Errol Morris and TheThin Blue Line

As a journalist, I'm intrigued that this film helped to solve a wrongly decided case through an interview process. By asking questions, Morris was able to get the truth out and catch things on film that actually brought the real story out. If you ask the right questions, it's always possible to get the real story of somone. I am impressed, though, with his ability to ask the right questions. That is the hardest part of the interview process.

As a non-fiction writer, I am interested in the juxtaposition of many interviews in one film, and in documentary in general. We talk a lot in class about how memory is flawed, and differs from person to person even when they experience the same event. In this case, it's the combination of a lot of memories and a lot of experiences from a variety of people involved in the case that can be pieced together to find the truth. This makes me consider if the essay is an incomplete form in trying to come up with truth. Of course, it's a different kind of truth because it's based on personal preferences.

However, I am drawn to adding more perspectives into the depiction of an event. It is probably because of my journalistic background. For my final essay I'm going to experiment and see if I can create an experience by either writing from two perspectives or writing from the perspective of someone else who was there. I'm not sure how that will go, but I think it will be cool to try. It may create a story with more dimension.

Considering this film after reading the Orchid Theif, it makes me think that if someone is determined enough in a project and puts enough time into it they can come up with a solution to a mystery. However, a lot of times there is no answer to the mystery as Susan Orlean finds out in the Orchid Theif. She decides to abandon her search for a blooming Ghost Orchid because she may be better off not knowing. Of course, when this film freed an innocent man I'm sure Morris believed his pursuit of the truth was warranted. There are only so many situations where you can say you found out what the truth of the matter is. It must be rewarding when you are always searching for it.

Orchid Obsession

I find myself getting lost in the detailed stories and the plethora of orchid experts that are described in Susan Orleans The Orchid Theif. I don't find those sections quite as appealing because I don't feel I know the characters as well as I know Laroche. I know a lot about orchids and the different types, but I want to know more about the characters I have formed relationships with.

I was drawn in by the section about Florida as the last frontier because it is always growing. They talk about draining swamps and making them livable, and it's hard to imagine that's how a lot of it was developed. I had never heard the amount of sand that was need to create Miami Beach. Other facts like this that took knowledge I had and related it to orchids is always enjoyable.

The section where Orlean goes back to the swamp with the prisoners was also worthwhile. Imagining roads in a suburban grid in the middle of nowhere is a great image. Especially when you picture bags of flour being dropped to mark property lines. I can see people investing in Golden Gate Estates today. It makes me think of sales people trying to push time shares.

Orlean's encounters with the prisoners characterize her well. She has been wading through this swamp before unarmed, and these prisoners are scared of snakes and need machetes. This shower her strenght and sense of adventure. She is hear because she wants to be, yet she is still weary of being with armed prisoners.

I like how she mentioned that the swamp could easily swallow people, and it goes along well with the theme of the book. There are so many things you can love, cherish, accomplish in the world and if you don't narrow it down to something you can be lost in it all. It's up to her to find her passion. She's fighting to find it as she is fighting through the silk swamp.


Of course, I was glad when Orlean finally had the opportunity to find ghost orchids. The woman who showed her the orchids, Savilla, also added to the air of myster of orchid theft. It was good to hear from someone who has a passion for orchids but was a victim of theft. It was a good balance.

Overall, I'm amazed that people's passion can be so deep about a flower. It's clear, though, that there has to be something to this because it's not just one man, it's a community worldwide. It's always interesting to analyze people's motives for doing things when they are passionate, even if it's not your passion.

Time Indefinite and documenting the lives of loved ones

When I consider the film Time Indefinite in light of our recent discussion in class, I am drawn to the fact that Ross McElwee's family doesn't quite understand his art. It brings up the idea of how non-fiction storyteller (whether it be a writer or a film maker) addresses the most important people in their life without offending anyone. Of course, I believe this is pretty much impossible. Your recollection, and portrayal of an event or events you have shared with someone are not going to be identical. Details will be argued about and the picture you paint will be questioned. I think this is unavoidable.

