On Writing, Critiquing, and Homework... and stuff.

     So I've been doing the school thing since April, and I've actually learned a great deal. Most of which revolves around how quickly I can turn out work when I give myself about three hours to finish it. Go me?

     Well, school is going quite well. Swimingly, you might say... if you were a good swimmer, which I am not. What do people who suck at swimming say when something is going well? Things are going ... floatingly? Dog-paddlingly? IDidn'tDieInTheAbyss-ingly? Whatev. It's going great, y'all.

     My online classes go like this: I take two classes, each for eight weeks a piece, at the same time, and then start a whole new 'term' over again the day after the other one ends. In two weeks from now, I will have completed 2 terms, and aced (hopefully) all four classes. I got A's in my first two, am making an A in one of the classes this term, and a B in the other. Not for lack of trying. It's my actual has-to-do-with-my-major class, too. And it all really burns my biscuits, too, because I'm a damn good (novice) writer. I'm not the best, by any means, but when you give me a C on an assignment because, "Your writing was top notch, and you really showcased this week's assignment, but you didn't ask for any criticism on your piece when others complimented it. Also, you didn't critique any one else's post in a way that was helpful." Um. What? So when other people tell me I'm awesome I'm supposed to say, "Ha! That's sweet, but what would you change about me?" My mama raised me to say thank you, thank you. And second, I'm not in any position to do anything but check someone's grammar in their piece. I have no clout about me to say, "Well, Such n' Such, this was great, but you really could've worded that differently by saying...blah blah blah." I don't feel right doing that. Especially when no one else in the class is doing it either. I'd love to ask my classmates how they're doing in our class, but I'm afraid someone will play teacher's pet and tell on me. Oh well. I am talking to one girl in the class, we've actually become pretty cool friends (I made a friend today, mom!), and she's getting the same treatment. So maybe it's all of us? Or just him? Who knows. Either way, I've started accepting compliments with a side dish of "What would you do to improve it?" so hopefully that will suffice. As far as critiquing others goes, I've started making little suggestions here and there, but he still cracked down on me, so this week I made actual "Instead of wording it the way you did, I might have said this..." posts... And it was hard. And I hated it. Good thing there's only two weeks left. If I don't make an A I'm going to be disappointed, because it reflects on me, but at the same time, I'm not going to let it bother me that I'm being punished for being nice. Anywho...

      I thought I might share with y'all the pieces I've written so far in class. Feel free to tear into them and let me know what you think. I'd like to maybe make it a thing where I take a topic and try to write a piece for it... Like assigning myself work, and then get y'all to tell me what you think, or would change, or whatever. There are only about 5 of you out there that ever leave me comments anyway, so it shouldn't be too overwhelming, right?

      Here's the very first assignment we had. We had to write a poem about something going on around us that week, be it the season, an activity, something we saw... Whatever. The week this was going on, I spent all weekend watching my baby sister play ball, so I wrote about her.

Batter Up!

Take a deep breath

Sweat drops slither down her face

Eyes squint from the sun

Fingers laced tightly around her bat

The cool metal slipping in her moist grip

Swing once; too slow

The ball flies by 

Pop! Into the catcher's mit 

Take a deep breath

"Lift those arms!"

"Wait for a good one!"

"Use your hips!"

She adjusts her stance

Kleats scrape the ground

Here's the pitch; low and fast

Whoosh! The ball zips by 

Take a deep breath

One more chance

Time to dig deep

Teammates cheer; coaches yelling

Here it comes; fast down the middle

Pow! Soaring, sailing, flying

Feet pound the dirt

Blonde hair trailing behind

     

     Our next assignment was a short memoir to get us geared up for the longer memoir. We could choose to just expand the first one, or write a new one entirely. I chose to do two different ones. The first one is about The Stud and I in Florida. It's called... Florida... Because I couldn't think of anything else.

Florida 

"Are you ready?" Am I ready? I assess my surroundings while the sun beats down on my skin, irritating my already pink shoulders. I can taste the salt in the moist air. I dig my toes further into the white, sugar fine sand, as if to anchor myself to the spot. The gulf is pounding onto the shore, and hundreds of tourists just like me line the beach. "Baby, are you okay? Do you want to go back?" Never in my 26 years of life have I ever been so nervous. "How silly," I chide myself, "There are women here built bigger than you, out there having a great time, and you're upset because you're a size 14? TAKE. OFF. YOUR. SHORTS." Yelling at myself never works. I just buck even harder. I'm sweating. I'm sweating bullets, and I have only been on the beach for 5 minutes. "I can't do this," I think.

His hand, calloused from years of work in a dark, dank factory, yet soft in a way only his could be, slides into my sweat filled palm. My eyes trail up his neon green swimshorts; no one is losing sight of this guy. My gaze meanders up his yellow tank top, to his ocean-blue eyes, and stop. He is giving me that look only he can give; that look that he only gives to me. Suddenly, we are the only ones at the beach. The tide pulls back, and drops to a whisper against the sand, as if to lend us the privacy this moment deserved. His other hand falls to my side, and gently slides to my hip. "You look great. I love you."

The warm, salt-filled water feels incredible against my exposed thighs.



     This next one is the longer memoir we had to write. We were instructed to talk about something near and dear to our hearts. An event that will stick with us. So I chose this one. It's more a collaboration of two days; the visitation and the funeral. But you get the gist.

