This is an exceptional piece of writing, by far one of the greatest essays I’ve ever read. The thing that gets me about it, haunts me really, is just how one wrong action, well fifty I guess, impacted the author’s life for so long. I’m not saying that it shouldn’t of, it’s just that seeing time so compressed in this manner, experiencing years of his life in mere minutes of reading, how these moments impact us. The same goes for the law student, how her pregnancy could’ve derailed her whole schooling and forever altered the trajectory of her life, and the same for Elvis. All these people make decisions that seem so rapid, they just say “yes” to hooking up with someone and the consequences are so final. It’s an odd feeling to experience life like this, to live years and years with someone in a moment. The beauty of this piece, in my opinion, is twofold, one of structure and one of honesty, or my perceived judgement of honesty. The structure of the piece is simple, yet flawless in execution. The years come and go when you least expect it and all tend to blend together into one painful memory, much like the piece remarks. As the writing continues, the references back to his fiancé grow fainter and fainter as does his longing for and memory of her. The time compression is also incredibly painful, at least for me. To think that the years pass by and they’re just as hollow as the last. The little moments that make life so wonderful are lost, it seems to me, and only described with sweeping brush strokes, except for some. This is what Diaz does so well, the compression of time, how it switches to microscopic moments to weeks and months passing by in a single sentence. It offers a unique perspective on life that is hard to find elsewhere.
On “Brief Interviews with Hideous Men” by David Foster Wallace
I am, for no reason apparent to me, enthralled by Wallace’s B.I. #42. It discuss a son, or daughter I suppose, talking about his or her father who careered as a bathroom attendant for 29 years. There is a certain taboo in speaking, thinking, or even writing about the bathroom. It isn’t shown in movies or written about in books, but it takes up a substantial portion of our lives. It’s as if we walk through those doors, labeled “Men” and “Women” and time just stops, we stop existing until we walk back outside and into the world. I’ve been to a few fancy restaurants on my grandparents’ dime and even there, there seems to be a limit to how much you can lie to yourself about what you’re doing. You can have “marble shipped from Italy” and “stall doors of seasoned cherry,” but really all a bathroom is masks the fact that you are defecating into a bucket, a nice bucket, but a bucket nonetheless (Wallace 44). The nonchalant approach of the narrator speaks of someone who has become jaded to the topic their discussing. So many vile and rotten words spoken in so few pages. It seems to me to be just the same as a bathroom, the writing I mean, in that no matter how dressed up it is, how many synonyms one can come up with he or she is still discussing a bathroom. There is a certain beauty to the bathroom that gets touched on, the fact that in this place of nonexistence we are the most unguarded, the most ourselves. These businessmen, tycoons, heirs, tippers and non-tippers defecate and vomit and sneeze and grunt and sigh and a million other things that they restrain themselves from doing. If you strip them of their titles they are all just “Men” going to the bathroom. You enter this non-world and are immediately stripped of any facade you posess. And the final question posed, and its response, are beautifully inquisitive. Should the son be proud of his father’s dedication or ashamed that he spend a third of his life listening to men defecate? At what point does dedication to a craft cause us to lose ourselves, to throw away our lives. Sure, he could feed his family and earn enough money to survive, but what kind of survival is that where we must smell, hear and experience nothing but those found in a bathroom?
On “Mary When You Follow Her” by Carmen Maria Machado
This story has a fascinating structure, most notably, the entire story is written in one sentence. Interestingly, I did not even notice this when I first read it, which is testament to the authors ability to avoid it reading like a run on sentence. I suspect that the author chose to format the story in this way in order to communicate Mary’s monotonous and drawn out cycle in her life. The very cycle that she is trying so hard to escape. This piece inspired me to write my own story using her “one-sentence” outline, and as someone who has often struggled to write creative stories on their own time, I was excited to find text that prompted me to do so.
Just as powerfully, the authors use of imagery and description in this story is unbelievable. Just in the first couple of lines, readers are exposed to the unique way that Machado paints the picture of her story. For example, in order to describe the season/time that the story is taking place, she not only tells us Maria’s age, but also includes, “the year that her beloved father—amateur coin collector, retired autoworker, lapsed Catholic—died silently of liver cancer three weeks after his diagnosis, and the autumn her favorite dog killed her favorite cat on the brown, crisped grass of their front lawn, and the cold came so early that the apples on the trees froze and fell like stones dropped from heaven, and the fifth local Dominican teenager in as many months disappeared while walking home from her minimum-wage, dead-end job, leaving behind a kid sister and an unfinished journal and a bedroom in her mother’s house she’d never made enough to leave” by sharing several events that occurred in that same year, we develop a deeper understanding of Maria’s given circumstances and how they may have molded her during this particular autumn. Furthermore, the detail regarding the disappearance of the teenage girl sets up the story and plants a seed into readers’ heads.
The way Beattie writes is eerie. Her characters are so real, and each sentence they speak makes sense, but the view of the narrator still feels like she is watching each scene play, having no part in what happens. The use of first person made her feel absent, as if she could be removed from the story and the men would just keep going. There was scarce detail about her instead of her relationships to those around her. Beattie used her past to define her at points, and moments from outside the house, even using where details come from to advance the character and her isolation. The character at the center was carefully built, though Beattie knew everything about Amy, she lets other characters develop first, fast. However, in the end, those characters almost overshare, they’re too designed, playing into the sitcom-like view of the narrator.
Beattie writes with incredible patience. For instance, she doesn’t reveal the name of the main character until more than half-way through, when she is introduced to her soon-to-be affair, and her name as Amy is immediately connected to her husband. Beattie’s patience also makes the final scene memorable. At last, Amy and Frank are interacting directly together, no one else in the way, and Beattie has given them a lot to talk about, but they speak indirectly, about hurricanes, until finally Frank takes her hand and delivers the last line. The last line is still not a full answer and Beattie knows it will roll around your stomach, because like everything she writes, it seems to be just out of reach.
I found this story very confusing and I’m still not quite sure what it was trying to convey. There seemed to be many narratives occurring – newlywed life, the first bakery attack, the second bakery attack, boats, and curses – and I couldn’t see how they all related. It felt like the boat was supposed to be a metaphor that evolved alongside the story, but the metaphor was not explained in a way that was relatable enough for me to understand it. It felt like a secret between the author and his characters and any readers who understood the story and I felt kind of unintelligent for not being able to pick up on the connections between the imagery and the plot.
