Design document(s) 4

2. Blogs:

Program design document(s) 4: Protocol sheets for Studio sessions specific to the study/writing issues students will bring to Studio meetings. These should be similar to the Reading Protocol (draft proposed on Google.docs), and to the point by point descriptions in Grego & Thompson delineating how to conduct studio sessions. These protocols would be classified as falling into categories 1 & 2 ( listed in the May 26, Part I blog).

Since we're incorporating studio sessions, I feel like the larger part of learning should be based on student interactions. Therefore, facilitators should have a smaller role than students.


Students should be required to:

- Bring assignment sheets and read assignments to sessions
- Be able to summarize actions taken place in class that day.
- Make assumptions of what the teacher wants them to achieve.
-Set goals for themselves on a weekly/bi-weekly schedule.
- Ask for positive feedback on what they have already done.
- Try to relate the assignment to another experience they already have.
- Try to identify their own weak points in an assignment.

Facilitators should be required to:

- Note attendance of students from meeting to meeting.
- Keep a record of minutes, and summarize reports.
- Take a step back, and give the floor the students. Only stepping back in if the situation needs it.
- Give a tutorial of the Google Site, and give access to students.
- Manage time per student.

Plans as a Writer

Do you have any plans to how you want to use your writing as a place for you to think?

I’ve always kept a journal to write about things in my life. I remember the night when I found out that my sister is going to have a little girl, and I pulled my journal out and had to write she’s having a girl several times. It helps me realize things. It helps me acknowledge things in my life so that I don’t lock them away just like my past.

In writing in this course did I find there were issues of craft that I wanted to change (style writing)?

Not really. I’ve always just written what I feel, and I’ve never given much account with for style writing and content. To me, my style of writing has always been a journal. I don’t expect it to ever be outside of that.

Are any of you starting to think about being in a writers group or going to a work conference?

Not likely. I’m comfortable, to the extent in this class but I’m not comfortable with exposing all of my writing (or any of my writing) to an outside audience. My writing is reserved to the people I have daily contact with.

Have I thought about how I plan to use my writing in my career?

I plan to be a high school English teacher. I suppose I can use some of my writing to give benefit to some of the students I’ll be having contact with. I haven’t given it too much thought because my brain has not registered to the idea of me being a teacher as of yet.

Do you have any interests that you’d like to write about outside of my career?

Not really. The most I’d like to write about is my personal story, but only once I’m sure that my story has been mostly played out. I know that the story is never over, but I want to have a clear focus. I don’t plan to write a novel, or plan to write short stories. I don’t plan to write. I don’t plan, I just do it.

Do I plan to show my writing to anyone who had an impact on that writing?

No. Even though it feels like I’ve opened up Pandora’s Box, I’m not ready to share my story with my family. I’ve got enough closure from myself; I don’t need them for it.

Do I have any long term/short term plans for publication?

Nope. I don’t plan to ever be published. My story is mine, and I intend to keep it like that.

