I find the idea of having to experiment with and get to know our characters through description and dialogue, getting a little more insight into our characters` purposes and inner yearnings every step of the way, very helpful. This is hard because when I first sit down to write, I often times believe that I can create a character all at once in mind and then have the events and especially the dialogue conform to my preconceived ideas about these people and get everything right the first time around. This ends up handing me somewhat shallow characters.
The things that people say and do in different situations and with different people throughout a timeline accumulate to reveal a character. Only then once we have zoomed in closer and with more material can we get to a truer identity. I don`t like the thought of having to go back a couple of pages and change some things now that after three scenes I am starting to see the true character of this player in my world, and maybe I won`t always have to. But, I think this process in general will help give me better understanding of how my characters will actually speak and react with people and events in the story. It is almost as if we need to live with these characters through some experiences, childhood, as they grow up and into who they actually were before we can recognize them in action. Specifically regarding dialogue, I believe this might be my most neglected aspect of writing. Usually everyone talks fairly similarly and they all sound too much like me. I tend not to give them a fair shake at becoming themselves. They become my puppets. Maybe I need to live with them a little longer in rough drafts.
Where are you going?
i loved it! then again it reminded me of one of my favorite shows from when i was a kid, tales from the dark side. i also like the twilight zone, tales form the crypt, creep show and so on. is it real? is it alien? is it demon? is it from the future? is it from the past? timeless? universal? what is it!?!?! love the mystery. love the description. i thought it was great when vincent d'onofrio put on the edgar suit in men in black. so when his face looked like a mask, "running out as if he had plastered make-up on his face but had forgotten about his throat" p. 9 - i was eating it up. then again when "one of his boots was at a strange angle, as if his foot wasn't in it. it pointed out to the left, bent at the ankle" p. 10, although it made the bones in my feet hurt, i couldn't wait to read more. i found my own breath quickening with connie's as the story moved forward, not sure what to think. i'm still not sure what to think. i liked the ending though, i do enjoy endings where the 'not good guy' wins. i'm not sure what arnold friend was for sure, i had a few guesses along the way, but after the ending, none of them seemed to fit quite right. i was left feeling a little uneasy, but then again i was probably supposed to feel that way so i guess that's a good thing.
Oh, Joy
Well, well... There certainly are a number of interesting devices employed by O'Connor in "Good Country People:" the shifting 3rd person POV, the repetition of the titular (up to & including the climactic moment) & the variety of platitudes spoken through the piece. That is just to name a few. I’ll choose to focus on the Christian overtones & their relation to the Joy/Hulga character. I would say the work is an indictment of one of two things: Christianity itself or hubris. Obviously there is an air of alienation, a sense of detached superiority felt by Joy (as henceforth I shall refer to her, as the other name makes me want to vomit up the pork chops I had for dinner). The argument could be made that Joy lost her spirituality when she lost her leg. In a metaphorical sense, she has substituted her wooden leg for her soul (see p.13) & without it she reclaims the ability to actually feel (p. 14) rather than simply intellectualize experience. She lost any opportunity to experience “joy” when she changed her name & fled to atheism. The pities those who choose to believe, thinking of them as simple minded, as children. She openly rejects the concepts of God & Jesus, thereby displaying unrepentant hubris. Thus, her humiliation @ the end might be the punishment of a mildly vengeful higher being. More likely, in my opinion is a disparaging of the Christian faith. The bible salesman is taken at his word because he is spreading the good word. He is then revealed to be not only “good country people” (by his own admission), but also a man in direct contrast to Christian values. He hides the tools of his secret (we read that word often) work within the bible itself. I have to say that I saw the twist coming, although I expected a significantly bloodier climax. Also, it is only after Joy relinquishes her wooden leg, perhaps momentarily questioning her atheism, that she is debased. Now this could be a “false prophet” moment or it could be “wolf in sheep’s clothing”/”sell your soul (wooden leg) to the devil situation, but I prefer to interpret the meaning in a more stoic & jaded manner. If Joy had stuck to her guns, if she had trusted all that she had learned & leaned on the skepticism that she evolved through her life, then she could have avoided the new trauma that came to pass. As Joy says, “(Love i)s not a word I use,” nor should she. For as Joy elucidates after staring off into the “hollow sky,” We are all damned.” Thank you, Joy, for proving your point. I would love to be more polished & verbose, but the witching hour beckons & I don’t want to be late. Cheers. -e
off topic... not related to classwork
for those who blog, who host it? or rather where do you put it?
i have one at wordpress but i'm curiouswhat others use.
i have one at wordpress but i'm curiouswhat others use.
Good Country People
I think a big part of Good Country People was the irony in the story as well as the bluntness in how the characters were named and what their personalities were like. The irony comes with primarily Joy, who is far from joyful and has her name changed to Hulga which is certainly fitting to her character who is described as ugly inside and out. This, spun with a need for a late in life teenage rebellion, leads one to believe that Hulga is unwilling to become the joyful daughter than Hopewell wants and instead becomes obsessed with existentialism. Mrs. Freeman is also named correctly due to her inability to stop talking. Lastly, Mrs. Hopewell is named due to her hope that her daughter will change and there are still good country folk in the world. The irony comes from the relationship with Hulga and the bible boy. Although Hulga considers herself to be highly intelligent she is easily swayed into giving up her leg to a guy named Manley (although he is skinny and described to be puny), only to be left stranded in the loft of the barn. I think a large part of the story deals with Hulga assuming that Manley is a good country boy and therefore simple without intelligence. What she finds out however is that due to her stereotyping and tendency to think about people a certain way, she is left to be the one manipulated by a country boy who ends up being smarter than her in a way.