I also found myself getting really frustrated with and angry at the characters. Unlike Díaz’s “The Cheater’s Guide to Love,” where the main character did some horrible things but was still a lovable character who I found myself rooting for, these two characters quickly lost my respect and I found myself wishing for the story to end so I could make sure they wouldn’t hurt anyone else. While Díaz’s character’s flaws made him feel more human, these characters’ perspectives just seemed so coldhearted and inhuman – they had no redeeming qualities. This may have been Murakami’s intention; I don’t know. But reading this piece wasn’t an enjoyable or meaningful experience and I found myself wishing the story had been told from the perspective of the bakery owner or the McDonalds employees instead.
I loved this piece and its honesty was refreshing. It highlighted all of the not-so-pretty sides of a character, the ones we don’t normally see, and still managed to make the protagonist likeable. I found myself rooting for Yunior despite all of his shortcomings and the horrible ways he hurt others, hoping that he would pull through and learn the error of his ways, bettering himself for once and for all. While he didn’t necessarily, I think that’s what made him so believable. I think it was the matter-of-fact tone of the piece really made me as the reader feel like I was the main character, especially combined with the second person POV. Those two characteristics made me feel as though the character’s growth was my growth and that I could only be satisfied once he was in a better place and satisfied.
Upon reading others’ reflections on this piece, I’m still not sure if it is nonfiction or fiction or a blend of both. As it was included in the fiction unit, I’m going to assume it was fiction, but it felt so nonfictional. Regardless, I completely agree with what Estelle said regarding the author not asking for forgiveness from the reader, either for himself or for his character. It was refreshing to read and an example of moral greyness in a character done well.
On Donald Bartheleme: The School (w/George Saunders: The Perfect Gerbil):
I think Saunders hit it right on the head when he said “The School” was all boldly rising action, a series of escalations. Even the rhythm of the syntax is fast, almost frantic, like lighting a sparkler in reverse and fast forward, a chemical explosion climbing higher and higher, getting bigger and bigger. It was so ambitious that I was worried that Bartheleme wouldn’t stick the landing, but he did. The ending surprised me, but it felt inevitable. He transitions from a pattern of absolutes (deaths) to a pattern of questions (children/Helen) to the biggest question mark of all (the gerbil), loaded with meaning and possibility. I think the key is that he doesn’t recycle ideas, or even if he does, every introduction feels fresh, transformed in its new context. Maybe the best endings open a door for the reader to step into. The discussion stays alive even after the final sentence, life continuing.
This piece really struck me. It was the first time I ever got to know a character through a list, let alone watch them grow and mature. Love and affection comes pouring through the language; I get the sense that this was perhaps some form of a letter to her previous self. In any case, the statements seem to be a mixture of things the speaker was told, f.e. “always eat your food in such a way that it won’t turn someone else’s stomach,” as opposed to things the speaker learned for herself: “this is how to behave in the presence of men who don’t know you very well, and this way they won’t recognize immediately the slut I have warned you against becoming.” Though, viewed in a certain light, the identity of the speaker really is unknown. Perhaps that is a main part of the piece’s allure. Nevertheless the love and care shown in the statements is very powerful, and works well to get the reader invested in the story.
Additionally, the maturation in the statements (the movement) works to get investment from the reader. We get to grow with the speaker, see her perspective. Kinkaid achieves this so well through the topics of her sentences. In the beginning they start out with house chores and childish adventures, then it moves on to taking control of her body (i.e. her smile) and boys, finally to being independent and dealing with men. What is also noteworthy is that in the last sentence the speaker addresses her listener as a “woman,” indicating the growth achieved throughout the piece.
Wow. This was an amazing article. there was so much life packed into the author’s words and I felt drained (in a satisfying way) after I finished reading.
When I started reading, I really wanted to hate the protagonist. To me, he felt entitled. Like what did you expect would happen if you cheated on your fiancé with 50 other girls. The fact that he even thought he deserved to ask for forgiveness made me sick to my stomach. I just wanted to shake him through the pages and tell him to get out of her life for good. I wanted to hate him, I really did. But I couldn’t.
The author an entire person, a new life out of only words. Isn’t that insane? If I had to describe the protagonist, I would go with a imperfect kaleidoscope. Simple on the outside, so complicated on the inside. Through the lens it is beautiful, yet flawed and fragmented. These broken pattern will continue to spin no matter what. As much as this story was one that explored the consequences of cheating, it felt like I was reading a life. I watched this character crawl out of the deepest of holes only to fall doing countless amounts of time. He never stopped trying though. Maybe this story is one about the human will to try. For this reason I could not hate him. In my heart I was rooting for him to make it out on the other side, happy. Do I believe in karma? I don’t know. I do believe that the protagonist in this article did deserve what was coming to him though. Hurt someone you love severely enough and it will be a part of your life forever. Brokenness ricochets, I suppose.
Another aspect of this article that I loved was the storytelling of other characters through a single perspective. It felt genuine. Sometimes maybe we don’t realize how much we live our lives through other people, whether it’s good or bad. The people we like, dislike, love, hate, or share a glance with once affects us. It changes us. People are powerful, much more than we realize.
“Did you know that when they taught the first chimp to talk, it lied? That when they asked her who did it on the desk, she signed back the name of the janitor. And that when they pressed her, she said she was sorry, that it was really the project director. But she was a mother, so I guess she had her reasons.”
“Oh, that’s good,” she said. “A parable.”
There’s something about this exchange that left me slack-jawed when I read it. Actually this whole piece left me slack-jawed, and there are a dozen other moments like this that I annotated with exclamation marks all the way through to the last (knockout) line, but I picked this exchange because it was the first and probably most explicit exemplification of the exercise we did: write a meal where something is very wrong without explaining what is wrong. Where the reader gets the cold chicken, and then the reader backtracks from there, chewing on the thick slices of what’s unsaid. Only here, Amy Hempel doesn’t work with silence but the opposite of it. The narrator talks in that sort of 2 a.m. cryptic ramble, full of conjunctions and rhetorical questions and half-soliloquies, dumping a whole load of puzzle pieces in your arms with no prelude. I mean none of the characters have names—what a choice! And it works because Hempel fully embraces her form. She sets the tone and commands attention from the very start; she gets you invested in the absurdity, insisting meaning on the seemingly meaningless. No line is wasted. The reader can’t let their eyes glaze over for even a second because then who knows what points will fly over their heads if they do?