It is they duty of a non-fiction narrator to show the reader or viewer how it was. Sometimes this means portraying something with words that describe a feeling rather than a concrete event. If you simply tell someone a sequence of events they have no idea what happened. In class we are always asking for more about what significance the event had. Why they are choosing to waste the words to say it. There's always a reason. We strive to get that reason across. Of course, perspective on the why of events is always blurry.

I feel as if non-storytellers don't understand this. This may be why McElwee's family doesnt understand his life as a filmmaker. He chose art, while he could have been a doctor like his family wanted. The mind of an artist tends to think conceptually while doctors think in facts. The edges of experience may not be so blurry for them. It's hard to know for sure, but I imagine this is the case.

The important thing to remember, is they still ask him to come back year after year. Consider him, as well as other non-fiction storytellers. It is impossible not to ruffle the feathers of anyone in your writing if you want to be truly honest. Of course, it doesn't make it any easier to write about things that may upset people you love. I personally think these are the most important stories to tell, however. I think it's essential to write these stories because it's when your best writing comes through. Whether you share them with an audience, or the people in them, is another question. There are definately consequences for telling the truth. That's why it's harder than lying. It's also why creative nonfiction is especially challanging.

Response to Brevity

I really enjoy the shortness of every one of these pieces, and know every word was carefully chosen to have an exact meaning. This is really hard to do, and for this reason I think all of these pieces are even more of an accomplishment than other non-fiction. I appreciate precision language from my journalism experience.



The essay that stood out the most to me is Swerve. It was packed full of tension. Every sentence about hitting a piece of wood was loaded with veiled deeper statements. It had a sense of mystery, but at the same time you knew exactly what was being said. It was about regret, and the fact that one decision can often change everything. There were really no consquences for hitting that piece of wood, but it isn't about one event. Everything they passed earlier on that road, including the piece of wood, is still a part of their journey down that road. In this essay it lasts moments, but you get the sense that it will be there forever.



I was also struck by the essay In Case of Emergency. The entire essay is based around a vase. A vase that is a symbol of a relationship that is gone. Papa gave her the tools to destroy it. This is something she had never done before, but needs to do. It's a transition from being numb to taking action. To destroying the part of her life that in a way destroyed her. I loved the last line because it leaves the reader with the question we always have: "What now?" It hits hard here because she finally destroys the vase, but this accomplishment doesn't bring her any peace. It's just the beginning. I like that this situation of hers is considered an emergency, but not the kind of emergency that she imagined she would ever use a hammer for. It brings urgency to the situation.

I love this line: "Her next blow hits home, shattering the vase with a sound that makes the child inside her scramble to come up with the right words to follow I didn’t do it!" This image put me in the moment as a reader. It made me immediately feel the feeling she describes. I thought this essay did the best job of revolving a larger topic around a small item. It was very esay to take the mental journey with the author.

The Essay as Genre (and what I think it really is)

The Essay as Genre demonstrates a lot of truths about the essaying process. For example, I enjoyed the concept of essay fresh because "there are more books about books than any other subject" (2) which is interesting because it seems easier to engage a reader through experiential evidence than academic research.

I also liked the idea that the only organization of an essay is the concept of self. An essay needs no formal doctine to work within-- it is what it is as long as it's relatable to other people. It's not exact truth, it's "knowledge of the moment" (8). It's legitimate as long as it's authentic, true, real, honest, etc.

One thought I do not agree with is that the essayist should be disinterested. In the essay this refers to not being tied down by a trade or profession. However, I think essayists are most efficient when they have a focus. This lets them explore a cerain area from different angels and leads them to a deeper understanding of self and how to portray this self on the page.

This ties in with the idea of essayist as "combiner". The essayist has the ability to string together experience to make it relevant. If the essayist has feredom to write about whatever they want it will be more vibrant. It will be about what makes them tick, or whatever is bothering them. It helps them come alive on the page. I think the most important aspect of the essay writing after truth is freedom. Of course, it is also up to the writer to be motivated enough to work within the freedom. Finding time is always a challange.

