[stylist] Stopping nonfiction thread
vejas
brlsurfer at gmail.com
Wed Mar 7 23:45:47 UTC 2012
I also think threads can stop if members request it, I think
Lynda's last comment was really rude.
Vejas
----- Original Message -----
From: "Ashley Bramlett" <bookwormahb at earthlink.net
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org
Date sent: Wed, 7 Mar 2012 18:38:49 -0500
Subject: Re: [stylist] Stopping nonfiction thread
Bridgit,
You did a good job. What you defined as creative nonfiction is
eye opening.
I think people are confused because some things marketed as CNF
are not and
vice versa. I would keep giving your opinions and not let
rudeness get to
you.
As long as the moderator does not stop a thread, I suggest it can
continue
if members want it to.
Ashley
-----Original Message-----
From: Bridgit Pollpeter
Sent: Wednesday, March 07, 2012 4:56 PM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] Stopping nonfiction thread
No need to be condescending because I thought an exchange of
thoughts
and opinions were being shared, and since I have quite a bit of
knowledge and experience in nonfiction writing, I've been trying
to
explain and demonstrate what it is, but if we want to be rude and
condescending, trust me... Well just ask those who know me well.
I've
not been rude to anyone posting on this topic. Do we not
constantly say
Stylist is a place to be informed, to learn about writing? That's
what
I'm doing. I have a frickin degree in creative nonfiction, (and
graduated with honors) and the Omaha World Herald hired me
because of my
background in creative nonfiction; they didn't want a journalist
for the
blog, but someone with more experience in creative writing, so I
want
the genre understood, and the post about nonfiction containing
lies is
an incorrect view of the genre. At least some stimulating
discussion was
happening, but if us so-called writers do not want to learn
proper info
about writing, well, I guess it's not my problem. And trying to
present
me like the crazy, bad guy is unfair since, again, all I've done
is
provide proper definitions and examples of what creative
nonfiction is,
and to correct the misinformation that has been posted on Stylist
in
regards to the genre. Perhaps some need a time out to learn what
specific writing genres are. Now brand me the bitch if you must,
and
don't worry, I will stop this thread since apparently some are
unwilling
to actually learn. And in the future, instead of being rude and
condescending, just stop posting if you want a thread to stop.
I've only
continued because others were, so it goes both ways people.
Sincerely,
Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
Read my blog at:
http://blogs.livewellnebraska.com/author/bpollpeter/
"History is not what happened; history is what was written down."
The Expected One- Kathleen McGowan
Message: 11
Date: Wed, 7 Mar 2012 03:28:29 -0500
From: "Lynda Lambert" <llambert at zoominternet.net
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: Re: [stylist] Creative nonfiction is not made-up
material
Message-ID: <39496E0371E643988854B78B09C1424A at Lambert
Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed; charset="iso-8859-1";
reply-type=original
I think you need a "time out." muhahahahahahah
----- Original Message -----
From: "Bridgit Pollpeter" <bpollpeter at hotmail.com
To: <stylist at nfbnet.org
Sent: Tuesday, March 06, 2012 3:34 PM
Subject: [stylist] Creative nonfiction is not made-up material
So this therefore implies that nonfiction writing is about
experiences
and events that never happened. I do understand what Eve and
Lynda are
trying to say, but lie is the wrong word. "Lie" is not exactly
a word
you can use on a philosophical level; a lie is a false, untrue
thing
that does not exist, never happened, and this is not what
creative
nonfiction is in any way shape or form.
And perhaps some are misunderstanding the "creative" part of
creative
nonfiction; based on many post, creative is being equated to
untrue,
lies, stuff that never happened and is included to provide
entertainment. Creative only means a writer is using literary
techniques to bring into a three-dimensional realm as opposed to
a
flat story on the page. Using creative means does not mean a
writer is
pulling in imagined elements, making up people, places and
things just
for the sake of telling a story. This is what Frey did in A
Million
Little Pieces, which has been established as not, N O T, being a
memoir or any type of creative nonfiction. You are not
"creating"
information but just using creative ways in which to relay true
information.
The reason nonfiction and fiction have specific names is because
one
is imagined, made-up while the other is about real-life. We all
hold
thoughts and opinions based on our interpretation of life, and
this
may differ from person to person, but this is not the same as a
lie.