Beige Walls and Burgundy Carpets 

"And now, I'd like to ask his oldest granddaughter to come up and read a little poem she's written for her grandpappa. Samantha, would you come on up here, please?" He spoke to me like he knew me, which he obviously did not, or else he would have known I call him "Papa" (pronounced like a dog's paw. Yes, I know it's spelled wrong). When I stood up in the dimly-lit funeral home, my world started to spin. Suddenly, I was not there. I am home, or the only place I could call home; my only constant. I could smell the freshly cut, emerald green grass. I could hear my Mema (MeeMaw) watering her flowers, and cursing the sun in her eyes. The cement driveway was warm underneath my bare feet, and my long hair was stuck on the back of my neck; matted and sticky from sweat. "Samantha." I could hear his voice. His gruff, southern twang ringing through every syllable of my name.

"Samantha, are you alright?" "What?" I was back, swaying against my mother who was more unstable than I, trying to discern between where I was and where I wanted to be. The preacher extended his bony, wrinkled hand and helped me up to the pulpit at the front of the room. It was sturdy, it's wood dark and worn. I traced my fingers along its grain, nervously. I hate public speaking. I will never understand how someone can just stand in front of a crowd and form words and sentences without nearly having a heart attack. I glanced down at my feet, in my uncomfortable shoes my mother insisted that I wear, standing atop the burgundy shag carpet. Really? Burgundy? How chipper. I could not even pretend I was somewhere else. The air smelled stale, you know, the way an older church sometimes will, or a forgotten library book. I turned my head, and -out of the corner of my eye- looked at my Papa. His skin was unaturally tan, a product of the make-up they caked on his face to cover up his now pale skin. His eyes were shut, and his hands were sitting arcross his chest, like he'd just fallen asleep in the recliner during a Nascar race. He was in a suit, of all things. I fought for him to be in his favorite t-shirt featuring a deer leaping across the front, and his cut-off jeans. No one listens to a twelve year-old. Now, when everyone looks back on that day, they all agree with my original suggestion. Figures.

I turn my head further to look at him straight on. I can't believe he's lying there. He should not be there, in that nickel-brushed metal casket, surrounded by ivory satin pillows. "He should be up, walking around, helping me, making everyone laugh so I don't look like such an ass up here," I thought. I turned back to the congregation of people who came to mourn my Papa's passing. I recited the poem I had written after he had passed. I did everything in my power not to fall over, crying. Then, once I had gathered myself, I walked over to the casket to place my poem and a picture of the two of us under one of his arms. I couldn't look at his face. Lifting his hand enough to place my momentos underneath proved difficult, as he was cold and stiff from being in the morgue. My Uncle Brian came to help me, as sobs ran through my body, shaking my entire being. We each placed our hands on my Papa's hand, and I finally looked him in the face. "...Something is wrong," I whispered. "No, baby, he's gone. This is how it is," Brian tried to console me, thinking I was about to lose it again. "Yea. And so are his teeth." I cackled. My voice boomed and echoed off the low celilings at a volume that was impossibly loud. "His teeth! No one brought his teeth!" I wailed. I laughed until I was crying again. Everyone did.

At least I wasn't the only one that looked like an ass that day.

     

     This last one had to be a short story. I worked off a subject that I know well. Mom never shared with me what she dealt with day to day, and that was for the best. That didn't necessarily mean I didn't have any idea, but if she could pretend it was all okay, I could pretend with her. I could pretend she was always safe.

She Keeps It Hidden

She never discusses work with her daughter, not really. She keeps it simple. "How was your day, mom?" "It was good, sweets, I stayed in the parking garage all day long. It was pretty boring... What are you craving?" She changes the subject. She always changes the subject on days like today. Today, was a bad day; she didn't sit in the parking garage all day. Today, she showered at the gym on the way home just to wash the blood off of her arms. Today, she single-handedly took down that junkie that fled down West 4th street. She has the bruises to prove it. She'll have to wear her long pajama bottoms tonight, instead of her normal mesh shorts.

Today, she responded to a wreck where a drunk driver plowed into the side of a minivan holding what was now a woman and her three motherless children. She held the youngest for hours it seemed. A two-year-old with auburn hair just like her own daughter's. They kept teddy bears in the trunk of the squad car for times just like these. Today, one of her own was hospitalized after a routine traffic stop went wrong, and she had to shoot a man to save her life and the life of her partner. Today she enforced and upheld the law.

"How was your day, sweets?" "It was good, mom. Eric Henderson told Katie that he liked me. They had pizza in the lunch line. Oh! And I made an A on my report, you remember the one? The one I had to do about you?.. Mom?" "Hm? Oh, right! Of course I remember. Sorry, sweets, just thinking about... dinner." She could hear her partner screaming, could feel her finger pull the trigger, could see the shooter go limp against his car. "Are you sure you're okay, mom?" "How about pizza, sweets? You love pizza." She'll take another shower later. She's covered in Today.

     

     So, y'all tell me what you think. Or don't. Like I said, not many people leave comments, but maybe if more people did... I could... I don't know... Write more. Or something. (Did I just compare my writing often to a treat of some sort? Yea. I think I did.) SO comment! Read the instructions if you don't have any of the listed profiles in the drop down menu. If my Mema can do it, so can you.

Until next rant, readers...