Man on Wire

Man on Wire was one of the best documentaries I have ever seen. The story had everything: love, trust, friendship, adventure, fear, etc. I'm still in awe of seeing this man walk inbetween the World Trade Centers partially because it's an amazing feat, and partially because these landmarks build to represent world communication are gone.

I recently went to New York City and visited Ground Zero. It was strange to me to see the intial construction of these towers because what I saw a few months ago is also construction, but of a new monument. It made me imagine that space with these towers, and it also made me consider how big the void it left it in the city.

I thought the film did a good job of illustrating not only the dream to walk on air, but how each person in the process was involved. They were each characterized so thoroughly that I feel it was a story about the crew too. I really enjoyed that fact.

In general, it was a film about dreams and what happens when they are fulfilled. I also found it interesting that once this mission was accomplished each member in a sense went their own way. They had reached a high point, and they said it was beautiful to leave it that way. Always to be remembered. It was time to move on to a new dream, a new life.

Moving Water, Tucson (practice letter)

Dear Peggy,

Your essay is about a flood, but it's really about a shared experience of childhood. It's about "the flash flood inside us" (20). It's about the suspense and every one witnessesing the risk one child took and wishing they were him until it turns out badly.

The piece is extrememly short, which makes the story focus on speed, and the syntax helps the reader along and making the sentences rush out of their mouth like water. This is extremely effective and gives the piece a good rhythm.

The use of the collective we really shows that this is a shared experience. That the flood that is metaphor for childhood and the desire to be adventurous is not only within the boy on the piece of plywood it's a shared value.

The end of the essay is left completely open. It cuts off befre we find out what happened to the boy. Usually, I would say I want to know more. However, I think that it works in this essay. This is just a little piece of these kids lives, and they will go on despite the fate of the boy. It's a piece about the experience. It's not about what actually happened. It's about a feeling not the facts. I think this works well.

Bullet in My Neck

The essay Bullet in My Neck really caught me with its bazaar action and conflicting reality. The idea that memory and experience are personal even in shared experiences is interesting. When details happen so fast, people interpret them differently. I believe that shock also alters memory as well as perception of what is happening in the moment.

While this essay had deep undertones of guilt, the narrator says he doesn't blame anyone for what happened, but acknowledges that if anything had changed it would be different. I enjoyed the analysis of one moment that altered a life.

Scott Russell Sanders

Scott Ruseell Sanders explains that the reader should respond to an essay as if they are reading to a friend "caught up in rapturous monologue" (First Person, 35) and I believe he achieves this kind of intimacy in the essay Under the Influence. Sanders is uncensored in terms of honesty in this piece. He has no concern about who may be reading his deepest secrets as long as they understand his concerns and relate in some way. It almost reades like a laundry list of things that happened to lead him to his conclusion, not unline a friendly rant in a time of stress. Although his father has died, these feelings of concern and anger come back year after year. He calls them perenial.

However, this rant is not simply diatribe. He is taking us on a journey with the idea that we too may benefit from his hardships. He writes, "I choose to write about my experience not because ti is mine but because it seems to me a door through which others might pass," (First Person, 38) when talking about his craft. He takes this point literally in Under the Influence by mentioning how common alcoholism is hinting that he is not the only one with this experience. However, everyone can relate to his ideas despite their situations. The father/son or mother/daughter relationship is something everyone can relate to. You may reject everything a parent has done, yet you share blood. You are linked to them eternally, and find little bits of them in you; and in your children; and in your childrens' children.

Sanders is definately not hiding behind anything in his essays. He even admits that he has been hiding this for years, but decides to explore his feelings so that he can deal with them. This shows that he really does believe the essay is an "arrogant form" (First person 31) and he treats it as such.

He also embraces the first person as he says you should. I like the analogy he makes about standing on a soapbox. He does this by saying 'This is me. Take it or leave it.' I also like that he admits that he has nothing to stand on. He says he is standing on air. I like this concept in the personal essay. All you have to stand on to make a point is memory and mind. It's up to you to make them strong enough to support your voice.