I've yet to hear from anyone here how a memoir is about events
that
never happened, which again, is what a lie is. We are not
talking
about historical fiction, fictionalized accounts of one's life
or any
other type of fiction; we are discussing a form of nonfiction
that
often employs literary techniques to bring in the "creative"
part of
creative nonfiction. It's not drawing upon made-up info. It's
the
difference between a one-dimensional painting and a
three-dimensional
painting with layers of shading giving an audience a fuller view
of
the picture.
I can write that Ross and I sit on the couch with our niece
watching
TV. I feel like Penny is our daughter, but she is not. I feel
like a
mother, and it's difficult to reconcile my feelings with
reality.
Or I can write:
We sit on the couch, worn and dirty from life, with Ross
slumbering
next to us as a black-and-white movie hums softly in the
background.
Hands folded as if praying, your tiny bulk nestled against me;
we are
like a family. Mother, father, baby, but you are not mine. We
are
connected biologically, but you are not my daughter. Niece by
birth,
you are so much more to us. My heart dissolves with yours,
longing to
know this feeling always. Breathing steady, slowly, surely, and
for a
moment, I am a mother.
I imagine us part of a holiday snow globe as the three of us
lounge on
the couch at two o' clock in the morning. The mist of this
fantasy
shimmers around us, engulfing us in warmth. The rhythm of your
whispered snoring strides along with the beating of my heart.
Sleeping
in my lap, I try to draw you into me. How can this be? I am not
a
mother, but I bear the heart of a mother like a badge.
Did I make anything up? Is this a lie? Please explain to me how
nonfiction writing such as memoir and personal essay can be
equated to
containing lies. Again, on a philosophical level, I get where
you
ladies are going, but you are using the wrong word, and there
has yet
to be any explanation in your favor of how this type of writing
contains lies. In the paras above, are you telling me this did
not
happen, these are not my thoughts and feelings? It makes no
sense.
I respect the intelligence, knowledge, wisdom and experience
those
posting on this topic bring to Stylist, but, though I'm only 30,
I
know creative nonfiction even if I know nothing else. There are
different schools of thought on what constitutes memoir and
personal
essay writing, and what is permissible and how certain
information
should be presented, but across the board, no one would agree
that
creative nonfiction writing contains lies, big or little. Try
making
that statement to some of the big creative nonfiction writers of
our
time-- Annie Dillard, Joan Didion, Scot Russel Sanders, David
Sedaris,
Maxine Hong Kingston-- and see what they say. Different
interpretations, different views-- this is not the same as a
lie. My
perspective is different than yours, it does not render one of
our
perspectives as being untrue and made-up.
Sincerely,
Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
Read my blog at:
http://blogs.livewellnebraska.com/author/bpollpeter/
"History is not what happened; history is what was written
down." The
Expected One- Kathleen McGowan
Message: 4
Date: Mon, 5 Mar 2012 18:42:16 -0700
From: Eve Sanchez <3rdeyeonly at gmail.com
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: Re: [stylist] Creative nonfiction is not made-up
material
Message-ID:
<CACdbYKVYK3ivUDm6ixtKHsEPrg3psghnE+h4vXcMWW_qwW5TRg at mail.gmail.c
om
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1
Sure there is. Even using the word 'tinkering' shows this.
Tinkering
is creating, being creative is creating. Creating is not solely
done
with the truth or it would not need creating. Hence the lies
appear..
It is a lie spoken when one says he never lies. Diolch, Eve:)
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Message: 12
Date: Wed, 07 Mar 2012 07:26:44 -0600
From: Brad Duns? <lists at braddunsemusic.com
To: Writer's Division Mailing List <stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] Wednesday's Word: deglutition
Message-ID: <7.0.1.0.2.20120307072315.04bbfe78 at braddunsemusic.com
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"; format=flowed
Deglutition
dee-gloo-TIH-shun
or
deh-gloo-TIH-shun
(noun)
The act or process of swallowing
?A black holes deglutition of stars and other
space material is still quite a mystery.?
or perhaps less metaphoric:
""A deglutition gone wrong can lead to quite a coughing spree."
Brad Duns?
