Jeremy Hare "Dreams"

Jeremy, what I think works most about this story is how it encapsulates a full journey of sorts. When you started the story, I found myself in the middle of what was happening, but quickly got a recounting of the past and even a glimpse into the future with Sora’s narration. I got to see Sora’s arc, even though the story only takes place over a fairly short time period. I got the sense that Sora started out weak, but would eventually grow strong by challenging Ryu every day; this is the journey that I saw underlying the entire story. In this way, it was nice to have a strong sense of direction in both plot and character development.

            I remember you saying in class that you enjoyed reading/writing a lot of Manga, and I definitely felt that influence on this piece. I had a few suggestions to try to move this story more towards literary fiction in a few areas. First, I would remove some of the instances where Hikari says out lout what she is thinking. Examples of this include “Hmm?” “Asleep?” and “I don’t really recognize him. Must be a freshman,” on the first page. These are things that I felt like a real person would not say out loud but would rather think to themselves. Rather than have her says these things, I would suggest you either describe what Hikari is thinking through authoritative voice or have her think the same thoughts directly. I think this would make the story feel a lot more realistic.

            A second thing I would suggest is to take out a lot of the laughing. I did not count the number of times a character laughed, but it was frequent enough that it became distracting especially since nothing particularly humorous is going on during the story. I also thought all the laughing conflicted with Sora’s initial character description. At first, he his curt and even sneering towards Hikari, but then resorts to laughing almost any time he speaks. Perhaps there is nothing wrong with either one of these characteristics separately, but together they were confusing. Altogether, you have likable characters and potential for an entertaining story. I especially liked how the story ended in a note of action and tension.

Dialogue Exercise (Mission: Creeper)

The following is the result of me eavesdropping on some girls in a dorm lobby. The dots represent pauses in the speakers' conversation or places where my writing fell behind the actual speaking taking place. So there you have it.

“I can’t walk.”

“I need to start running more.”

“I know, my feet hurt.”

…

“My friend, the one from Nashville, for their Spanish projects, if you made the teacher food, he would give you extra credit.”

“In my Physics class in high school, we could bring him food any day and convince him not to teach that day.”

“That’s awesome.”

…

“So the chemistry demonstration was just like a huge fireball. When you use that high of an amount that can happen.”

“This is why I’m not doing anything related to math or science.”

“You don’t like fire?”

“No, I just hate math.”

“Yeah, I understand that.”

…

“We don’t need any more stressed out people in our room, please don’t.”

“Apparently travel planners have the highest suicide rate of any occupation.”

“I thought it was dentists?”

“Why do we know this stuff?”

…

“Ok, I’m friends with this guy on Facebook and he comments on my feed all the time and I don’t know him at all.”

“Yeah, there’s this guy who’s always like ‘Hey girl, yeah totally,’ and I don’t really know him.”

“I think it’s funny.”

…

“We never had to memorize that about him.”

“He knows so much random stuff.”

…

“Oh, I was totally asleep on that day.”

“Yeah, she threw a fit that day. I was like ‘Shhhh, everyone be quiet.’”

“She would be like ‘What’s next?’ and we’d be like ‘We don’t know, otherwise we wouldn’t be here.’”

…

“Weren’t you a cheerleader?”

“I was not actually.”

“Really? I’ve always thought you were a cheerleader.”

“It feels so amazing outside right now.”

“It’s maybe two degrees warmer than it is in this room right now.”

“I know, right?”

Response to "1-900" by Richard Bausch

The best thing about this piece is its complete lack of authoritative interference. Nowhere in this piece does Bausch reveal his presence or even commentate on what his characters are doing or saying. John and Sharon constitute the entirety of the content. As any writer knows, constructing an interesting, cohesive story without any dialogue tags, adverbs, or descriptions of characters’ thoughts is insanely difficult. For doing this, and doing it so well, Bausch deserves nothing less than mad props.