Reflective Essay so Far

I should have written down a question that I wanted to open this essay with. I remember in a class, not this class, that one of my teachers asked us what kind of story we wanted to tell. I think it was my children’s literature class. I’m not comparing my children’s lit class to this class, but indirectly they are very similar. Probably my favorite essay of this class was my memoir, because it helped me reconnect with a part of my past that I had locked away in my memory. In my children literature class, one of the assignments was to write your own short story. Even though the story was fictional, it helped me open up a door of emotions that most people forget as they grow up. My memoir was a continuation of this experience. The subjects were not the same. My children literature story was about a 6-year-old girl who has her best friend move away (Also part of my past, if you’re interested) and of course my memoir was about the dysfunctional organization that my family was when I was 10 and 11. In a way, they both represent a void that was present in me for much of my adolescence, and in part, will always exist. The lack of secure emotions open into a large freewrite and journal entries that would make a child psychologists head spin. Anyway, I’m getting off topic, if I even have a topic at this point.
For my childrens literature class, one of our final projects was to identify a meaningful learning experience that we had achieved in that class. I’m not too proud to say I did not have a strong focus or experience to write about. In a way, when you asked us what is the most important thing you learned about writing in this course is I learned very little about writing at all. One of the few things I did learn about my writing this semester, is that there is no proper way to teach someone to write. Everyone has their own style, their own experiences, and their own free will. Writing is about expression and not conforming to standards. It’s about self realization, regardless of genre. Every piece of creative non fiction has something to do with self realization, and personal involvement.
For the sake of this essay, I should go back to the beginning of writing my memoir. Back before I had a topic and back before I had a focus. Seems like it was an eternity ago now. I remember thinking that I didn’t really know what to expect from this class. I knew we had essays, and I knew the definition of creative non fiction. The one question I couldn’t answer was what I wanted to reveal about my life, and my past in this essay. I remember you telling us the difference between a personal essay and a memoir was that in a memoir, you had to step away and look at your topic from another glance. I decided that I would write about my childhood right then and there. I didn’t expect anyone to see the connection between my dysfunctional family and the web of closure that I didn’t want anyone else to see. In the beginning, I don’t even think I realized the connection between the two subjects. For quite a while, it felt like I was writing about someone else’s life rather than my own.
Prior to writing this essay, my childhood was a book that almost always stayed closed. Even when I was a teenager, I would clam up to everyone who ever talked or asked me about my childhood. Even my family, who had been there and not been there during the years when my life had changed chose to ignore the past and keep the book closed. That was the reassurance I needed.

Amazingly, after years of locking up my childhood and all the memories that I chose to forget, I opened the book myself by choice.

One of the first memories which I can honestly say triggered all the rest of the memories was one night, years after this situation with my sister and I. We were having a fight over something stupid. I think she was complaining about wanting to go online and I was online (we were still using dialup at this point.) After a few angry words and possibly some threats too, I said I HATE YOU. Needless to say, she shut her mouth fast. Then you asked the question which would redefine our lives forever. “Why can’t we be close like “Normal” sisters? Why do you hate me?” That was the strongest opening point of my essay. That’s where I think my story begins. Only by the end of the story could I really answer that question to her. We Were Different.
I’m not sure how, but I remember laying in room with that question being asked over and over again. I started remembering. For a few moments, I was not 15 or however old I was at the time of the fight, but I was ten-years-old again. Laying in my bed, next to my window where I had been looking out for years. Laying there, I was ten-years-old and the alone in the house.

Reading through my essay again, I found my line I’ll remember all of this. I’ll remember all of these memories.”
It’s a bit ironic that one of the stronger points of my essay was telling myself that I would never forget this. For years, I had forgotten about it. For years, it wasn’t a part of my life. It did bring me back to where I needed to be. During the time frame of when I wrote the last segment to now, I was lost in a daze. The only imagery I could see and feel in my mind was laying there alone. I didn’t know how to wake up from it. I don’t remember how I woke up from it last time. I don’t completely understand how I coped, how I moved on, and how I created a new life with no past. This is getting a bit too off topic.
The next thing I remembered (in my original draft) was being a freshman in high school. Somehow, I had erased the last four years of my life between laying in my bed and high school. The first day of school, and seeing the teachers reactions when they saw my last name. I remember hearing about all the stories about my sister. My first day of high school can be compared to the first day in this class. That has a long writing process. I didn’t know or understand what I wanted people to know about me. Was I just the little sister to the legend, or was I my own person?

Blog 16- Questions to Reflect

What is the most important thing I learned about writing in this course?

Hard to say. I guess this would be a focus for my reflective paper. I guess I can say that I learned that when you write about something, it’s never over. Nothing is ever over.

What is the most important thing I learned about my writing process in this course?

I learned when was the best way for me to write. I never used to freewrite. I used to think it didn’t have a purpose. I learned how to overturn my sleep cycle, and think more clearly.

Which essay was the hardest from me to write? What did I learn from writing it?

The nature essay was horrible for me to write. I’ve never been into nature and it goes against my form of writing. I remember you talked to us about nature is a system. In my mind, that meant that everything had to work out. I know real life isn’t like that.