Class work and readings

I was impressed with the quality of work that came out of our workshop this quarter. I think that everyone worked hard on their writing and as the quarter progressed it was obvious how each person had stretched their writing skills over ten weeks. It was really rewarding to see a workshop that actually helped people write, and want to write better. I feel that I learned a lot from this class and I improved my skills. Other writing classes I have taken, in the same format, have not been nearly as effective. I look forward to applying everything I have learned to my magazine features.

I enjoyed a lot of readings this quarter. Of the short essays I think I enjoyed Annie Dillard the most, and would like to read more to learn more about writing descriptively. I also liked Another Bullshit Night in Suck City and The Boys of my Youth. I think it's more rewarding to read extended pieces of nonfiction because you can really get a hold on what the author is trying to do and learn about the style they are using.

I'm happy with what I read and wrote this quarter and plan to continue improving my work based on things I have learned.

It's time for E.B. White

Both of the essays we read for today by White tackle the issue of time. How it seems to pass, how it actually passes, and what that means to us individuals, and as members of our greater communities.

In Once More to the Lake the author begins the piece as a memory. That is, it is written as a remembrance of times that have passed. However, we come to find there is actually something static about this Lake. As the world changes, and the people who visit the lake change, the lake itself somehow stays the same. The lake is used to define "The American Family at Play," (535) which is a concept that remains throughout time. White does note small differences such as hairstyles of the "same" people who are there year after year. He calls it a summer without end.

White goes on with this idea of time by saying that while this scene and the stereotypical members that are there remains the same he has somehow changed characters. Moreover, in the past he went with his father. This trip to the lake still involves father and son but he is somehow now the father, but remembers being the son. He writes, "I began to sustain the illusion that he was I, and therefore, by simple transposition, that I was my father"(534).

In The Ring of Time, White talks about time as a circle. However, he says that if time were a circle, which it isn't, we would get nowhere. He writes, "The beginning was where the end was, and the two were the same, and one thing ran into the next and time went round and around and got nowhere," (541). This is describing the circus act going in circles but describes time.

The journey of life consists of three times: morning, afternoon and night. White says that you are not the same person in the morning as you are at night. Many people, such as the circus performer according to White, do not quite understand this.

White then applies this concept to civil rights saying change is the only thing that should always remain the same. He writes, "The only sense that is common, in the long run, is the sense of change-- and we all instinctively avoid it, and object to the passage of time, and would rather have none of it" (544).

Overall, these essays discuss the idea that our world may not seem to change, but even if it does not we as individuals and society do. Not only is this a fact, but it is a necessity. 

Dealing with laws from past society, such as civil rights in this case, can be a problem. It is important to change with times.

I remember...

I remember red tulips blooming on the mulch line that leads to my the front door of the house I grew up in.

I remember blue skies spotted with fluffy clouds in Alabama as we drove down the freeway in our minivan toward the beach in the summer.

I remember green grass of the soccer fields at Avery Park where I spend so much time watching and playing soccer, softball and baseball.

I remember purple shoes that I insisted on wearing on our family trip to Washington D.C. when I was younger. I remember counting the steps leading up to the Lincoln Memorial and the blisters on the back of my heel.

I remember white pom poms that I would cheer with in the basement with my cousins.

I remember black velvety overalls that I wore to get my picture taken in the third grade and the Scotti Dog covered turtle neck I wore under them. I remember overall skirts and having the strap unbuckled during school.

I remember my pink and purple bike that I crashed into the side of a tunnel on a bike path in my hometown. I remember going fast and not being able to stop. I also remember my mom telling me later that I wasn't going fast at all.

I remember blue eyeshadow that we wore in middle school. I remember the sparkly blue kind that my best friend had, and I even remember thinking it looked good. I remember looking back at pictures and not believing we dressed that way. I remember when makeup was off limits except for eye shadow and lip gloss.

I remember green picnic silverware that we used to eat on our deck in the summer with bees swarming and the heat beating down.

I remember green and gold nail polish that was filled with sparkles and required scrubbing to remove. I remember painting our nails for spirit days, pep rallies and games. I remember when school spirit started to seem stupid.

