazy homeless man who sat on the hill behind the trees and sang songs while he was listening to his radio. I must admit the first couple of times we went to the park and he was there Samuel and I were a bit terrified, nevertheless he was harmless. Our other neighbor was this senile old man who never bothered us either. He would usually just sit down on the benches next to the park. Like I said that day the field was muddy so Samuel and I were playing on the sidewalk and the old man was sitting there as well. So Samuel threw me the ball and I threw it back and he threw me the ball and I threw it back this went on for a while. And then all of a sudden it happened. As I was going through the motions I accidentally hit the old man in the face with a hard baseball while he was innocently reading his newspaper. I felt so bad but I followed my instincts and I stared running. The worst part about the whole thing is that my best friend just stood their motion less and the old man started screaming at him, by that time I was already down the block. He later told me he stayed there because he wanted to get his ball back. So as I ran I was yelling at him and waiving “go go go run go home” but he didn’t. Anyways like I said the old man was fine. Later on about two months later my friend and I were playing catch once again and the old man came by us and we had a long talk about that day and about life. It turned out the old man wasn’t as senile as I thought. He was actually pretty nice and philosophical. Ill never forget the last thing he told me “never run away from your obstacles stay there and take it like a man”. LOL

Blog #10 deciding on an essay

I’m very confused and undecided about which ones of my essays I will review. I wanted to rewrite or revise my first draft because it was really about my personal growth and I also liked the way I developed the essay. I also liked the way I talked about my relationship with my grandfather and most importantly the relationship with myself. On the second essay I love the story line and the way I segmented the essay. I also liked the fact that spoke about and reflected two completely different periods in my life that really made me who I am today. As far as the words and overall flow of the essays the first draft in the one I’m mostly leaning towards. I think mostly because I get real personal and express feelings which I have never discussed or though before in my life. I also think the first draft was more enjoyable to write, when I was writing I felt as if the words flowed out of my brain and into the computer. With the second draft I already had an outline and an idea of what I wanted to say so the process was more like writing a paper than writing a personal story. The first draft I felt as if I was writing my journal and I was simply realizing emotions and sentiments. Nevertheless I don’t know makes for a better story. As far as audience I feel that both of my stories are relatable to not only people my age but of any age. The first draft is about my inner battle of perfection and self doubt which I think many people can relate to and the second draft is about a time in my life where my entire outlook and life made a 360 turn, and it is centered around a move from one house and environment to another which I believe many people can relate to also. Talking to one of my classmates I figured out that in my second draft I could also elaborate a bit more about my relationship with my mother and also the sacrifices which my mother has been willing and able to do for my sake. I thought about that and I think that if I do talk about that in my essay Ill sort of be getting off the subject. I could write an entire essay on that alone and I really do not want to include it in the “moving” essay, although I do mention her in the essay. I am definitely perplexed however I will probably just pick one of the randomly and hope that which ever one I pick will give me the best results.