( “Oh, that’s good,” she said. “A parable.” ) That short, comical, blunt bit of meta stands in such contrast to the exposition that came before that it feels less like a wink and more like a strong nudge of the elbow, a sort of ‘did-you-see-that?-keep-paying-attention’. Hempel seems to think (and I agree) that the best way to come at a truth is sideways, so by angling your gaze this way and that you open your eyes to new ways of looking at things, making connections that surprise you that then feel inevitable.
This has got to be one of my favorite articles in a long, long time. The writer’s ability to paint an extremely vivid description of the emotions being experienced by the characters is fascinating. The most important thing I learned from this story is how much the details actually matter. I believed every moment of this story. It felt like I knew the characters, their stories, what they were going through. In <30 pages, the writer is able to describe all the most important parts of their lives to paint such a complete picture – from how they'd spend the holidays to family members, to friends, to work, to their interests.
Some parts of the piece that I particularly enjoyed and want to remember (this is really just a note to self sort of thing):
– the end of year 1, I like the isolation of the final sentence.
– the little bits of spanish thrown in there
– the transitions between the years; this general format of talking about this story in years is also super interesting and gives the story a lot of depth.
– the way the injury comes out of nowhere; the line, "you put away the shoes."
– "everywhere you two go she shoots photos, but never of you"
– "there are surprises and there are surprises, and then there is this" – referencing the pregnancy
– interesting that most people are named in the story, but the law student just referred to as that – perhaps to show that she was different from most people in his life?
– "and because you know in your lying cheater’s heart that sometimes a start is all we ever get"- super powerful ending, it has a nice rhythm to it as well.
Microfiction makes so much sense to me, both as a reader and a writer. It can be engaging, exciting, meditative, and powerful, all condensed so neatly that the words stick with you long after you experience them the first time. This is how I feel about Davis’ “Five Stories,” whose subject matter ranges from mice to lost objects and cover a lot of ground in a few lines.
The five stories are no longer than a paragraph each, but the voice in all of them is so distinct and well-defined that I marvel at the author’s skill. There is a circularity, a backtracking, and a reconfiguring to the voices in these stories that is relatable and colloquial. In “The Mice,” the narrator shifts from boasting of a mice-free kitchen to wondering why the mice don’t come visit, to practically being jealous that the mice have chosen a different kitchen to frequent. Similarly, in “Fear,” the narrator begins by describing the bizarre behavior of a frightened woman in the neighborhood, but reverses and reevaluates, ending with the poignant acknowledgement of her normalcy–explaining that everyone has behaved strangely out of fear at one point or another.
I am amazed by Davis’ ability to construct entire narrative arcs in so short a time. Her stories feel complete and self-contained, with nothing extraneous or necessary. Her economy and clarity render her work quite powerful. I will try to remind myself of her work when I’m in the midst of determining whether certain elements of my longer stories are necessary or not.
I loved this story because of how short and simple it was. There was nothing fancy about it. It was just a series of difficult, uncomfortable questions that an unlikeable person is asking themselves (written in a third-person POV), but each of those questions is relevant. The questions are related to age, beauty, the state of the world, facial expressions, all common things that everyone can relate to. The uncomfortable and uncertain nature that drives the questions increases ever so slowly until it leads us to its conclusion i.e. the most uncomfortable and uncertain thing – death. It’s simple because there’s not much to it, but it’s what a lot of people think about when it comes to death, that is, will they be missed, were they liked by others and other stuff along those lines.
On “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” by Raymond Carver:
This piece describes an evening of drinks and conversation about love between two couples. The four characters involved are all quite different and nuanced, yet Carver shows that to the reader without making them outlandish or over the top. Each of the four characters is very believable and real, which is a testament to the impressive way in which Carver wrote them. This essay is full of dialogue from top to bottom which I believe is the key to making such honest characters. The casual, comfortable tone of the dialogue between these four friends is effortless and easy, while also being extremely telling of their intentions, emotions, and reactions to one another. That always sticks out to me in a story (strong, frequent dialogue) because I have no courage to even attempt to do that yet. I am always impressed.
Also, I think this story immediately stuck out to me because of the topic of love. I have been obsessively reading the Modern Love essays of the New York Times lately. I love reading about love. Stories about love are so universal, yet so vulnerable and fragile. Carver’s essay was interesting because it incapsulated the different perspectives of what love is from his four characters. Another fascinating aspect was that throughout the essay, the characters (one in particular) were getting increasingly intoxicated, leading them to speak more bluntly and without inhibitions on the subject, which can often be tiptoed around or glossed over by usage of clichés. The honesty of the characters was potent although it was fiction.
I connect with Lily’s analysis concerning the way Carver draws attention to the bizarre universality of love in this story. The dialogue and anecdotes are specific and poignant but allow us readers to walk alongside the characters and find parallels in our own lives. The world Carver crafts in this story, in other words, is not at all far from our own.
I’m also fascinated by the way the end puts a big question mark on the story as a whole. It effectively halts the progress the characters have been making from the beginning. The conversation has been flowing so freely, so naturally, but as soon as the gin runs out, they are all left a bit bewildered and aimless at the table. None of them make a move to go to the restaurant, get the cheese and crackers, or even conclude any of the stories that have been passed around. Upon reflection, this directionless conclusion seems to be the whole point–that we can try to define, categorize, and parse out the meaning of love as much as we want, but at the end of the day we are left wordless and can only hope to be wordless in community with other people figuring it out, too.