Which essay did I learn the most from writing?

Probably my memoir. It was the essay that felt the most real to me. Even though everything I wrote is true, my other essays just felt wrong to me. Like I wasn’t the one who should be writing that story. The memoir felt personal.

What do I want to write my reflective essay about?

Ack, direct question. I haven’t really decided this one yet. I’ll have to do some more freewriting.

What do I NOT want to write about for my reflective essay. Why?

I don’t want to write my reflective essay about current events. So, my job at target, and my sisters pregnancy are out of the question. They haven’t played out yet, and I’m not ready to interpret the world out of them yet. Life comes before writing. You can’t write faster than you live.

List of Activities Blog 14

1. Most times, when I start writing, I don’t have a topic or a focus. I start to free write and see what comes to my mind. I’m constantly second guessing my topics. I’m never sure how much information I’m comfortable giving out.

2. I do best with writing that although involves me, does not have myself as the central focus. This is why my Personal essay was about my sister, and her journey. My memoir was about my family and its journey and my journalism essay about my job and its employees.

3. Try to describe the scenario, or the key points of the scenario, as if I don’t know anything about the topic.

4. I don’t do outlines. I just let my writing stroll through my memory, and refuse to edit until the story is told.

Blog 13- Rhetorical Analysis of Publication Venues

Rhetorical Analysis of Publication Venues


1. Analysis of the editorial description of essays accepted
See http://www.cupofcomfort.com/share.htm#guidelines
Explores the occurances which are ordinary and extraordinary. They also shed light on the events that change or define our lives. “Refreshingly Real Stories Of Extraordinary Experiences In Ordinary Lives”
Welcomes personal, non fictional stories. Gives an emphasis on truth and has sever sub-genres that relate to different audiences. These include friends, women, mothers, daughters, and teachers. There is also a specialized section for Christmas stories, and inspirational stories.

Reading dates: Submissions are read on a rolled basis, and each sub-genre has a different date.
.
2. Description of several representative essays published in your venue;
sample essays= on their website.
Bedloe, Maura, "Something More," (Courage)
Holt, Joyce, "Angel Wings;" (Inspiration)
Massand, Nancy, "Time Out." (Mothers and Daughters)
Scher, Edie, "The Lady in the Blue Dress." (A Cup of Comfort)

subject matter (defining/uplifting/relationships) - varied subject material – visible limitations include works that do not teach a lesson, experience an epiphany, and end positively.
voice: Uplifting literature+ philosophical reflecting - essays accepted here will need to include a meaning, or moral, to serve as a central focus.
depth of discussion: many of these stories are carefully crafted to expose the message in a unique way. They no do drudge extra information or give negative highlights without a solution. Can be compared to Chicken Soup Magazine.
form (modes of writing) description, narration, dialog; Dialog compromises the “small talk” of the story. Most of the emphasis is given on the imagery and movements.
artistry: Very high- much emphasis on creativity in terms of imagery and angles. They place value on the ordinary, blessed with imagery. It gives it another life. There is value on originality, and the usage of recurring images or phrases,
length: up to 2000 words

3. Niche
audience - literary, passionate audience - interested in releasing emotions about the events in their life. Looking for closure. Looking for a connection to resolve their past or present morals.
purpose - publish beautiful, well-crafted writing that idealizes the situations that many families encounter. Although it critiques to friends and family alike, there is a niche that brings people together.

4. Other
Accepts email submissions-prefers them- = see website for specifics
The writer is notified shortly after the deadline date.
Publishes unsolicited manuscripts
No mention of pay.