I remember silver spray paint that covered the grass behind my apartment when I built a cardboard robot with a friend for a robot party for the magazine I edit.

I remember yellow rocking chairs sitting on the porch of a beach house we stayed at one summer. I remember sitting in them and letting the salty air sink in. I remember the summer my mom decided to paint our deck rocking chairs yellow, too.

I remember my cousin Katie and the time she was trapped in the shower when I stayed at their house. I remember my aunt telling her to hold tight until she finished her errands.

I remember my cousin Molly and the time she had a circular bruise from suctioning a glass to her face by breathing in. I remember when she didn't learn her lesson and did it again a few weeks later

I remember my brother Brad and the time he convinced my cousin there was a secret passage in our basement and I was hiding in it.

I remember my brother Brian and listening to music with him in our family room before his basketball games his senior year in high school.

ABNSC parts 3-5

This section of reading was different because the form varied quite a bit, as we talked about in class. I was really interested by the section titled “riddle” where he writes “Brothers and sisters I have none/ But that man's father is my father's son” (208). The Next section titled “that man's father is my father's son” delves further into Flynn's relationship with Jonathan, but I think that the riddle is a good representation of the entire book.

I think the letters that Flynn includes from his father are effective as a form of story telling. I think it illustrates the fact that he is trying to interact with him but he is pushing him away and even avoiding the homeless shelter because his father will be there. I think unanswered letters are a good way to represent this. It's one way communication.

I don't think the script form is as effective in this memoir. I think it uses this form to try to get away with more scene setting and description, but I think the description works better when it is slipped in and not so blatantly obvious. I feel like I'm watching the story unfold at times because I'm caught up in the language, this rough format distracts me from that. It's not something I would like to use in my own work.

Thoughts on Another Bullshit Night in Suck City

What I have enjoyed most about Nick Flynn's style so far is his ability to be blunt. He writes about events that had to be life shattering, but he writes about them casually. As if he is thinking "This is how it is and there's no changing it."

So far the memoir is primarily about his life and how he has been affected by his dad. What I am most intrigued by is the line where he writes, "If I let him inside I would become him, the line between us would blur, my own slow-motion car wreck would speed up." Flynn see's his life going in the same direction as his father's, but the only thing he's really done to thwart it is avoid his father.

I was also drawn in by Flynn's perspective on what is appealing about working at the shelter. "At the shelter no one asks where you come from or why you ended up there," he writes. As appealing as that may be to a man in the position he is in, he still has a desire to answer these questions. If he didn't there would be no book to read. I find that idea interesting because it creates a contrast between the silence he thinks he needs and the human desire to share stories.

Writing about writing

I found myself identifying with the quote we read in class from Thomas Larson in The Memoir and the Memoirist that read:


"Here is what it is like to be me, to face what I faced, to lose what I lost."

I felt that this quote identified with the essay I wrote for class last week. I saw it as a snapshot of my childhood in relation to those I shared it with. At times I felt that it was skimming the surface with silly stories and unimportant details about growing up with my brothers, but the sense of belonging I craved was an accurate representation of what I wanted then and where it took me.

The idea of loss is not as relevant to my essay. However, over the years change has led me to lose certain aspects of the relationship. If I had chosen to expand on the essay chronologically it could illustrate the concept of loss more clearly through showing what is lost as you mature and grow and how my realtionship with my brothers has evolved.

I remember..