I was struck by the style in which this story was written. Each sentence, which is either an order or advice to a girl, is separated by semicolons. As I read the story, I read it much faster and it flowed more smoothly than if it were broken up by periods. I think the semicolons and large block of text without any breaks contribute to the overwhelming and neverending feeling of this long list of orders. The point of view is second person, and whoever is addressing the young girl seems to be close to her. Details in the orders show that the person knows the young girl well, and could likely be her chastising mother. For instance, one order is: “on Sundays try to walk like a lady and not like the slut you are so bent on becoming.” I certainly do not think a friend would say this or a stranger, but likely an older family member who feels that they have some authority over and responsibility for this girl. Some of the orders are light and trivial like washing clothes and cooking things, whereas other orders have a more serious tone that suggest that the addresser might be speaking from experience. For example, the order “this is how to make a good medicine to throw away a child before it even becomes a child” stuck out among the others. After reading this, I feel inspired to try writing using this style and point of view. This story reminds me that there is no wrong way to write a story; there are so so many creative ways in which a story can be shared.
Response to “The Cheater’s Guide to Love” by Junot Díaz
This is perhaps one of the most honest pieces I have read in a long time. However, I question whether this story is fiction, because it really seems like Diaz is writing about himself. Particularly at the end, when Diaz mentions writing “The Cheater’s Guide to Love,” the piece seems like a selected reflection of his love life written in direct address to his past self.
Quick synopsis, we meet Yunior is a serial cheater and a sex addict who’s fiance leaves him when she finds out of his infedelity, and watch his self-told road of growing as a person. There is remarkable power in the brutal honesty Yunior keeps with himself. For example, all the darkest, weakest moments like “keeping the pictures of her naked body while she was sleeping” add real weight to the piece, almost as if readers get to see that Yunior’s first step in growing is being completely honest with himself, accepting his whole self, faults and all. Diaz is extremely familiar with his character’s psyche (which would make sense if this was an autobiography) making Yunior come to life.
Diaz also brings Yunior to life through the language, and culture expressed by it. “The Cheater’s Guide to Love” is sprinkled with Spanish and full of references to the Dominican Republic. The Spanish adds to Yunior’s voice throughout the piece, adding the cultural counterweight that makes this piece seem like a tiny excerpt of an entire life. This feeling also helps reader’s accept the story as true, and read it with a little more appreciation and wonder. The spanish and culture transforms this piece from “A cheater’s guide…” to “This cheater’s guide…” a very powerful difference.
On “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” by Raymond Carver:
I personally find it difficult to know when and how to incorporate dialogue into a story. I have included some dialogue in my fiction story, but I find that I usually resort to writing without dialogue; I think this is because I struggle to write imperfect and casual human conversations. This story struck me because it is primarily dialogue and the conversations between characters seemed real and authentic. Also, the dialogue provided insight into each character’s personality in a way I didn’t think it could. The point of view was first person, but the narrator doesn’t contribute much to conversation and instead introduces the reader to each character by providing a brief summary including facts and physical descriptions. Other than that, the narrator stays silent and simply observes the conversations and interactions around him. This allows the reader also to observe the conversations and interactions through what seems to be a reliable perspective (through the eyes of a secondary character).
The conversation revolves around the definition of love. It is different to each person, and this leads to disputes. For instance, Terri says her ex-husband’s way of expressing his love for her was by abusing her physically and killing himself. Her current husband, Mel, argues, “The kind of love I’m talking about, you don’t try to kill people.” Mel goes on to define what he believes love is by telling a story about an old couple that is almost killed in a car crash by a drunk teenager. When the couple is recovering in the hospital, Mel observed that the injuries of the accident weren’t killing the old man. Instead, the fact that the old man became blind and couldn’t see his wife was what was killing him. I enjoyed reading this story because the characters and the conversation felt very real, and I also think that everyone has their own unique definition of love.
This story was extremely impactful for me; right after I finished reading it, I sent the link of the article to several friends, convincing them that this story was a must read. After reading it, they agreed. While the article was on the longer side, I found myself entranced by the story, hoping that it would not end. The author does not ask for pity, rather, the article seems to be a self-reflection of the consequences of a huge mistake. It communicates the message that a person can really, really mess up, and unlike the fairytales or the movies, the ending doesn’t always end well. The man does not always get forgiven, or the man does not always fully heal. This story is so raw and real that I found myself rooting for the author, despite all his flaws, yet it seemed as if he wasn’t asking for the readers for forgiveness. It was also so powerful to hear the story of Elvis alongside his own, as their relationship revealed more about the author and his personality than a story solely focusing on Diaz himself would have. Finally, the article embeds motifs of racism, again revealing more about the author’s character and personal struggles. The authors ability to include multiple layers of a story that so seamlessly work alongside each other is a writing skill that I hope to someday obtain.
This story was absolutely heartbreaking to me. It is hard to comprehend how Budnitz was able to make me sympathize with, even adore, a random homeless man in a dog suit. The whole concept is quite disgusting yet throughout the story I became more and more fond of Prince, the dog-suit man. The story centers around Lisa, the youngest child in a family of five, who are currently living through an apocalyptic time of war and famine. The world as we know it is deteriorated and although Budnitz does not provide much detail as to what is truly happening, since Lisa herself does not quite understand it, it is clear that the state of the world is tragic and getting worse. The tragedy is expressed implicitly in the details, such as Lisa’s teeth being loose when they shouldn’t be, and the darkening of everyone’s faces with time’s passage. Prince, the dog, is gross in so many ways. Not only is he physically gross, Lisa describing herself as burying her “face in [his] rough, sick-smelling fur.” She says that he will lick her to say goodnight. This is a grown man in a dog suit! EW! But shockingly, I still care about him. The hope that he gives Lisa and the love that he shows her as her world and family is falling apart is crucial to her wellbeing, and perhaps the only thing keeping her alive and making her smile on the occasion. They need each other in a sweet yet devastating way. The writing is also beautifully accurate to the voice of a young girl. The language and thoughts are simple and innocent without being pointless or void of thoughtfulness. I always find it impressive when an author can transform their writing into such a different voice than their own. I think that Budnitz does it seamlessly.