            What really helped this piece work was the utilization of pauses. Since the work is based purely on the dialogue between two people, these periodic breaks not only helped vary tempo and convey emphasis, but also created a realistic feeling around the conversation. A vast majority of phone conversations involve pauses or inquiries of “Hello?” to make sure the other person is still on the line. Bausch includes plenty of these pauses and inquiries, as is necessary to make the audience believe two people are really talking on the phone. It was also nice getting to know the characters just by hearing their conversation rather than having their histories explained to us by the author. I will admit that some of the dialogue did not feel very organic, but the idea behind this style of fiction is appealing.

            The overall structure of this work was interesting, but I cannot say I was crazy about it in this case. What Bausch does very clearly is create an over-arching chiasmus of roles: John resists talking dirty in the beginning while Sharon insists upon it, only to have Sharon resist at the end while John insists (somewhat). The interaction between these two is compelling to some degree, but I found myself feeling like this was a story written to fit a preconceived blueprint rather than being a story that just so happened to take on a particular form. When Sharon refuses to service John towards the end, I did not feel like she did it because that’s what her character would actually do; I felt she did it because it would be nice of her to do in order to fit a parallel structure. I would consider myself accomplished if I could write a piece based only on dialogue like this, but I might try to work my characters so they did not appear to have ulterior literary motives.

Response to "Emergency" by Denis Johnson

Several things made this piece odd, but perhaps the strangest thing about Johnson’s style is how he chooses to make his characters interact. For instance, when Georgie is given the responsibility of prepping the man with the knife in his eye, he emerges holding the very knife that was alleged to be lodge in the man’s brain. Naturally, one would expect the medical staff at hand to react in horror and dismay when an orderly appears with evidence that he may have very well killed their patient, but this is not the case. After a brief shocked silence, the doctor only asks, “Where did you get that?” Perhaps this reflects the doctor’s shock and inability to respond appropriately, but all hope of realism vanished when one of the nurses points out to Georgie, “Your shoelace is untied.” It seems as though Johnson is intentionally creating a scene that is meant to be somewhat ridiculous and unbelievable. I was reminded of epic theater to some degree; the goal is not realism, but to get the audience to think.

            It is also interesting to note how Georgie and the narrator rarely have cohesive conversations. A perfect example can be found when the two are lying on the back of Georgie’s truck on a summer day and Georgie talks about wanting to go to church while the narrator only talks about going to the fair. Being that the two were stoned for the vast majority of this story, these kinds of conversations fit expectations, but continued to distance me as a reader from a normal perception of reality within the story. The odd interactions and reactions of the characters created a kind of haze in this piece which seemed analogous to the drug usage itself and the 70’s in general. I feel I might use similar techniques only if my goal were to illustrate confusion and abstraction in my writing. All in all, an interesting piece, though it would probably take some deeper analysis to fully appreciate its intentions.

Make Reality (A Short-Short Story)

I am Dr. Travis Stork, Chief of Medicine and neurosurgeon at St. Peter’s Hospital. My most challenging case lies before me on the operating table: an elderly man suffering from dementia has developed a malignant tumor on his left occipital lobe. I was born for moments like this. Focusing my 27 years of operating experience, I turn to my assistant.

            “Scalpel.”

            “No.”

            “Cameron, hand me the scalpel.”

            “No, I don’t want to be doctors anymore. We only have a little bit longer ‘til Daddy’s done watching the news, and this is boring.”

            “Oh, so you just want to let Mr. Frumpkins die on our operating table do you?” I hold up the stuffed bear and glare at my little sister with seething accusation. “Where is your sense of humanity?”

            “Stop it. We’ve saved Mr. Frumpkins three times already.”

            “Ok, well what do you want to be?”

            “I want to be one of those famous people that dance. In the competitions, you know?” She proceeds to grab Mr. Frumpkins from my hand and spin him around the room, dancing what I believe is a ballroom waltz.

            I am Bruno Tonioli, world-renown dancer and famously charismatic critic. “No, no. Your sashays need to be much more graceful and your lines more elegant. Keep your chin up, darling. Up, up, up.” I clap my hands to the beat.