"The naive believes everything, But the sensible
man considers his steps." --Proverbs
http://www.braddunsemusic.com
http://www.facebook.com/braddunse
http://www.twitter.com/braddunse
------------------------------
Message: 13
Date: Wed, 7 Mar 2012 09:12:06 -0600
From: "Robert Leslie Newman" <newmanrl at cox.net
To: "'Writer's Division Mailing List'" <stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] Writing Contest in languages other than
English
Message-ID: <00d001ccfc74$a9967ec0$fcc37c40$@cox.net
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
WOW what a dream that would be! If we could attract a global wide
interest
--- with quality judges and submissions in a variety of
languages..
Katie and Gerardo any ideas how we could pull that one off?
Robert Leslie Newman
Personall Website-
Adjustment To Blindness And Visual impairment
http//www.thoughtprovoker.info
NFB Writers' Division, president
http://www.nfb-writers-division.net
Chair of the NFB Newsletter Publications Committee
------------------------------
Message: 14
Date: Wed, 7 Mar 2012 11:15:26 -0500
From: "Lynda Lambert" <llambert at zoominternet.net
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] Tomorrow is the Big Winds Moon
Message-ID: <E54FD338D7714D5EBF3A9EC8EE14F309 at Lambert
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
Hello friends,
When I look over the things I choose to write about, very often
it is
the "moon" and things associated with the moon, past and present.
The
moon makes me so happy every time I think of it. I love being
outside
late at night with my dogs, when the moon is nearing it's
fullness.
I got up at 3 am today, for the day. Why? The moon!
Tomorrow will be the full moon - I keep track of this. But this
one is
very special becaue it is the Big Winds Moon. This moon connects
us to
the spiritual realm. Psycnic activities are very strong during
this
moon. Our intuition is very much in tune with our higher self.
This is a
GREAT week to be working on POETRY - or whatever medium you
choose to
work with this week.
Today I am working on a new poem about this moon - and after
lunch, I
will be going to the pottery studio to see what delights might be
coming
out of the final firing of the kiln. I am expecting something
amazing
today - and all week long!
The _Big Winds Moon_ can take you to a place where you can
capture your
dreams and visions on the page or in your art making. No wonder
I get up
during the night, just to celebrate this event. Have a high
energy day
everyone.
Lynda Lambert
http://lyndalambert.com
------------------------------
Message: 15
Date: Wed, 7 Mar 2012 11:19:23 -0500
From: "Chris Kuell" <ckuell at comcast.net
To: "Stylist" <stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] 'Crying' prompt response
Message-ID: <0B47F7E8AA5C4405894DBDE42F188BD2 at ChrisPC
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
Johnny Get Your Gun
By Chris Kuell
I sat working at my computer on the morning of April 4, 2011.
When the
phone rang, I listened to the caller ID, which gave a familiar
423 area
code. My friend Susan in Tennessee.
"Hey Susan-how's it going?"
Susan answered with her usual, "Hey Chris," drawing out Chris
with her
Southern twang until it was almost a three-syllable word. Then
she
sniffed and I knew something was wrong. "Jonathan. Jonathan
stepped on
an IED."
I can't say with any certainty what she said right after that.
It's
absolutely amazing to me how fast the human body can react.
Within the
course of a millisecond or two, tears filled my eyes, my
blackened
visual cortex turned a translucent gray and a sheen of sweat
covered my
back and chest
".two days ago. He's alive, but he's hurt real bad."
I steadied myself enough to try to give my friend some comfort
over her
son. I learned that Jonathan had been flown to Germany where
doctors
were trying to stabilize him. Despite the military's suggestions
that
she sit tight and wait, Susan was getting on a plane to Germany
later
that day. She asked that I pray for her son, and to please ask
everyone
I knew to pray for him too. I assured her I would, hung up, then
fell to
pieces.
In June of 2003, I talked my family into driving me to West
Virginia for
a three day writing conference. I had been toying with the idea
of
trying freelance writing, and decided to attend the conference to
learn,
to network, and meet other writers. My wife drove the 680 miles,
and as
I got out of the car and stretched my back, a woman got out of
the car
next to us.
"Hi," she said. "I'm Susan."
We exchanged pleasantries over the course of the conference,
Susan being
one of only a handful of people not put off by my blindness.