On “The Cheater’s Guide to Love” by Junot Díaz
This is an exceptional piece of writing, by far one of the greatest essays I’ve ever read. The thing that gets me about it, haunts me really, is just how one wrong action, well fifty I guess, impacted the author’s life for so long. I’m not saying that it shouldn’t of, it’s just that seeing time so compressed in this manner, experiencing years of his life in mere minutes of reading, how these moments impact us. The same goes for the law student, how her pregnancy could’ve derailed her whole schooling and forever altered the trajectory of her life, and the same for Elvis. All these people make decisions that seem so rapid, they just say “yes” to hooking up with someone and the consequences are so final. It’s an odd feeling to experience life like this, to live years and years with someone in a moment. The beauty of this piece, in my opinion, is twofold, one of structure and one of honesty, or my perceived judgement of honesty. The structure of the piece is simple, yet flawless in execution. The years come and go when you least expect it and all tend to blend together into one painful memory, much like the piece remarks. As the writing continues, the references back to his fiancé grow fainter and fainter as does his longing for and memory of her. The time compression is also incredibly painful, at least for me. To think that the years pass by and they’re just as hollow as the last. The little moments that make life so wonderful are lost, it seems to me, and only described with sweeping brush strokes, except for some. This is what Diaz does so well, the compression of time, how it switches to microscopic moments to weeks and months passing by in a single sentence. It offers a unique perspective on life that is hard to find elsewhere.
On “Brief Interviews with Hideous Men” by David Foster Wallace
I am, for no reason apparent to me, enthralled by Wallace’s B.I. #42. It discuss a son, or daughter I suppose, talking about his or her father who careered as a bathroom attendant for 29 years. There is a certain taboo in speaking, thinking, or even writing about the bathroom. It isn’t shown in movies or written about in books, but it takes up a substantial portion of our lives. It’s as if we walk through those doors, labeled “Men” and “Women” and time just stops, we stop existing until we walk back outside and into the world. I’ve been to a few fancy restaurants on my grandparents’ dime and even there, there seems to be a limit to how much you can lie to yourself about what you’re doing. You can have “marble shipped from Italy” and “stall doors of seasoned cherry,” but really all a bathroom is masks the fact that you are defecating into a bucket, a nice bucket, but a bucket nonetheless (Wallace 44). The nonchalant approach of the narrator speaks of someone who has become jaded to the topic their discussing. So many vile and rotten words spoken in so few pages. It seems to me to be just the same as a bathroom, the writing I mean, in that no matter how dressed up it is, how many synonyms one can come up with he or she is still discussing a bathroom. There is a certain beauty to the bathroom that gets touched on, the fact that in this place of nonexistence we are the most unguarded, the most ourselves. These businessmen, tycoons, heirs, tippers and non-tippers defecate and vomit and sneeze and grunt and sigh and a million other things that they restrain themselves from doing. If you strip them of their titles they are all just “Men” going to the bathroom. You enter this non-world and are immediately stripped of any facade you posess. And the final question posed, and its response, are beautifully inquisitive. Should the son be proud of his father’s dedication or ashamed that he spend a third of his life listening to men defecate? At what point does dedication to a craft cause us to lose ourselves, to throw away our lives. Sure, he could feed his family and earn enough money to survive, but what kind of survival is that where we must smell, hear and experience nothing but those found in a bathroom?
On “Mary When You Follow Her” by Carmen Maria Machado
This story has a fascinating structure, most notably, the entire story is written in one sentence. Interestingly, I did not even notice this when I first read it, which is testament to the authors ability to avoid it reading like a run on sentence. I suspect that the author chose to format the story in this way in order to communicate Mary’s monotonous and drawn out cycle in her life. The very cycle that she is trying so hard to escape. This piece inspired me to write my own story using her “one-sentence” outline, and as someone who has often struggled to write creative stories on their own time, I was excited to find text that prompted me to do so.
Just as powerfully, the authors use of imagery and description in this story is unbelievable. Just in the first couple of lines, readers are exposed to the unique way that Machado paints the picture of her story. For example, in order to describe the season/time that the story is taking place, she not only tells us Maria’s age, but also includes, “the year that her beloved father—amateur coin collector, retired autoworker, lapsed Catholic—died silently of liver cancer three weeks after his diagnosis, and the autumn her favorite dog killed her favorite cat on the brown, crisped grass of their front lawn, and the cold came so early that the apples on the trees froze and fell like stones dropped from heaven, and the fifth local Dominican teenager in as many months disappeared while walking home from her minimum-wage, dead-end job, leaving behind a kid sister and an unfinished journal and a bedroom in her mother’s house she’d never made enough to leave” by sharing several events that occurred in that same year, we develop a deeper understanding of Maria’s given circumstances and how they may have molded her during this particular autumn. Furthermore, the detail regarding the disappearance of the teenage girl sets up the story and plants a seed into readers’ heads.
“Burning House” by Ann Beattie
The way Beattie writes is eerie. Her characters are so real, and each sentence they speak makes sense, but the view of the narrator still feels like she is watching each scene play, having no part in what happens. The use of first person made her feel absent, as if she could be removed from the story and the men would just keep going. There was scarce detail about her instead of her relationships to those around her. Beattie used her past to define her at points, and moments from outside the house, even using where details come from to advance the character and her isolation. The character at the center was carefully built, though Beattie knew everything about Amy, she lets other characters develop first, fast. However, in the end, those characters almost overshare, they’re too designed, playing into the sitcom-like view of the narrator.
Beattie writes with incredible patience. For instance, she doesn’t reveal the name of the main character until more than half-way through, when she is introduced to her soon-to-be affair, and her name as Amy is immediately connected to her husband. Beattie’s patience also makes the final scene memorable. At last, Amy and Frank are interacting directly together, no one else in the way, and Beattie has given them a lot to talk about, but they speak indirectly, about hurricanes, until finally Frank takes her hand and delivers the last line. The last line is still not a full answer and Beattie knows it will roll around your stomach, because like everything she writes, it seems to be just out of reach.
On Haruki Murakami’s “The Second Bakery Attack”
I found this story very confusing and I’m still not quite sure what it was trying to convey. There seemed to be many narratives occurring – newlywed life, the first bakery attack, the second bakery attack, boats, and curses – and I couldn’t see how they all related. It felt like the boat was supposed to be a metaphor that evolved alongside the story, but the metaphor was not explained in a way that was relatable enough for me to understand it. It felt like a secret between the author and his characters and any readers who understood the story and I felt kind of unintelligent for not being able to pick up on the connections between the imagery and the plot.