NCF Second Essay

The City
“In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life. It goes on” (Robert Frost). Isn’t it amazing how crucial and important everyday feels when your in high school, life seems so short and you feel as if you have to do it all before “it” goes away. It’s ironic that we have no foresight as teenagers, yet we have our entire lives ahead of us. I wish I could’ve seen the future when I was teenager, I would’ve saved my self from a bunch of inconvenient situations which should’ve never happened at all.
December fourth 2001 I remember it as a cold snowy chilly night. The ground was wet, fog clogged the road ahead. The weather was so bad that morning that Jose the man who was helping us move, could barely make out what was thirty yards ahead of us on the hazy RT. 46. We were on our second trip from 162 ST. Fort Washington New York NY 10032 to 17 Hobart Place Clifton NJ 07011. Boy was I tired, that day I had carried so much stuff that my hands were all scratched up my back was in tremendous pain, my clothes were filthy covered in dust and who knows what else from that nasty New York apartment; but it was all worth it. I felt proud that day, I almost felt like a man. I was only fourteen at the time but my skinny little frame with the help of another scrawny fellow, Jose, were able to move all of that crap down the five flights of stairs into the small van and accommodate it as well as we could in the empty house.
That night my sister with her baby daughter my mother and my self slept together in the frigidly cold basement all coddled up, I imagined the first night the settlers arrived in North America perhaps having very few blankets making a small fire and each family went to sleep holding each other to retain the heat; and their new unknown future full expectations and hope for a better life would begin the next day. That’s how we felt, well at least my self, my new life was going to begin the next day, and as opposed to the prospects which I had in the city my future here was promising and my outlook was optimistic with this new beginning.
In the city I was going absolutely nowhere. My life before the move was in complete shambles. In September of hat same year I was a freshman in high school, besides all of the problems a regular freshman has in high school such as peer pressure being insecure, bashful, foolish, and uncontrollable, I also had to face drugs, excessive violence, unruly gangs and not to mention one of the worst schools in the city. I was attending George Washington High School in upper Manhattan also known as G’dubs. In New York city as opposed to New Jersey you do not go to the high school in your vicinity rather students take a standardized test and according to the scores of that test and your junior high school grades you have high schools look at your records and decide whether they want you or not, sort of like applying to a university. Most of those schools are charter schools which have very high academic standards therefore if you’re an intelligent student but had the unfortunate circumstance of attending a low, very poor academic junior high school your chances to succeed and attend a better high school are limited. So there I was in an awful school whose teachers treated you more like an inmate rather than a student. For instance my first week there I was suspended for three days because I had a two buttons missing in my school mandated white button up shirt and therefore I couldn’t button it all the way up, ridiculous. It was almost as if they wanted you out of the school more than they wanted you in the school. I also had a math teacher who could barely speak English so the couple of times I went to that class I was mostly clowning around in the back with the other knuckleheads. My science teacher for the short time I was there was a substitute teacher who made us do worksheets the entire time we were in class. The only good teacher I had was my English teacher but she was too busy working with the other forty students in the class. Feeling discouraged with school and most importantly with life I started hanging out with the wrong crowd.
Being a young man with no father figure can be hard on anybody. As for my self I searched for that father figure in my older friends. When I began going to G’Dubs and realized that I wasn’t going to do anything there but “waste my time” I began to cut school. I would wake up in the morning put on my regular clothes instead of the required khaki and white button up shirt mandated by G’Dub; and I would meet up with my “boys” who were part time students’ part time drug dealers and users, and we would usually chill in one of our apartments. This happened almost everyday. We weren’t concerned with school or our parents and unfortunately what we neglected the most was our futures. But we couldn’t see that far ahead all we knew was that “today” had to be one of the greatest days in our lives. Whenever we dished school and went to one of our friend’s apartments we made sure we had the essentials marijuana, liquor, and girls. We thought we were the greatest, I was the youngest of the group and I looked up to those around me as if they were my family more importantly my role models, boy was I wrong. I didn’t care however because I though I was just like them, at the time I was just concerned with making them happy, making sure I was cool enough to hang around them, not knowing that in reality those guys didn’t care about me but used me as their puppet to entertain their immature brains.
I didn’t have any foresight at fourteen; I was too caught up in everyday life not concerned about the future. Partly because of the school situation I was in and partly my inability to stand back and realize that if I didn’t make it better nobody else would’ve, had placed me between a rock and hard place, I was going nowhere fast as they say. If my mother hadn’t intervened and made all of the strenuous efforts to move me out of that situation into a more suitable one for my future I’m pretty sure I would’ve ended up exactly like those guys I was hanging out with; using drugs to an extreme where it would’ve consumed my entire life, committing petty crimes, having unprotected sex with the wrong girls and living life day to day with no hope for a future. I thank God everyday that although I didn’t have foresight, my mother did. I feel sorry for those who do not have parents to guide them through adolescence. After several months of not acting like myself my mother realized that I hadn’t changed but that the people around me had changed me and the influence they had on me was enormous. So she decided that a change of scenery was what I needed. And she was right.
At the time, surprisingly enough, I was happy I was moving to New Jersey. I knew that there I could start all over. I realized that I wasn’t a bad kid, and personally I didn’t like the life I was living in Washington Heights, but felt I somehow had to live that type of life just to survive. When you live in that type of environment and you don’t have a strong support system you’re bound to fall in with the crowd because essentially you have no other choice, you’re either in or you’re shut out. There is no in between in that environment you can’t be a good student and be accepted by your peers at the same time.
When I woke up the next day in that chilly basement, I realized that my new life had begun. There was a mess in the house and my mother my sister and I tried doing everything we could to make it a more comfortable living environment for all of us but we still had a long way to go. Most of the furniture we had in the apartment was thrown out because it was old and worn out, so our house looked empty for a long time but our house was full of love, and that was all we needed.
When I enrolled in Clifton High School the following week I was amazed to see how everybody was so welcoming and pleasant towards me. The teachers and even the students treated me as if I was a long time friend even though they had just recently met me. It was a short time after 9/11 so that may have had something to do with everybody being so nice, but it didn’t matter if that was the reason I still embraced it. Clifton high School is a very multicultural school, I was used to being around nothing but Dominicans in my previous school, but this was a change I needed. I discovered how to be around and respect other cultures something which I would’ve never had the capacity to learn in Washington Heights. And the education in Clifton was superlative as opposed to that which I was receiving G’Dubs. In Clifton I realized that my math skills were mediocre at best and I realized that I needed much help with it which I received from a teacher I would never forget, Mrs. Rooney. Mrs. Rooney was an awesome algebra teacher, everyday she would stay with me in after school remedial and we would go over everything I didn’t understand, but she was much more than a good teacher she was a humanitarian. One day after remedial, it was pouring January rain and I would usually walk to my house which was around fifteen city blocks away from the high school, Mrs. Rooney offered to give me a ride home which I gladly accepted. Maybe this isn’t an act that deserves tremendous merit, but I personally feel it should, this seemingly innocuous act changed my entire outlook about teachers and it made me realized that maybe they aren’t the root of all evil, but rather they’re there to help you and make you a better person.
After the move I continued to get good grades, a couple years later I would start working, and later after that I would enroll in Kean University, now I’m about nine months away from graduating with a bachelor’s degree in English education and teacher of students with disabilities. It is almost certain if my mother didn’t have the foresight which I lacked my life now would be a complete disaster.