And then she sat across from me at the Saturday evening banquet
and we
really got a chance to chat. She was working on a novel about a
strong
Southern woman in a bad relationship, and after attending a
seminar for
first time novelists, I felt juiced up to start a novel about a
working-class family dealing with Alzheimer's. I learned that
Susan had
two kids, a boy and a girl like me, and our sons were both
eleven.
After the conference we emailed each other and critiqued each
other's
work. We developed a weekly writing challenge to urge each other
on, and
became good friends in the process. I saw Susan again at the
2004 West
Virginia Writer's conference, where I consumed a little too much
authentic West Virginia moonshine and she helped pilot me back to
my
room. We talked on the phone, and I heard about her husband
losing his
job, her daughter's pregnancy, and her son Jonathon advancing
belt by
belt through his karate classes. At the 2007 conference, we both
pitched
our novels to a New York literary agent. He shot me down, but
Susan was
one of only three people out of 52 to get a full manuscript
request.
The following year, as summer approached, Susan called me in
tears. Her
son's best friend had been found that morning dead in his room.
He had
died from something called Robo-trippin', which I'd never heard
of.
Apparently, he and Jonathan had both downed an entire bottle of
Robitussin cough syrup, which is purported to give the consumer a
buzz.
He was fine when Jonathan and he parted ways the previous
evening, but
his heart failed in the night.
This was the start of a downward trend for Jonathan. His grades
dropped,
he quit karate, he started staying out late and partying with the
type
of friends Susan and her husband wanted him to stay away from.
He managed to graduate high school, barely, and was continually
fighting
with his parents. As a graduation gift I sent him a copy of
Cormack
McCarthy's 'The Road' and 'What Color is My Parachute' in hopes
he might
get some direction in life. I also sent him a seven page
personal
letter, which he probably threw out without reading. The truth
is, I
wasn't all that different than Jonathan when I was his age. I
once
talked my best friend out of killing himself on a long, dark
night, and
I always had the drive to get myself through college, but I
wasn't
exactly law-abiding with Rhodes Scholars for friends.
Jonathan went to the University of Tennessee at Knoxville for a
semester
in the fall-his parent's choice, not his. He was sent home after
one
semester and asked not to return.
The following spring the cops pulled him over and busted him with
beer
and an ounce of weed in his car. He spent the night in jail,
then Susan
and her husband bailed him out. In court he was found guilty of
possession with the intent to distribute, driving under the
influence,
possession of alcohol while underage, and a handful of assorted
traffic
violations. The judge fined him $2500 plus 100 hours of
community
service. Jonathan told the judge that what he really wanted to
do was
join the service. The judge agreed that if Jonathan did, he'd
waive the
fine. Jonathan completed his community service, and a month
later was a
United States marine.
This seemed to have a positive impact. When he came home from
boot camp,
he was a changed man. He was proud and respectful and except for
picking
up the habit of smoking cigarettes he was the perfect son. When
he
returned for more training, he found, as is the case with many a
country
boy used to shooting squirrels out of trees with a .22 at a
hundred
yards, he was a good shot. A real good shot. Uncle Sam decided
to turn
Jonathan into a sniper.
He trained, learned about the latest weaponry, laser scopes and
where to
place a kill shot. On January 18, 2011, he and the rest of his
regiment
left the good old USA and landed in Afghanistan. Seventy-four
days
later, as Jonathan himself said, "I was walking a path where 200
other
guys had walked before me, and I was the unlucky sum-bitch to
step on
the mine."
Although I'd never met Jonathan, I couldn't get the image of him
out of
my mind. Susan had said he'd lost most of his left foot, and all
the
bones in both legs and his right foot were shattered. As I
dwelled on
that image, the sadness would hit me like an iron mallet and I'd
find
myself crying again. When my wife came home from work, I
couldn't get
through the story without losing it yet again. Why was I having
such a
powerful reaction to this kid, this punk really, who I'd never
even met?
Firstly, it wasn't just any kid, but it was the son of a good
friend. He
was my own son's age, and while they were walking very different
paths
in life, I could still imagine the pain of every mother and
father who
had lost or nearly lost a son or daughter in this terrible war.
As of
August 2011, there were 4,700 deaths and nearly 33,000 American
troop
casualties in Iraq and Afghanistan, most of them soldiers between
the
ages of 18 and 22. And for what? Is the world a better place? If
so,
only slightly. Any gains are precarious at best, and certainly
not worth
the cost.