I also found myself getting really frustrated with and angry at the characters. Unlike Díaz’s “The Cheater’s Guide to Love,” where the main character did some horrible things but was still a lovable character who I found myself rooting for, these two characters quickly lost my respect and I found myself wishing for the story to end so I could make sure they wouldn’t hurt anyone else. While Díaz’s character’s flaws made him feel more human, these characters’ perspectives just seemed so coldhearted and inhuman – they had no redeeming qualities. This may have been Murakami’s intention; I don’t know. But reading this piece wasn’t an enjoyable or meaningful experience and I found myself wishing the story had been told from the perspective of the bakery owner or the McDonalds employees instead.
On “The Cheater’s Guide to Love” by Junot Díaz
I loved this piece and its honesty was refreshing. It highlighted all of the not-so-pretty sides of a character, the ones we don’t normally see, and still managed to make the protagonist likeable. I found myself rooting for Yunior despite all of his shortcomings and the horrible ways he hurt others, hoping that he would pull through and learn the error of his ways, bettering himself for once and for all. While he didn’t necessarily, I think that’s what made him so believable. I think it was the matter-of-fact tone of the piece really made me as the reader feel like I was the main character, especially combined with the second person POV. Those two characteristics made me feel as though the character’s growth was my growth and that I could only be satisfied once he was in a better place and satisfied.
Upon reading others’ reflections on this piece, I’m still not sure if it is nonfiction or fiction or a blend of both. As it was included in the fiction unit, I’m going to assume it was fiction, but it felt so nonfictional. Regardless, I completely agree with what Estelle said regarding the author not asking for forgiveness from the reader, either for himself or for his character. It was refreshing to read and an example of moral greyness in a character done well.
On Donald Bartheleme: The School (w/George Saunders: The Perfect Gerbil):
I think Saunders hit it right on the head when he said “The School” was all boldly rising action, a series of escalations. Even the rhythm of the syntax is fast, almost frantic, like lighting a sparkler in reverse and fast forward, a chemical explosion climbing higher and higher, getting bigger and bigger. It was so ambitious that I was worried that Bartheleme wouldn’t stick the landing, but he did. The ending surprised me, but it felt inevitable. He transitions from a pattern of absolutes (deaths) to a pattern of questions (children/Helen) to the biggest question mark of all (the gerbil), loaded with meaning and possibility. I think the key is that he doesn’t recycle ideas, or even if he does, every introduction feels fresh, transformed in its new context. Maybe the best endings open a door for the reader to step into. The discussion stays alive even after the final sentence, life continuing.
Response to “Girl” by Jamaica Kinkaid
This piece really struck me. It was the first time I ever got to know a character through a list, let alone watch them grow and mature. Love and affection comes pouring through the language; I get the sense that this was perhaps some form of a letter to her previous self. In any case, the statements seem to be a mixture of things the speaker was told, f.e. “always eat your food in such a way that it won’t turn someone else’s stomach,” as opposed to things the speaker learned for herself: “this is how to behave in the presence of men who don’t know you very well, and this way they won’t recognize immediately the slut I have warned you against becoming.” Though, viewed in a certain light, the identity of the speaker really is unknown. Perhaps that is a main part of the piece’s allure. Nevertheless the love and care shown in the statements is very powerful, and works well to get the reader invested in the story.
Additionally, the maturation in the statements (the movement) works to get investment from the reader. We get to grow with the speaker, see her perspective. Kinkaid achieves this so well through the topics of her sentences. In the beginning they start out with house chores and childish adventures, then it moves on to taking control of her body (i.e. her smile) and boys, finally to being independent and dealing with men. What is also noteworthy is that in the last sentence the speaker addresses her listener as a “woman,” indicating the growth achieved throughout the piece.
On The Cheater’s Guide to Love
Wow. This was an amazing article. there was so much life packed into the author’s words and I felt drained (in a satisfying way) after I finished reading.
When I started reading, I really wanted to hate the protagonist. To me, he felt entitled. Like what did you expect would happen if you cheated on your fiancé with 50 other girls. The fact that he even thought he deserved to ask for forgiveness made me sick to my stomach. I just wanted to shake him through the pages and tell him to get out of her life for good. I wanted to hate him, I really did. But I couldn’t.
The author an entire person, a new life out of only words. Isn’t that insane? If I had to describe the protagonist, I would go with a imperfect kaleidoscope. Simple on the outside, so complicated on the inside. Through the lens it is beautiful, yet flawed and fragmented. These broken pattern will continue to spin no matter what. As much as this story was one that explored the consequences of cheating, it felt like I was reading a life. I watched this character crawl out of the deepest of holes only to fall doing countless amounts of time. He never stopped trying though. Maybe this story is one about the human will to try. For this reason I could not hate him. In my heart I was rooting for him to make it out on the other side, happy. Do I believe in karma? I don’t know. I do believe that the protagonist in this article did deserve what was coming to him though. Hurt someone you love severely enough and it will be a part of your life forever. Brokenness ricochets, I suppose.
Another aspect of this article that I loved was the storytelling of other characters through a single perspective. It felt genuine. Sometimes maybe we don’t realize how much we live our lives through other people, whether it’s good or bad. The people we like, dislike, love, hate, or share a glance with once affects us. It changes us. People are powerful, much more than we realize.
On In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson is Buried:
“Did you know that when they taught the first chimp to talk, it lied? That when they asked her who did it on the desk, she signed back the name of the janitor. And that when they pressed her, she said she was sorry, that it was really the project director. But she was a mother, so I guess she had her reasons.”
“Oh, that’s good,” she said. “A parable.”
There’s something about this exchange that left me slack-jawed when I read it. Actually this whole piece left me slack-jawed, and there are a dozen other moments like this that I annotated with exclamation marks all the way through to the last (knockout) line, but I picked this exchange because it was the first and probably most explicit exemplification of the exercise we did: write a meal where something is very wrong without explaining what is wrong. Where the reader gets the cold chicken, and then the reader backtracks from there, chewing on the thick slices of what’s unsaid. Only here, Amy Hempel doesn’t work with silence but the opposite of it. The narrator talks in that sort of 2 a.m. cryptic ramble, full of conjunctions and rhetorical questions and half-soliloquies, dumping a whole load of puzzle pieces in your arms with no prelude. I mean none of the characters have names—what a choice! And it works because Hempel fully embraces her form. She sets the tone and commands attention from the very start; she gets you invested in the absurdity, insisting meaning on the seemingly meaningless. No line is wasted. The reader can’t let their eyes glaze over for even a second because then who knows what points will fly over their heads if they do?