Blog 8 Second essay preview

For my second personal essay I wanted to write about my experience moving from the slums of New York City to the suburbs of New Jersey. It was a life changing experience for me, one of those times in your life where you road shifted a completely different way. In New York more specifically Washington Heights I had just begun ninth grade in one of the worst schools in the city, I was hanging out with the wrong crowd of people doing inappropriate things for my young age and I was headed in the wrong direction academically. When I moved to Clifton my life made a 360 turn around and it was kind of a new beginning for me where I could reinvent my self and start fresh. Now I had the advantage of wonderful teachers who cared about my future and my education. I also started to hang with a different crowd of people who didn’t influence me to ruin my life but who motivated me to be a better person.

I do have an idea of what I want to write about my only problem is that it takes over a long period of time and I don’t know to how to segmented, I guess ill have to play around with it.

Blog # 7 reflection on first essay

For me what went well in my first essay was the story itself. I do have to admit however that as I wrote I kept coming up with new important facts that I needed to add on that I hadn’t thought of before I started writing. Nevertheless I do feel that I got the point across that I wanted. When I read it again a couple of days later I was really satisfied with the story itself but there are a lot of things in the essay itself that I can improve on. For instance the structure of it, maybe I need to move some of the paragraphs around or I could also emphasize or explain some of the topics which I brought up in the story. I also need to fix the grammar. Even though it was the first draft I felt the wording was a bit sloppy, and I could organize my thoughts a bit more. I tried to use segments in my essay and although I personally thought it was successful, looking back at other CNF essays and some of my classmates’ essays I realize that I still need to improve on the way I format the paper and when and how I introduce new information. I think I should be more concise but clearer in some aspects of my essay. If I get the opportunity to rewrite one or two more times I do think it is going to be a success, because the story itself, like I said, is a good one, at least to me.
For my next essay I think I will try to use more dialog, I didn’t use any dialog in my first essay. I am not quite sure which personal story I will write about for my next essay, but I will also try to incorporate feelings, or what I thought were the feelings, of other people involved in the story. Even though it was a story about what I went through, in my first essay I didn’t suggest or include the way people who were around me reacted to what was going on in the story. Some of the topics I am thinking of writing about are my transition from Washington Heights New York to Clifton New Jersey, Going to my first concert, or meeting my father for the first time. I still haven’t decided which one I am going to use yet. The one about moving is a good one to write about because there is a lot of information which I can focus on and it is also relatively new so I remember a lot about that point in my life. The one about my father is very very emotional, I don’t if I want to revisit that subject again idk maybe I will. Out of the possible choices those are the ones which I am leaning towards, I still have to do more thinking on how I would incorporate the aspects which I didn’t include in the first essay into my second essay.

