I feel that Frey wrote his story for the pure purpose of having it published and to make some money. It is unfortunate that Frey published his work as non fiction instead of the fiction story it really is. An author should take into consideration that readers are affected by what they are taking in. Frey talked about certain topics that could really give vulnerable readers the wrong ideas on being an alcoholic or drug addict and not needing any real help to kick the habit. He also gives readers a false idea of what it is like to be in prison, a breezy three months of reading that goes by like free time. Authors have the responsibility to take readers and their real lives into consideration. Someone reading this story may be severely affected by what they take out of it and it could give them false hope for similar situations that may be happening in their life.
"Truth" can be something that actually happened, or the way you honestly remember something happening. Truth is not something you know is far from the reality of a situation. Since people have different perspectives it is hard for an author to determine how someone reading the work will take it in. An author cannot account for EVERYones perspective, some topics just wont appeal to some people and that’s fine. Crossing lines is difficult in writing, because there aren’t many boundaries. To me, a writer crossing a boundary would be something along the lines of a rapist trying to write to a female based audience with a sympathetic tone. Other than that, writing should not have a lot of limitations. I also don’t think that the category of the story really matters to everyone, mostly just very easily influenced readers. If a story is good and it keeps the reader turning pages then it has served its purpose to entertain and intrigue people, unless it’s specifically written as a do it yourself or self help book.
I think that rounding corners is necessary to keep a story interesting. Just because all the events led up to the ultimate outcome doesn’t mean that they will carry the reader through the story easily. Sometimes exaggerating or making things up helps for the entertainment purposes. Changing names is necessary in some cases also because it is not up to the author to decide what people will know about real characters and what they won’t know. Since writing is biased on the authors’ part, depicting a real life person in a story will be unfair even if they are portrayed as a saint. Changing names just helps keep the characters real lives private. Sometimes making composite characters can be a good thing depending on the part they play. As long as the writer isn’t combining two different people or events to create the main part of the story, then small alterations are pretty harmless.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Monday, February 5, 2007
unfinished draft...
Losing Carter
It's early in the morning, well, 9:00 am, as early as I'll ever be up and outside my house. I jump in my car. I push down on the clutch and turn the key. I check to make sure the gears are in neutral. I wait for the car to warm up and channel through the stations. Nothing good on; so I will stick with one station and wait it out. I hope that something good comes on soon.
I pull away leaving my rarity of a good parking spot open for someone else to acquire for the next few minutes, hours, days, whatever. Finally, a song comes on that I love. I crank the radio up. I push the gas a little harder. Nothing can touch me now; there is nothing else but me, the car, the song, the road. I drive faster, I turn quicker, my heart beats with the song and everything is perfect. At that moment, nothing else matters. Where I'm going, where I'm coming from, who I will see when I get there, what I will hear or say are all not important to me at this time. Just me, the car, the song, the road. That is what matters right now. I pull up to my destination. Park. The song ends, I get out of the car. Music no longer fills my car, my heart, or my mind. The sounds of real life and its everyday movement come back to me and I lose all feeling of carelessness, invincibility and genuine happiness.
To me, that is a realization. Life is not always your favorite song blasting out of your car stereo. Life is stepping out of the car into the real world and letting go of the feelings inside you wish you could have all day- everyday; feelings that no one will hurt you, nothing can bother you, life is good.
In high school my best friend, Julie, and I would rush to her house after school. Plop our books on the floor and pick out a CD that best fit our mood. No matter what kind of day we had, there was always a CD to make it better. Family problems? Pantera will fix that. Boyfriend problems? How about Faith No More. Want to feel depressed? Type O Negative is the answer. Want to be goofy? How about some oldies. We danced when we wanted to be happy, we moped when we wanted to be lazy, we laid with our feet at opposite ends of each others bodies when we wanted to stair at the ceiling and ponder life's questions like; why are my parents so annoying? If a concert were coming up, we would listen to that band for weeks prior to the show. This was life. These were important things to us. Death only existed in the movies. Real problems were having to be home by 11 when everyone else could stay out past 12. Watching another best friend go through the hardest thing a person could possibly ever do was not in my plans, anywhere for the rest of my life.
It's July 20, 2006. It's warm, not hot. I bought a white button-up shirt and black dress pants. I cannot remember what I wore on my feet. I am nervous. I do not know what to expect. I have never been to a funeral like this before. The only funeral I had ever been to was actually 5 months before and that was for my great grandmother. We knew she was dying. There was no way around it. That is what happens. People grow old, get sick, suffer a little, and die. This was unreal. This was not an old person. This was not someone who had lived a fulfilling life with family and friends that cared. Only 6 out of 30 people at the funeral had actually met the deceased. I was not one of those six.