( “Oh, that’s good,” she said. “A parable.” ) That short, comical, blunt bit of meta stands in such contrast to the exposition that came before that it feels less like a wink and more like a strong nudge of the elbow, a sort of ‘did-you-see-that?-keep-paying-attention’. Hempel seems to think (and I agree) that the best way to come at a truth is sideways, so by angling your gaze this way and that you open your eyes to new ways of looking at things, making connections that surprise you that then feel inevitable.
On The Cheater’s Guide To Love
This has got to be one of my favorite articles in a long, long time. The writer’s ability to paint an extremely vivid description of the emotions being experienced by the characters is fascinating. The most important thing I learned from this story is how much the details actually matter. I believed every moment of this story. It felt like I knew the characters, their stories, what they were going through. In <30 pages, the writer is able to describe all the most important parts of their lives to paint such a complete picture – from how they'd spend the holidays to family members, to friends, to work, to their interests.
Some parts of the piece that I particularly enjoyed and want to remember (this is really just a note to self sort of thing):
– the end of year 1, I like the isolation of the final sentence.
– the little bits of spanish thrown in there
– the transitions between the years; this general format of talking about this story in years is also super interesting and gives the story a lot of depth.
– the way the injury comes out of nowhere; the line, "you put away the shoes."
– "everywhere you two go she shoots photos, but never of you"
– "there are surprises and there are surprises, and then there is this" – referencing the pregnancy
– interesting that most people are named in the story, but the law student just referred to as that – perhaps to show that she was different from most people in his life?
– "and because you know in your lying cheater’s heart that sometimes a start is all we ever get"- super powerful ending, it has a nice rhythm to it as well.
On “Five Stories” by Lydia Davis:
Microfiction makes so much sense to me, both as a reader and a writer. It can be engaging, exciting, meditative, and powerful, all condensed so neatly that the words stick with you long after you experience them the first time. This is how I feel about Davis’ “Five Stories,” whose subject matter ranges from mice to lost objects and cover a lot of ground in a few lines.
The five stories are no longer than a paragraph each, but the voice in all of them is so distinct and well-defined that I marvel at the author’s skill. There is a circularity, a backtracking, and a reconfiguring to the voices in these stories that is relatable and colloquial. In “The Mice,” the narrator shifts from boasting of a mice-free kitchen to wondering why the mice don’t come visit, to practically being jealous that the mice have chosen a different kitchen to frequent. Similarly, in “Fear,” the narrator begins by describing the bizarre behavior of a frightened woman in the neighborhood, but reverses and reevaluates, ending with the poignant acknowledgement of her normalcy–explaining that everyone has behaved strangely out of fear at one point or another.
I am amazed by Davis’ ability to construct entire narrative arcs in so short a time. Her stories feel complete and self-contained, with nothing extraneous or necessary. Her economy and clarity render her work quite powerful. I will try to remind myself of her work when I’m in the midst of determining whether certain elements of my longer stories are necessary or not.
On Likeable by Deb Olin Unferth
I loved this story because of how short and simple it was. There was nothing fancy about it. It was just a series of difficult, uncomfortable questions that an unlikeable person is asking themselves (written in a third-person POV), but each of those questions is relevant. The questions are related to age, beauty, the state of the world, facial expressions, all common things that everyone can relate to. The uncomfortable and uncertain nature that drives the questions increases ever so slowly until it leads us to its conclusion i.e. the most uncomfortable and uncertain thing – death. It’s simple because there’s not much to it, but it’s what a lot of people think about when it comes to death, that is, will they be missed, were they liked by others and other stuff along those lines.
On “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” by Raymond Carver:
This piece describes an evening of drinks and conversation about love between two couples. The four characters involved are all quite different and nuanced, yet Carver shows that to the reader without making them outlandish or over the top. Each of the four characters is very believable and real, which is a testament to the impressive way in which Carver wrote them. This essay is full of dialogue from top to bottom which I believe is the key to making such honest characters. The casual, comfortable tone of the dialogue between these four friends is effortless and easy, while also being extremely telling of their intentions, emotions, and reactions to one another. That always sticks out to me in a story (strong, frequent dialogue) because I have no courage to even attempt to do that yet. I am always impressed.
Also, I think this story immediately stuck out to me because of the topic of love. I have been obsessively reading the Modern Love essays of the New York Times lately. I love reading about love. Stories about love are so universal, yet so vulnerable and fragile. Carver’s essay was interesting because it incapsulated the different perspectives of what love is from his four characters. Another fascinating aspect was that throughout the essay, the characters (one in particular) were getting increasingly intoxicated, leading them to speak more bluntly and without inhibitions on the subject, which can often be tiptoed around or glossed over by usage of clichés. The honesty of the characters was potent although it was fiction.
More on Carver:
I connect with Lily’s analysis concerning the way Carver draws attention to the bizarre universality of love in this story. The dialogue and anecdotes are specific and poignant but allow us readers to walk alongside the characters and find parallels in our own lives. The world Carver crafts in this story, in other words, is not at all far from our own.
I’m also fascinated by the way the end puts a big question mark on the story as a whole. It effectively halts the progress the characters have been making from the beginning. The conversation has been flowing so freely, so naturally, but as soon as the gin runs out, they are all left a bit bewildered and aimless at the table. None of them make a move to go to the restaurant, get the cheese and crackers, or even conclude any of the stories that have been passed around. Upon reflection, this directionless conclusion seems to be the whole point–that we can try to define, categorize, and parse out the meaning of love as much as we want, but at the end of the day we are left wordless and can only hope to be wordless in community with other people figuring it out, too.