post # 6 draft of first essay

Sorrow of Youth Decisions, or Evils of Ignorance

It was a gorgeous day in the Dominican Republic. The sun was out, and the balmy humid temperature wrapped your body up like a warm blanket on an October day. I was four years old but this day would be fixed in my memory for eternity. Oh boy was I happy to be there I always saw all of my cousins and my older friends be so content with themselves when they came back from the baseball fields after their practices. For baseball is my country’s national pastime but really it is more than that; for Dominicans baseball is a religion which we follow study and live rigorously with now days off. Everyday in the Dominican Republic is a good day to play Baseball the baseball field is our sanctuary; and for many youths the key to survival. I was ready prepared for execution on the baseball field that day. For breakfast, my mother served me plantains with eggs and salami, the regular Dominican breakfast. I had my hat cleats and uniform on, oh yes I was ready.
My cousins my friends and I used to talk about that day the first day of baseball practice. My older cousins were all good athletes, they received many awards and prices for beings such good competitors. Therefore I had a lot to live up to, although I was very skinny it seemed as though I was the sportiest and energetic out of my cousins so the pressure to succeed was tremendous. My grandfather had spoken to me many times before the first day of practice about how he used to be a superlative baseball player in his day and that if he had the chance “today” with all of the technologies available back in 1992 and opportunities that were available to young kids who wanted to play baseball he would have probably made it to the pro’s. He said to me “If I didn’t have to work on the farms with my family to make ends meat since the age of ten who knows what would have become of me, maybe I could’ve been a fabulous baseball player or maybe a politician” then he said “never waste any great opportunities to advance in life, even though you have more then I ever had when I was young, you will only get a handful of real opportunities and you have to make sure you take full advantage of them because the one thing you can’t get back in this life is time”.
As my mother and I stepped into the field I smelled the freshly cut grass and the wind caressing my face. The older kids were already there throwing the ball around doing drills everybody with a smile on their faces and I sensed they all knew what they were doing, except for me. My mother had to go singed me in and she also had to talk to the couch about what team I was going to play in and what position I was going to play and how they were going to start teaching the me the game, so she left me by the gate in the front of the park, and that’s when it happened. I felt the feeling that I have felt ever since then whenever I was faced with an obstacle. The feeling was an anxious sick to my stomach feeling of doubt and insecurity. Damn I hate that feeling.
I often try to figure out why does this happen to me, why I feel weak whenever I’m going to do something that I might fail in. Why do I feel like giving up even before I step on the field or stand in front of a class to do a speech, before I ever got in back of a wheel of car, before I was supposed to danced with my Godmothers daughter for her sweet sixteen? Is thee something wrong with me mentally is it normal those this happen to everybody else this drastically? The only thing I do know is that it happens to me all of the time; Anxiety. I spoke to my doctor once about this problem and he said all I had to do was close my eyes take deep breaths and say to myself that everything was going to be ok. He said that this problem was not so severe that I would need to medicine for it or anything like that and since that day I can honestly say I have tried his solution and it hasn’t worked. I still feel it, I get scared every time the possible outcome can be one of failure.
So as I waited for my mother by the gate it happened. This was the first time and I will always remember it. as I stood there waiting for my mother to come back and tell me what team I was going to play on I started looking at the older kids who were maybe eight years old to the oldest being fifteen and I started asking myself hey am I as good as those kids definitely not. I was not fast I had never thrown baseball before then I though wow am I going to get dirty and filthy with the mud, im going get hurt these bigger stronger kids are going to hurt and then they’re going to make fun of me for being so weak and soft and a cry baby oh my God if I cry I could never show my face hear again. Wow there’s a lot of mosquitoes here they keep biting me and bothering me. And there it was the reason I could tell my mother to never bring me back there again. I screamed I hollered and ranted and belted my self claiming that these dangerous ants had crawled all over my body and I couldn’t take it anymore. Small tiny harmless ants those ants were my excuse for playing baseball that summer. Ants, creatures who can carry ten to twenty times their body weight these half an inch who have so much might and sense of unity were able to defeat me.