My best friend Alicia is nervous. She plays with her hair, pulls on her hands, walks around talking to people in front of the church, watching the cars drive by, pull up, park. She tries to socialize with her family and her husband's family. I watch her. I watch the cars. I watch the two families mingle with each other knowing that most of them had never heard of each other never mind spoken to each other before this day. I wait. She introduces me to her mother. She is not what I had pictured. She is an extraordinarily short woman, thin legs, slightly heavier on the top, but not overweight. She smokes like a chimney. Her boney fingers keep reaching into her pack and lighting up a new, long cigarette. Her teeth are paying for her habit, as is her hair, nails and skin. However, I am not here to criticize my best friends mother. Despite the fact that this woman, and practically everyone but those six specific people and myself, had not been a steady part of Alicia¡¯s life until 18 days ago, I am not here to criticize. I am here for moral support. I am here to learn about reality and I do not realize it yet.
The funeral directors black Chrysler pulls up. Everyone gets quiet. In the back seat is the casket, about 2 and half, 3 feet long. Tiny. Caskets should not be that small, life is so much bigger than that. Alicia's uncle opens the back door, reaches in and pulls the casket out. One person lifting a casket? That is not the way a funeral is supposed to go. A hearse should have arrived. The back should have been opened and it should have taken four people to carry the casket out because inside lies a grown person, old enough to die, old enough to have lived, not an infant. This is not the way things are supposed to happen.
I remember when Alicia told me that something was wrong. The doctors realized in an ultrasound that a valve in the baby's heart was not developed. She cried, I listened. Babies do not die, she should not worry. When he is born, they will know what to do and he will be ok. That is how I thought life was supposed to be. Instead, Carter was born on July 2, 2006, the same day my then boyfriend and I decided to buy a puppy that would lead to great financial problems and a whole lot of aggravation. I could not tell you how much he weighed or how long he was. I asked, I knew, but I do not know anymore. I do not remember. Carter went through four surgeries on his heart. From the time he was born until the time he died, there was nothing but sad phone calls and waiting. I was in New Jersey , they were in Virginia being pregnant, worrying and going into labor. I was in New Jersey ; they were heading to Washington D.C. where a specialist would work on Carter. I was in New Jersey , they were on their way to New Jersey to plan a funeral. All this in 18 short days. Eighteen days is not enough time to make any serious life altering decisions such as what do I want do for the rest of my life? Should I ask my girlfriend or boyfriend to marry me? Do I want to have kids? Should I ever get married? Life altering questions with life altering answers that vary from person to person. These questions take a LIFEtime to be answered. In eighteen days, my life, and the lives of everyone that was involved would be changed directly or indirectly.
The mass was in a church five blocks from my house. I was baptized, made my communion and confirmation there. My parents got married there. I am not religious. I do not know where I stand in religion. I have struggle with this for years, nothing has changed and I am still at a standstill on the subject. This occurrence did not push me closer to God, if He exists, that is for damn sure.
It's early in the morning, well, 9:00 am, as early as I'll ever be up and outside my house. I jump in my car. I push down on the clutch and turn the key. I check to make sure the gears are in neutral. I wait for the car to warm up and channel through the stations. Nothing good on; so I will stick with one station and wait it out. I hope that something good comes on soon.
I pull away leaving my rarity of a good parking spot open for someone else to acquire for the next few minutes, hours, days, whatever. Finally, a song comes on that I love. I crank the radio up. I push the gas a little harder. Nothing can touch me now; there is nothing else but me, the car, the song, the road. I drive faster, I turn quicker, my heart beats with the song and everything is perfect. At that moment, nothing else matters. Where I'm going, where I'm coming from, who I will see when I get there, what I will hear or say are all not important to me at this time. Just me, the car, the song, the road. That is what matters right now. I pull up to my destination. Park. The song ends, I get out of the car. Music no longer fills my car, my heart, or my mind. The sounds of real life and its everyday movement come back to me and I lose all feeling of carelessness, invincibility and genuine happiness.
To me, that is a realization. Life is not always your favorite song blasting out of your car stereo. Life is stepping out of the car into the real world and letting go of the feelings inside you wish you could have all day- everyday; feelings that no one will hurt you, nothing can bother you, life is good.