Revised Memoir

My sister and I have become very different people. Currently, I am a 23 year old junior in college working two jobs and going to school full time. My sister, Jennifer, is a 26 year old recent college graduate expecting her first child. My parents have never tried to treat us equally and my sister has never stopped running from their expectations. Floating through school, through boyfriends, through housing—nothing in here life has been stable. I believe that the decisions that impacted us during our adolescences have made us who we are today. Unfortunately, there is recurring question my sister continues to ask. “Why can’t we be close like “Normal” sisters? Why do you hate me?” She could never realize we have never been like “normal” sisters. We have always been us. My sister was first at walking, talking, reading, writing and unfortunately finding trouble and following it. It was almost as if we were born from two different families. It wasn’t until years later my sister acknowledged the fact that I had known all my life. We were different. Sometimes, I wonder whether we were born differently, or if our adolescents through us into an alternate reality.
When I was 10 years old my family was going through a difficult time. My grandfather had just recently passed away and my father was still an emotional wreck. He had not been working for the last several months, and my mother was paying most of our bills. My sister had just turned 13, and had begun to develop a less than appropriate temperament. She was constantly referred to as a rebel child. My parents had little assets to accommodate what was going on in their lives, much less to help my sister Jennifer.
My parents would be sitting at the dinning room table paying some bills. Jennifer would come down the stairs, “I’m going out. Bye” Before my parents could get two words out of their mouth, she was gone. Later that night, “John, did Jennifer say where she was going” my mother would ask. He would reply “No idea” as they both sat mindlessly in front of the television.
Originally I used to blame my sister for abusing my parent’s tolerance. After several months of my sister constantly breaking the rules my parents decided to try something new. My godparents had referred them to an organization called “Tough Love.” Every Tuesday night they would go to these “tough love” meetings. The goal was to control my sister through the advice of the people in the organization.
Often times I would imagine my parents at these meetings. I could see them sitting in a circle say, “Our names are John and Maryanne and we can’t control our daughter.”
Our routine would become so predictable.
Walking home from school at 3:30 in the afternoon, I would walk through the door and call my grandmother to tell her I was home. Every Tuesday my mother would walk in the door at 5 pm. “Hello? Jessica?” she would call when she entered the door knowing I’d be home. “What do you want for dinner?” I didn’t really have many options. I would usually have some sort of pasta. While I was finishing homework, my father would enter. At 5:45 we would have a brief dinner. “Jessica, how was your day?” My father would ask. “It was okay.” My social life never had much interaction. This was probably the only reason my parents had no issues with my adolescence.
For years, they would just refer to this place as “the group.” While I was growing up, my parents tried to ignore the seriousness of this situation with my sister. More amazingly, while my parents were at these meetings my sister was elsewhere. She often didn’t make it home before I fell asleep. I’m not sure whether they didn’t know she was out, or just didn’t know how to react to her.
My mother would kiss my forehead right before they left. “Don’t stay up too late Jess.” I would nod, and say goodnight. Later that night I would be watching Full house. I could imagine that being the perfect family. Nothing like mine. None of the kids would ever be left alone all night every Tuesday.

At times, I am still angry about what those years did to my family. I would come home from school expecting a war zone in progress. Sometimes I really wondered if I didn’t come home, would they even notice? Some days I would take the extra ten minute walk to my grandmother’s house instead. I could hear from the television room from when my grandmother would call my father.
“John, Jessica is over here. She walked here from school.” My grandmother was my stone during these years. She was still mourning the loss of her husband, and I was mourning the loss of security in my family. She would never pry me for information like my parents did. It was almost like clockwork. At 5 PM my mother would stop at my grandmothers after she got off of work. “Jess, it’s time to go home.” The three minute drive home was filled with silence. She would ask about school, and then I was in my room.
Coming downstairs for dinner, right before they would leave for the group every Tuesday night was always the same.
“But why do you guys need to keep going to the group? It’s not helping us.” I would plea with my parents. My father would respond, “That’s why we’re going. We need help. We don’t know how to fix this.” I would sigh, and whisper to myself “just leave us here. Doesn’t make a difference to you.”