Looking back I am quite sure that the ants were not the cause of my problems. I wasn’t afraid of ants; frankly you couldn’t be afraid of ants, where I come from that is like being afraid of snow living in the North Pole. So if it wasn’t the ants what was it? Was it getting my uniform dirty was that the reason why I didn’t want to play baseball? That could not have been the reason I was only four years old and at the time getting dirty while playing out side was my favorite hobby. Was it the fact that I had very little experience playing baseball? That could not have been it either because I knew I didn’t know how to play but I knew that everything I had previously tried I had succeeded in so I knew that if I simply tried and put effort I was going to learn and eventually get very good at the game of baseball. I also wonder if maybe the fact that my mom was going to leave me by myself to run errands maybe that was the reason I cried out? Maybe I was crying out to my mother to no leave there alone by myself a young four year old. But that could not have been it either, because I knew that it was customary for mothers to leave their youngsters on the field by themselves and the fact of the matter was that I was not going to be by myself, I had my next door neighbor there who was five years older than I was, and my cousin was playing on the field next to the field where I was so he kept an eye on me and there was a couch for every five children so I was secure. I remember looking at the other kids playing baseball and I was terrified because I knew I wasn’t as good as they were, and I remember having a small trepidation to fail because I would look like a fool. But it wasn’t that either, heck at the time I didn’t really care what people though of me I was more concerned about myself than of what other people were doing.
Thinking about it I now realize the reason why I made a scene like if I was afraid of those ants, and screamed and I hollered to get out of the field as a soon as possible. The truth or the real evil which made me act like a brat was of all of the pressure that was put on me by my grandfather my friends and most importantly my self. I have been a person who has always looked at the glass half empty, and the fact of the matter was that on that glorious summer day with my uniform on and me ready to go play baseball I didn’t fear failing or ants, or the other kids, or my mother not being there, what I feared the most was the fact that there was a slight possibility that I was not going to be great. You see I wasn’t thinking like the rest of the kids who simply though about having fun and playing with their friends and making new friends, what I was unconsciously thinking about was that this was one of the few opportunities in life which my grandfather had told me about, and I knew I couldn’t pass it up, so for me it was not about having fun it was about being great at it.
My mother, like a resilient strong Dominican woman, was not going to let me quit that easily. She forced me that day to play. And I was only four so hesitantly I played that day which wasn’t like playing real baseball. On the first day I found out they never play an actual game. We did some drills and started to throw the ball around and we mostly just ran and ran and ran, never actually putting a team together and playing a game. I never got to find out which team I was going to play on I never went back.
Ants never bothered me again after that day. And I sometimes wonder if maybe if I would’ve stuck it out I could have become a great baseball player. Hey, I am not blaming the fact that I am not playing for the Yankees right now on that single event of my life, but you never know. Living with regret is a waste of time, I’ve learned, as I mature, that regret moments in life should not be looked at with sorrow but should be acknowledged as a moment of self growth and one should learn from all of those “regret full moments in life”. However, I still fear the fact that whatever it is that I do I have the possibility of not being great. I want to be great at everything I do and that is the problem I have to accept the fact that I am not perfect that it is ok to fail once in a while and that the whole world is not expecting me to succeed. I still have to deal with my inner conscience everyday; it’s a battle, if not a war that I am going to have to fight with for the rest of my life until I eventually ease up on my self and accept it.
P.S. I need help finishing this story. I don’t know if I should ended by giving examples of times when have had the same anxious scared feeling in the present time; or should I finish it by accepting that I am never going to get over it and have to live with it for the rest of my life, and even somehow appreciate it for what it is and embrace it as part of my human condition.

The truth?