In high school my best friend, Julie, and I would rush to her house after school. Plop our books on the floor and pick out a CD that best fit our mood. No matter what kind of day we had, there was always a CD to make it better. Family problems? Pantera will fix that. Boyfriend problems? How about Faith No More. Want to feel depressed? Type O Negative is the answer. Want to be goofy? How about some oldies. We danced when we wanted to be happy, we moped when we wanted to be lazy, we laid with our feet at opposite ends of each others bodies when we wanted to stair at the ceiling and ponder life's questions like; why are my parents so annoying? If a concert were coming up, we would listen to that band for weeks prior to the show. This was life. These were important things to us. Death only existed in the movies. Real problems were having to be home by 11 when everyone else could stay out past 12. Watching another best friend go through the hardest thing a person could possibly ever do was not in my plans, anywhere for the rest of my life.
It's July 20, 2006. It's warm, not hot. I bought a white button-up shirt and black dress pants. I cannot remember what I wore on my feet. I am nervous. I do not know what to expect. I have never been to a funeral like this before. The only funeral I had ever been to was actually 5 months before and that was for my great grandmother. We knew she was dying. There was no way around it. That is what happens. People grow old, get sick, suffer a little, and die. This was unreal. This was not an old person. This was not someone who had lived a fulfilling life with family and friends that cared. Only 6 out of 30 people at the funeral had actually met the deceased. I was not one of those six.
My best friend Alicia is nervous. She plays with her hair, pulls on her hands, walks around talking to people in front of the church, watching the cars drive by, pull up, park. She tries to socialize with her family and her husband's family. I watch her. I watch the cars. I watch the two families mingle with each other knowing that most of them had never heard of each other never mind spoken to each other before this day. I wait. She introduces me to her mother. She is not what I had pictured. She is an extraordinarily short woman, thin legs, slightly heavier on the top, but not overweight. She smokes like a chimney. Her boney fingers keep reaching into her pack and lighting up a new, long cigarette. Her teeth are paying for her habit, as is her hair, nails and skin. However, I am not here to criticize my best friends mother. Despite the fact that this woman, and practically everyone but those six specific people and myself, had not been a steady part of Alicia¡¯s life until 18 days ago, I am not here to criticize. I am here for moral support. I am here to learn about reality and I do not realize it yet.
The funeral directors black Chrysler pulls up. Everyone gets quiet. In the back seat is the casket, about 2 and half, 3 feet long. Tiny. Caskets should not be that small, life is so much bigger than that. Alicia's uncle opens the back door, reaches in and pulls the casket out. One person lifting a casket? That is not the way a funeral is supposed to go. A hearse should have arrived. The back should have been opened and it should have taken four people to carry the casket out because inside lies a grown person, old enough to die, old enough to have lived, not an infant. This is not the way things are supposed to happen.
I remember when Alicia told me that something was wrong. The doctors realized in an ultrasound that a valve in the baby's heart was not developed. She cried, I listened. Babies do not die, she should not worry. When he is born, they will know what to do and he will be ok. That is how I thought life was supposed to be. Instead, Carter was born on July 2, 2006, the same day my then boyfriend and I decided to buy a puppy that would lead to great financial problems and a whole lot of aggravation. I could not tell you how much he weighed or how long he was. I asked, I knew, but I do not know anymore. I do not remember. Carter went through four surgeries on his heart. From the time he was born until the time he died, there was nothing but sad phone calls and waiting. I was in New Jersey , they were in Virginia being pregnant, worrying and going into labor. I was in New Jersey ; they were heading to Washington D.C. where a specialist would work on Carter. I was in New Jersey , they were on their way to New Jersey to plan a funeral. All this in 18 short days. Eighteen days is not enough time to make any serious life altering decisions such as what do I want do for the rest of my life? Should I ask my girlfriend or boyfriend to marry me? Do I want to have kids? Should I ever get married? Life altering questions with life altering answers that vary from person to person. These questions take a LIFEtime to be answered. In eighteen days, my life, and the lives of everyone that was involved would be changed directly or indirectly.
The mass was in a church five blocks from my house. I was baptized, made my communion and confirmation there. My parents got married there. I am not religious. I do not know where I stand in religion. I have struggle with this for years, nothing has changed and I am still at a standstill on the subject. This occurrence did not push me closer to God, if He exists, that is for damn sure.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
Personal Essay-Memoir
Personal Essay- A story or paper on a topic that means something to you, not necessarily something life altering or dramatic, just something that has a personal meaning that you may have come to fully understand or are still trying to figure out. A story about your life, your past, your present, your thoughts on something meaningful to you.
Memoir- A memory, what you felt when it happened, how you feel now, what it has to do with your life now, what it had to do with your life then, comparison to other times in life or situations in life. The past.
Memoir- A memory, what you felt when it happened, how you feel now, what it has to do with your life now, what it had to do with your life then, comparison to other times in life or situations in life. The past.
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