            Cameron makes a few laps around the room, my critiques following her every step. She finally trips over the beanbag we keep in the far corner and falls into it. She and Mr. Frumpkins enjoy a nice laugh. I listen to the sound coming from the other room: the seven-day forecast. We don’t have much longer.

            Shaking my head, I approach the dancers sprawled out in the corner. With my arms folded behind my back, I say what I must. “I know you have both trained very hard to be where you are today, and from the first day, you have both made great strides in both your abilities and confidence. However, only one of you will be moving on to the finals in our competition.” The obligatory pause permeates the room. Only the muffed voices of Channel 5’s #1 news anchor team interrupts the tension through the door. “And the contestant moving on to the finals is…Signore Frumpkins!” The crowd goes wild; I snatch Mr. Frumpkins away and hoist him up on my shoulder, taking a victory lap around the room. Cameron stuffs her face into the beanbag.

            The TV clicks off.

            I stop and look at Cameron’s wide eyes. “It’s ok, I’ll go,” I say, tossing Mr. Frumpkins back to her. I’m already at the door when our father starts shouting one of his usual tirades. Who would be my opponent tonight? The formidable Jack Daniels? The ever scrappy Captain Morgan? Or perhaps the foreign heavyweight, Comrade Smirnoff? I bounce in place, warming up.

            I am Johnny Hendricks, relatively unknown but hopeful title contender. The crowd roars as I enter the ring.

Response to "Television" by Lydia Davis

The most immediate appeal of Davis’ work is her ability to relate. Take the opening two lines, “We have all these favorite shows coming on every evening. They say it will be exciting and it always is.” With these two sentences, anyone who watches television with any amount of regularity thinks, “Yep, that’s true.” The literary hook is set, not only for capturing the audience’s interest by appealing to the common man, but also for Davis’ commentary on the average person’s television addiction. Key phrases such as “all these favorite shows,” “every evening,” and “it always is,” hint at the obsessive nature of many television-viewers. Every show they watch is a favorite, every night is an opportunity to indulge, and it is always an enthralling experience. Davis’ use of absolutes effectively, yet subtly conveys our culture’s media infatuation.

Another aspect of this piece that grabbed my attention was Davis’ use of chunking. The work itself is divided into three main portions, and these portions are further divided into smaller chunks of text. I thought this beautifully mirrored the kind of stop and go nature of television itself; between changing the channels and commercials, one rarely enjoys a smooth, continuous viewing experience. In addition to complementing the meaning of the work as a whole, I thought Davis’ choice of structure helped the story’s already snappy pace. Each subsequent clause may or may not be related to the one before it, but the intrigue of tempo was paramount to continuity of thought in this particular case. I admire Davis’ use of timing to keep her piece fresh and interesting, and I would hope to employ similar techniques for works of my own. Her subtle approach to commentating on the mindless nature of hours upon hours of watching the television was also artfully done. If I were to ever write some form of social commentary, I would definitely keep this work in mind as a good reference.

The Hours are Ours [Revised]

The hours are hours, my dear, and nothing more.

While they tick away in their monotonous drone,

I can think of nothing else than the tired, old

Hallways of lemon-scented retirement homes.

Their parade plods in a circle, repeating their tones

On walls, radios, and Rolex shackles, invited to our homes.

But let’s break from this desolation,

Let’s be free of the reign of regulation and the tyranny of time.

Let’s walk down the moonlit streets, humming that song

That you can’t get out of your head, tapping our mingled fingers,

Symphony.

I’ll count the stars with you, even if we only get to 192,

And treat you to all the frozen yogurt you can eat.

While we’re in the mood, let’s go down by the corner

And pay the man a dollar as he closes his eyes, singing the blues.

We’ll watch the sun rise a thousand times, and a thousand times more

Watch it set. Not to number the days, but to see the ways

That the pinks and blues collect in hues that weave across the sky,

Tapestry.

I’ll make you exotic sandwiches and pretend they’re all the rage in France.

We’ll venture out to who knows where, and be angry when we find our way back.

The decrepit remains of a measured life fall by the wayside

As we stride on to our lives lived in full, beautifully unbounded.

The hours are ours, my dear, and nothing more.