Wow Wow wow. I truly can’t say enough about this story. Wow!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Where do I begin? Is it a non fiction or fiction? I am going to say it is non fiction. Just for the simple fact that fiction couldn’t be that good. The human element in the story is what makes it non fiction, you can feel his pain. The words jump out at you and its almost as if he’s telling you the entire story personally. At the end of it its almost like you believe what you want. It still doesn’t take away from the fact that it happened or maybe it didn’t happen. This story speaks about or touches on the inhumanness of war but it also demonstrates how war makes some people human. There is no right answer no yes or no, no correct or incorrect, no truth or false; what makes this story incredible is the story itself. Like Diana said “most likely, even the people who lived through the experience can't tell what parts of their story are true or not, if in fact the story was meant to be true), the "truth" this story is valuable because it delves into the psyche of human beings under these types of situations. It is human nature to repress traumatic experiences”. When it comes down to it even thought every single detail might not be true or maybe it might? It is very possible this story happened at one point or another; because this story didn’t necessarily have a moral and it wasn’t really entertaining. It just spoke about the human element of an event. But truly who knows I’m just a twenty year old ignorant kid from jersey. God I’m so confused! if i go on ill explode.

Blog #4 What is "Alive" and "Westbury Court" about?

Sincerely speaking the point or main idea of “Westbury Court” is a bit difficult to capture or basically to point out one particular thesis is somewhat problematical and challenging. Nevertheless I thought the essay was written and structures beautifully; it definitely kept me interested throughout the entire essay. So let’s decipher this essay if we can; the author Danticat foreshadows that by the end of the story he is no longer going to be living in Westbury Court, and the reason he gives in his first paragraph is because of a fire. He continues the essay by describing the fire and he gives the who, what, where and why. He takes us, the reader through a very detailed account of the experience what he was feeling at the time so on and so forth. He goes on with the essay wondering what it would have been like if he were one of the children in the show General Hospital, maybe he would’ve had to have lived through such an experience because “the nanny would take care of it”. Danticat then writes of what happened to the apartment that caught fire ant the new tenants that moved in. then he states everything wrong that went on in the vicinity of the building three after the fire and before they moved. The end is where the story gets interesting. This is where I think you can take two main points from the story. The first being the even though there terrible events occurring around the building he states that people die in other places other then their apartment building (bad things happen everywhere) and he really loved where he lived. He makes this statement when he writes “It was an elevated castle above a clattering train tunnel …… It was home”. Now that can be one point but another one can be the quote that he finishes the story with which he mentions twice. This is when his mother says “Sometimes it is too late to say, ‘I shouldn’t have”. This is the moral that the brothers learned from the horrific fire. So which one is it I don’t know you decide, LoL. Otherwise the structure of the essay is very clear he writes in a descriptive fashion and includes a lot of detail and feeling into the story. Now, does the structure help getting the point across, I would argue that it doesn’t for the first one and it does for the latter, because the fact that he loved where he lived isn’t clear until he mentions it and I think that gives clarity to the story or an epiphany. For the second he only mentions in the beginning of the story very, if I may say, quietly and then throws it at us again at the end; so for me it doesn’t work so much.

For “Alive” all I can say is wow. The essay is almost like experiencing being chased. I love story where the author gives lots of details as the events are happening, this allows the reader to really dive into the story and use our imaginations to relive the events that are flying off of the page. I am not a woman, but it must really suck to feel like you are being harassed every time a “creepy” guy looks at you. I wonder, do women really think like this are they paranoid all the time? The point of this essay is a bit easier figure out; and it is “I am vulnerable simply because I’m alive”. This is true, everybody is vulnerable to some type of horrible death or dreadful experience, what can I say it is part of the human condition, or animal condition for that matter, or any living thing to be real general. However, a person cannot live in a state of paranoia, people have to come to realization that we are all going to die one day, but for as long as we are here we might as well make the best of it, because if not then why even go on living. As I mentioned, I really like this story because the way she structured it giving examples of the kidnappings and then putting us, the reader, in a tense state because we don’t know if she is going to be abducted or not, this really captured me.