As a parent, I can imagine no greater pain than the suffering or
death
of my children. Give me cancer, Parkinson's, muscular dystrophy,
chop
off my legs, but please God, leave my kids alone. I know that
tragedy
knocks on everyone's door, but I'd bargain anything I could to
keep it
from my kid's porches as long as possible. As I'm sure most
parents
would. And when I open my heart to it, I can feel all those
parents
pain and sorrow.
I thought about Jonathan, a mere nineteen years old, and the
entire
trauma that he's already experienced. First was the death of his
best
friend, which he must feel guilty over, yet never received the
mental
health therapy he undoubtedly needed. This caused him to act
out, and
his folks, being Bible-belters, tried the 'spare the rod and
spoil the
child' approach to parenting-which of course, failed miserably.
Jonathan
rebelled, got into deeper trouble and took what I thought at the
time
was a reasonable step by joining the Marines. Then, just as he
was
feeling like his life was on track again, he found himself thrust
into
the horror of war. By early May, he was at Walter Reed Medical
Center in
Washington, his left leg amputated below the knee, his right leg
full of
screws and rods, both legs and hips encased in plaster while he
healed.
At least, physically.
There is a small ray of sunshine amid the bleakness of this
story. By
all accounts, the medical attention Jonathan has received from
the US
Military has been superb. Unlike the horror stories of wounded
soldiers
lying in their own waste, infected wounds left untreated at
Walter Reed
during the bush administration, Susan was invited to come and
stay with
her son, which she did for three months. That gave them time to
heal
their personal wounds and grow closer. Despite his protests,
Jonathan
had long sessions of physical therapy every day. Two custom
prosthetics
were made for him-one for everyday use and one for doing athletic
activities. When he was able, a group of wounded soldiers and
their
families got to sit in the first row behind the plate at a
Washington
Nationals game. They went to New York City for a weekend to tour
and see
a Broadway show. They were flown to Las Vegas for a weekend.
Jonathan
has had his picture taken with a dozen or more celebrities. Tim
Allen
makes it a practice to stop by Bethesda Naval hospital (Walter
Reed was
officially closed last August) as do Holly Hunter and Gary
Sinise. They
walk around and chat with the wounded soldiers, which really
makes their
days. I can't say how proud I am that my tax dollars are used to
help
and care for our wounded veterans.
Three weeks ago Jonathan was skiing in Colorado when he got a
phone call
from one of his Marine buddies. At boot camp, during training
and for
his short stint in Afghanistan, Jonathan had made two close
friends-Harrison and Mathews. Harrison was the first person to
get to
Jonathon and applied the tourniquet which probably saved his
life. The
other guys had completed their yearlong tour and returned to Camp
Merrill in Georgia in early February, 2012. A week later, safe
on US
soil, Harrison shot himself in the head. The phone call was from
Mathews. Jonathon caught the first plane he could and attended
the
funeral in full military uniform.
At this point, Jonathan is patiently waiting for his discharge.
Despite
his parents urging, he doesn't believe he needs to talk to a
psychiatrist or therapist. He is thinking again about attending
college,
or perhaps a trade school to learn to be an electrician.
What happened to Jonathon, who turned twenty last fall, wasn't
ordinary
y. Yet, it was truly devastating, and I'm not sure he's dealt
with all
the ramifications. It's also not a huge leap to worry what might
befall
my own son, although there's no danger of him stepping on an IED.
Last
year two students died at UConn (where he goes to school); one
was
stabbed at a party and another was hit by a shuttle bus. A few
years ago
my friend Becky's son died at 19 of a drug overdose. A few weeks
ago
another friend's son was hit by a car while riding his bicycle
home from
a party. He's still in a coma, but doctors have said they
anticipate he
will be fully paralyzed. He's just twenty-four years old.
These kids, these beings we love into existence and then give
them our
hearts. We do our best to watch over them, to teach them, to
urge them
to be smart. but there's only so much we can do. Entropy, or
chaos, is
part of what keeps this planet going no matter how much I fear or
loathe
it. Tears will come, they'll be wiped away, and somehow we have
to find
the strength to carry on.
7 March 2012
------------------------------
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