On “Girl” by Jamaica Kincaid:
I was struck by the style in which this story was written. Each sentence, which is either an order or advice to a girl, is separated by semicolons. As I read the story, I read it much faster and it flowed more smoothly than if it were broken up by periods. I think the semicolons and large block of text without any breaks contribute to the overwhelming and neverending feeling of this long list of orders. The point of view is second person, and whoever is addressing the young girl seems to be close to her. Details in the orders show that the person knows the young girl well, and could likely be her chastising mother. For instance, one order is: “on Sundays try to walk like a lady and not like the slut you are so bent on becoming.” I certainly do not think a friend would say this or a stranger, but likely an older family member who feels that they have some authority over and responsibility for this girl. Some of the orders are light and trivial like washing clothes and cooking things, whereas other orders have a more serious tone that suggest that the addresser might be speaking from experience. For example, the order “this is how to make a good medicine to throw away a child before it even becomes a child” stuck out among the others. After reading this, I feel inspired to try writing using this style and point of view. This story reminds me that there is no wrong way to write a story; there are so so many creative ways in which a story can be shared.
Response to “The Cheater’s Guide to Love” by Junot Díaz
This is perhaps one of the most honest pieces I have read in a long time. However, I question whether this story is fiction, because it really seems like Diaz is writing about himself. Particularly at the end, when Diaz mentions writing “The Cheater’s Guide to Love,” the piece seems like a selected reflection of his love life written in direct address to his past self.
Quick synopsis, we meet Yunior is a serial cheater and a sex addict who’s fiance leaves him when she finds out of his infedelity, and watch his self-told road of growing as a person. There is remarkable power in the brutal honesty Yunior keeps with himself. For example, all the darkest, weakest moments like “keeping the pictures of her naked body while she was sleeping” add real weight to the piece, almost as if readers get to see that Yunior’s first step in growing is being completely honest with himself, accepting his whole self, faults and all. Diaz is extremely familiar with his character’s psyche (which would make sense if this was an autobiography) making Yunior come to life.
Diaz also brings Yunior to life through the language, and culture expressed by it. “The Cheater’s Guide to Love” is sprinkled with Spanish and full of references to the Dominican Republic. The Spanish adds to Yunior’s voice throughout the piece, adding the cultural counterweight that makes this piece seem like a tiny excerpt of an entire life. This feeling also helps reader’s accept the story as true, and read it with a little more appreciation and wonder. The spanish and culture transforms this piece from “A cheater’s guide…” to “This cheater’s guide…” a very powerful difference.
On “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” by Raymond Carver:
I personally find it difficult to know when and how to incorporate dialogue into a story. I have included some dialogue in my fiction story, but I find that I usually resort to writing without dialogue; I think this is because I struggle to write imperfect and casual human conversations. This story struck me because it is primarily dialogue and the conversations between characters seemed real and authentic. Also, the dialogue provided insight into each character’s personality in a way I didn’t think it could. The point of view was first person, but the narrator doesn’t contribute much to conversation and instead introduces the reader to each character by providing a brief summary including facts and physical descriptions. Other than that, the narrator stays silent and simply observes the conversations and interactions around him. This allows the reader also to observe the conversations and interactions through what seems to be a reliable perspective (through the eyes of a secondary character).
The conversation revolves around the definition of love. It is different to each person, and this leads to disputes. For instance, Terri says her ex-husband’s way of expressing his love for her was by abusing her physically and killing himself. Her current husband, Mel, argues, “The kind of love I’m talking about, you don’t try to kill people.” Mel goes on to define what he believes love is by telling a story about an old couple that is almost killed in a car crash by a drunk teenager. When the couple is recovering in the hospital, Mel observed that the injuries of the accident weren’t killing the old man. Instead, the fact that the old man became blind and couldn’t see his wife was what was killing him. I enjoyed reading this story because the characters and the conversation felt very real, and I also think that everyone has their own unique definition of love.
On The Cheaters Guide to Love
This story was extremely impactful for me; right after I finished reading it, I sent the link of the article to several friends, convincing them that this story was a must read. After reading it, they agreed. While the article was on the longer side, I found myself entranced by the story, hoping that it would not end. The author does not ask for pity, rather, the article seems to be a self-reflection of the consequences of a huge mistake. It communicates the message that a person can really, really mess up, and unlike the fairytales or the movies, the ending doesn’t always end well. The man does not always get forgiven, or the man does not always fully heal. This story is so raw and real that I found myself rooting for the author, despite all his flaws, yet it seemed as if he wasn’t asking for the readers for forgiveness. It was also so powerful to hear the story of Elvis alongside his own, as their relationship revealed more about the author and his personality than a story solely focusing on Diaz himself would have. Finally, the article embeds motifs of racism, again revealing more about the author’s character and personal struggles. The authors ability to include multiple layers of a story that so seamlessly work alongside each other is a writing skill that I hope to someday obtain.
On “Dog Days” by Judy Budnitz:
This story was absolutely heartbreaking to me. It is hard to comprehend how Budnitz was able to make me sympathize with, even adore, a random homeless man in a dog suit. The whole concept is quite disgusting yet throughout the story I became more and more fond of Prince, the dog-suit man. The story centers around Lisa, the youngest child in a family of five, who are currently living through an apocalyptic time of war and famine. The world as we know it is deteriorated and although Budnitz does not provide much detail as to what is truly happening, since Lisa herself does not quite understand it, it is clear that the state of the world is tragic and getting worse. The tragedy is expressed implicitly in the details, such as Lisa’s teeth being loose when they shouldn’t be, and the darkening of everyone’s faces with time’s passage. Prince, the dog, is gross in so many ways. Not only is he physically gross, Lisa describing herself as burying her “face in [his] rough, sick-smelling fur.” She says that he will lick her to say goodnight. This is a grown man in a dog suit! EW! But shockingly, I still care about him. The hope that he gives Lisa and the love that he shows her as her world and family is falling apart is crucial to her wellbeing, and perhaps the only thing keeping her alive and making her smile on the occasion. They need each other in a sweet yet devastating way. The writing is also beautifully accurate to the voice of a young girl. The language and thoughts are simple and innocent without being pointless or void of thoughtfulness. I always find it impressive when an author can transform their writing into such a different voice than their own. I think that Budnitz does it seamlessly.