Blog # 4 "My Father Always Said"

I think to me this essay of Creative Non-Fiction “My Father Always Said” has two main ideas that it is trying to portray. The first idea being that it is crucial, in order to truly know oneself, to know your past and where your parents and ancestors histories. The second point that Mimi Schwartz is trying to make in this essay is that parents usually know best; she was finally able to appreciate the reasons why her father always tried to remind her that “In Rindhiem, we didn’t do such things”. With the family trip in 1953 and with her own trip in 1993, Mimi understood more clearly that what her father’s favorite statement, after they came from Rindhiem in1953, “You are a lucky girls to be here” in reality signifies a lot more than a simple understatement.

Even though the essay as a whole made great sense, each section does reflect on a different idea. For instance, the first section reflects how she thought her father just wanted to be a strict father because he had nothing better to do. The second section is Mimi’s beginning to understand where her father came from, and the type of life he had before Queens; the third section she is reflecting on how much the Jews of Rindhiem had to go through. In the fourth section Mimi is reflecting on how she would have felt if she were growing up during WWII in Rindhiem. Fifth section Mimi is reflecting on the somber emotions she felt in that graveyard. The sixth section Mimi is reflecting on how much she has grown as a person after this experience. Overall the essay had a phenomenal flow, and it all made sense at he end; it would be really interesting to develop an essay in this format.

Blog # 3

Orwell’s “Shooting an Elephant” is different than any of the other “Contemporary” creative non fiction essays that I have read, because as I read it, it seemed to have the feel of a fiction short story. The way he developed the story with speaking about the way he felt about the imperialism and later connecting that to the way he felt when the crowd was expecting to shoot the elephant was contradicting, and ironical, which are things that you find in fiction as the write reaches a resolution; however that does bring back to one of the points which Lott made in his essay, that CNF is about putting things in order so that they make sense to you, that CNF is about finding your own truths; and in that case I believe Orwell accomplished that with tremendous accuracy. He did accomplish what he set out to do by writing this piece; he found his truth, which was that the reason he killed the elephant was simply to not look like a fool in front of Burmans.
In Montaigne “That Men Should….” definitely is a first because in this story he doesn’t use his own life but uses examples of History. This essay is not so much a life story or a narrative, but more of a reflection of ones of lives most intriguing subjects’ happiness. I ask myself if this could even truly be called a CNF piece of writing, after all the man is not writing about his own experiences. However one can see how CNF has developed, the latter pieces we have read seem to connect to specific story or event in a persons life; CNF has developed from a simple reflection about life, to an understanding and an unveiling of the events that caused that understanding.

Enhancing definition of CNF

Bret Lott's essay on "Toward a Definition of Creative Nonfiction" Enhanced my conception of what nonfiction creative writing is and what it should be. Every life no matter how uneventful it might be is worthy of writing about. What matters the most is "piecing together the events" that truly matters, for it will give you more insight into who you truly are. Another aspect of the essay I found interesting is the fact that we should make up or reorder what happens in our lives not to make sound good or to satisfy the reader, because what we are truly after is not to entertain as in fiction writing, but to "understand what is that has happened". However the most appealing concept I took from this essay was the fact that in writing creative non fiction we are exploring a continent which has not yet been explored before, ourselves. The truth is that one shouldn't be shy or feel weird about writing nonfiction because the self is the subject we know most about and by writing about it we are discovering things about ourselves that we didn’t know before. Even if we write not to publish the rewards as Lott mentions are great because we will more deeply "understand" who we truly are.
Kinkaids "Biography of a Dress" is a hilarious narrative (well at least to me), it is also a provoking story which doesn’t have much significance (not even to the writer). However it demonstrates that creative non fiction doesn’t have to be enlightening as long as the author his or herself is enlightened. The essay is definitely very unique, (I personally have never read anything like it). the author is simply "exploring" what she remembers of her second birthday. The narrative is a diary that was written thirty two years after the occurrence. However this story is one which you can not put down until you finish it maybe because it has a plethora of run on sentences or maybe because it is compelling and one as a reader only wants to know what happens next. And that is what makes it a good peace of writing, and a worthwhile reading, you might not find the meaning of life in this story but it brings you a couple o steps closer (or maybe it doesn’t) LOL.

My definition of creative non fiction writing

To me creative non fiction writing is a personal narrative with descriptive language. For instance I could write about the day of my high school graduation. "My graduation", would consist of how I was feeling that day, the jitters and the excitement I felt through the ceremony, and I would finish describing the exuberant night and the end of the day.