During the first year that my parents had been attending “the group” we nearly had a meltdown. My father and sister were having a fight. Although no one can remember the exact reason for the fight, it was not exactly an uncommon occurrence.
“Just Leave Me Alone!” my sister would yell at my father. “This is my life and I can take care of myself.” My father has always been very passive. Trying to reason with my sister was as easy as knocking down a brick wall. She stormed down the stairs with my father directly behind her. He was breathing heavily. “I’m fed up with all of this.” Right as she finished saying that, she was gone. “Jess, Jess, go get my medicine. I can barely breathe.” I was scared. It was the most surreal thing I had ever seen happen to my father. “Here Dad, here’s your pills.” His eyes closed as I gave him the bottle. “DAD, DAD” I was screaming. I grabbed the phone and immediately called 911.
“911 Emergency. How can I help you?” the operator would say. “My dad was having trouble breathing and he’s not answering.” I remember the pace of my heart, which was pounding with fear. “The ambulance is on the way.”
The ambulance came immediately. When it pulled up, my neighbor came next door to see what was wrong. “Theresa, something happened to my dad. He and my sister had a big fight” I said. “Did you call your mother yet?” and I shook my head no. My neighbor had seen my sister and I grow up. She had always been there for us.
“Maryanne, you need to come home. Jennifer and John had a fight and the paramedics are here.” I can only imagine how fast my mother hung up the phone and ran out the door.
When my sister returned, the ambulance was just leaving. She walked through the door as if nothing had happened. “What the hell happened?” She looked right at my father, and deciding to walk upstairs to her room without an answer. I had never seen her with such a guilty face until that day. My mother looked as if she was alone. “Thank you for being so responsible Jess. You did a very important thing today.” She refused to look my sister in the face. I could imagine what my mother’s eyes were saying. “This is our family and you are ripping it apart. You need to change. You need to grow up.” Sitting at the dinner table, my sister was full of shame and regret. Things were very quiet that evening. After that night, I tried to look the other way when my sister and parents were arguing. This family struggle continued for the next few years. I’ll remember all of this. I’ll remember all of these memories.”
My family went through hard times the next few years. When she was 15, my parents did one of the most difficult things they had ever done. My parents were talking to my sister’s Godparents.
“We really don’t know what to do anymore. She never listens to us. We were hoping that she could stay with you for a little bit this summer. We need a break.” Her godparents accepted saying that it would be “no problem.” I could see the pain and regret on my fathers face that things had escaladed to this.
During my freshman year of high school my sister and I shared the same school for the first time. Nearly all of my teachers knew who I was because of her, and needless to say it was not always a good thing. “Is it true she has been kicked out of the house? She has been in so many fights. I heard she was even kicked out of conflict mediation.”
My sister had always felt like the world was going to bow down to her every whim. Sneaking out, stealing, smoking on our schools field, and to no avail the world would protect her. Regardless of how many fights she was in “I’ll still graduate. I’ll still be alright.” No matter how many times she had been suspended for smoking “I’ll still graduate. I’ll still be alright.”
I believe the biggest block in her road happened during the summer before her senior year. It’s been such an infamous incident that most of my family refuses to ever bring it up. I recently asked my mother about it, from a brief memory I had. It was a typical night. “I’m going out. Bye.” At this point, my parents didn’t know how to react to her. About an hour later, I was upstairs and heard the phone ring. It was 10 PM at night. The call came from Bellevile Police. My sister had been picked up for being with some older kids who tried to steal from a liquor store. My father said “I’ll be right there.” I didn’t want to imagine the war zone when my sister got home. I went back to my room and tried to ignore the screaming that came from downstairs. I’m not sure what my parents could have said to her, but they must have meant it. Shortly after this incident she began to face the reality if she was kicked out, she was an adult. “I guess I’ve been putting you guys through a lot haven’t I? I’m sorry. This is who I am.” Things weren’t perfect. They still aren’t perfect. My parents have learned a lot about accommodation though.
I’ve never fully accepted the decisions my parents and my sister made during those years. In relevance, the decisions they made probably helped our family survive.
They have always been there for me when I need them to be. Because of this experience, they realized that I need my personal space and I also need parents. They realized that if they constantly pressure me for information about my life I will close them out of my life just as she did. Although my sister and I have very little in common, we still come from the same family.