I remember moving away from Cleveland. I remember running into a tunnel wall with my bike. I remember when I met my cousin the day she was born. I remember graduating from high school. I remember moving away to college. I remember wishing I was back home. I remember the first time I fell in love. I remember the first time I realized the importance of love. I remember singing christmas carols with my family. I remember the first christmas without my dad. I remember the friends who were there for me when I needed them. I remember buying my first comptuer. I remember deciding that writing was a way to clear my head. I remember song lyrics that map out my life. I remember how to get just about anywhere by bike path in Dublin. I remember deciding to transfer to Jerome. I remember renting my first apartment. I remember signing my life away to canoe before I was 18. I remember getting stuck in a tree in a canoe. I remember riding my first roller coaster. I remember the first time I tasted alcohol. I remember losing friends. I remember the first time I appreciated going to church. I remember passing out in church from the incense. I remember spending hours on end watching my brother play baseball. I remember taking a trip to Arizona. I remember my frist time on an airplane. I remember worrying the plane wasn't going to make it up. I remember getting into the car crash in West Virginia. I remember hiking with my roommate cause we were bored. I remember regreting that we had to make it all the way down once we got to "the summit." I remember wishing I could erase memories. I remember realizing that no memory is worthy of being erased. I remember noticing when my relationship with my mom changed when I moved out. I remember being scared of leaving everything I had learned as normal. I remember finding it disgusting that people would puke in a dryer. I remember finding out a lot of gross things about other people at college. I remember deciding that I wanted to write for a living. I remember thinking there was no way I could write for a living. I remember giving up when I shouldn't have. I remember mixing up my tennis swing and my softball swing. I remember riding in a car with my friends for the first time. I remember not being allowed to drive anyone for six months. I remember getting my drivers liscence. I remember driving to school in the pitch black before everyone arrived. I remember not liking coffee. I remember deciding that coffee is better than sleep in some cases. I remember being better at spanish when I was tired. I remember not doing things because I was scared. I remember thinking that there's no point in being anything other than who you are. I remember feeling sorry for people who put on a show. I remember driving at night in the summer with the windows down. I remember sitting on court street watching people go by. I remember thinking how rare it is to live in a town where noone really knows where they're going and everyone is trying to get there. I remember slipping and falling on the ice. I remember liking that there was someone there to catch me. I remember feeling weak. I remember feeling independent. I remember feeling like nothing could stop me. I remember feeling old for my age. I remember growing up too fast. I remember wishing logic could silence sadness. I remember wishing all that mattered was heart. I remember what it feels like when your heart and your head don't agree. I remember wishing time would stop in its tracks. I remember how it feels to feel music pulse through you on a warm day. I remember the way the sun feels on the skin. I remember feeling sand beneath my toes. I remember leaving the beach and wishing I could stay forever. I remember looking at the stars and feeling small. I remember the hope that comes with staring off into the horizon knowing there is more than this out there. I remember the empowerment of good friends and family. I remember loving without fear of losing. I remember losing. I remember putting everything on the line for a chance. I remember hating change. I remember realizing that change is how we grow. I remember feeling sad when good friends move on. I remember the moment I realized that no one can be any one place forever. I remember realizing college is a transition, and only that. I remember thinking I could never get as close to my college friends as I did to the people in my home town. I remember wanting to go to a small school. I remember saying I would never go to OU. I remember not understanding what others thought. I remember wishing I could speak like I write. I remember when I decided I could figure anything out if I just put it on paper. I remember wanting to share my thoughts with others. I remember being scared of the complete honesty that comes out in my writing. I remember wondering if the people I know realize that this is what goes on in my head. I remember wondering what goes on in everyone else's head. I remember when I started to appreciate the value of music. I remember realizing that music and poetry and language all go hand in hand. I remember when I wrote a poem I actually felt had meaning. I remember taking the time to stop and think. I remember being overloaded with the stress of life and forgeting to look at everything in perspective. I remember playing basketball in the summer with my dad. I remember hiting the tennis ball against the garage wall. I remember playing ghost in the graveyard. I remember slip and slide. I remember boomerball. I remember big barbie day. I remember my first visit to OU. I remember being intimidated by the college environment when I visited my brother at Dayton. I remember when I realized my cousins are like my sisters. I remember dreaming. I remember wishing I could go back asleep only to return to a good dream. I remember reading for fun. I remember browsing in a book store for hours. I remember taking pride in myself and my work. I remember taking sculpture and realizing it wasn't for me. I remember feeling sick. I remember being lonely. I remember having the house to myself and feeling comfort in silence. I remember waking up in the middle of the night scared because of new sounds. I remember not being able to sleep because my thoughts are more important.