I really enjoyed this story because it deals with the stereotypes that we all have stored up due to our experiences with the world. In one way stereotypes are valid in that they help us catagorize things into groups for easy recall, but on the other hand, stereotyping leads us to ignore the differences within members of the outgroup and therefore misunderstanding situations... which is exactly what happens in this story
I really enjoyed this story because it deals with the stereotypes that we all have stored up due to our experiences with the world. In one way stereotypes are valid in that they help us catagorize things into groups for easy recall, but on the other hand, stereotyping leads us to ignore the differences within members of the outgroup and therefore misunderstanding situations... which is exactly what happens in this story
Short Short - Old Ben
I have real trouble with coherence in stories. I don't know what it is, but I always descend into abstractions. I'd really love it if people could tell me what they think happens in this story, whether or not they find it coherent, and if not, where do things get confusing? Also, what's good?
"Old Ben"
Working, fatigued, Old Ben, his soot-stained hands thumping black, purring flies from his long old man’s face. Fwap! The underground air is damp and splinters wherever Old Ben’s hands will go. Bop! Never does he tire. Hwuhp! Flaky, streaking swipes of smudgy black soot leaving prints on his forehead, right cheek, under his left eye, his chestnut red beard colored faintly by settling flecks of old coal dandruff, his blackening expression bringing out polished green-grey eyes in the glowing carbide lamps. Whap! Strong hands. Swinging mechanically. Thwump!
Old Ben’s bride-to-be, a lovely, if somewhat mushy eighty-three year old ex-baroness and a self-proclaimed, though undocumented former The Price is Right champion, a witch who has forgotten herself, and a curious old thing she is, rises feebly from her chair to attend to breakfast, which she intends to hand-feed to Old Ben, her someday husband. The bride looks not so indistinguishable, insofar as a physique oriented adjectival attribution system could qualify, standing from her seat, than does a soggy waffle. Perhaps it’s coincidental, or sheer luck on Old Ben’s part, that his two favorite things in the world – his soggy, frail mistress and soggy breakfast foods – are about to come into conjunction, the painted yellow kitchen a pulsating uterus, minutes from birthing heaven itself.
“Run that waffle under some warm tap water, harpy.” Old Ben’s peppery voice is deep, demanding, and crunchy. “Bitch, what about these flies?” Whack! “This cave is hardly lit!” Fwump!
“Doonn’t hurt yuurself, Bennjimin,” her trembling, crackling, sputtering voice barely reaches Old Ben’s busy ears. She’s practically drooling, her lips as squashy as Ben likes.
Looking up to address her, and seeing his soon-to-be bride holding a flimsy golden waffle, Ben is elated, grabs a jar of his favorite jam to spread on his waffle, but then sees or hears a fly, warbling, buzzing about the kitchen, and the fly, which he has to kill, having landed on his waffle, has him in a real fit. Ben’s eyes scan, frantically, the kitchen for the swatter. No luck. Frustration, among rage, among mental untidiness and an irresponsible caretaker lead Ben, uncontrollably, to pounce on his soon was-to-be bride, raging arms. Thunk! Bop! Hwoosh! Pow!
“Don’t” – smack! – ”confuse identity” – whamp! – “with form” she is soggy minded, indeed. Casts a spell. “Wiggly biggly boo” – . . . – “Bennji” – . . . – . . . – . . . – Splat!
“Ha ha!” victoriously. “Where’s that waffle?” It lay, bleeding, on the black-white checkered kitchen floor, unmoving, saturated. Old Ben, standing on his strong hind legs, witnesses the consequence of his actions. Two dead, soggy old things, though he couldn’t quite make out their precise shapes, must be some cavers, died of starvation, or flies, which are wicked, which currently swarm over the bodies.
Nyuuurrg!!! Flies! Old Ben, running, through one cave corridor and then through the next, jumps into a small, dimly lit pond for safety, waiting until the flies cleared out. He dips his head under water, reemerges merrily and sings:
The inland sea is an old man’s home,
Those black buzzing fucks,
Submerged, submerged,
Would die, would die
Sam, Old Ben’s caretaker, unlocks the front door and finds all the lights out, and flicks on the kitchen light, and there is cranberry jam spread over the kitchen floor. Old Ben is in the bathtub with a chubby and two butter knives. Zyprexa, Thorazine, high doses, Ben swallows, takes a short nap on the couch and cleans the kitchen of jam when he wakes.
"Old Ben"
Working, fatigued, Old Ben, his soot-stained hands thumping black, purring flies from his long old man’s face. Fwap! The underground air is damp and splinters wherever Old Ben’s hands will go. Bop! Never does he tire. Hwuhp! Flaky, streaking swipes of smudgy black soot leaving prints on his forehead, right cheek, under his left eye, his chestnut red beard colored faintly by settling flecks of old coal dandruff, his blackening expression bringing out polished green-grey eyes in the glowing carbide lamps. Whap! Strong hands. Swinging mechanically. Thwump!
Old Ben’s bride-to-be, a lovely, if somewhat mushy eighty-three year old ex-baroness and a self-proclaimed, though undocumented former The Price is Right champion, a witch who has forgotten herself, and a curious old thing she is, rises feebly from her chair to attend to breakfast, which she intends to hand-feed to Old Ben, her someday husband. The bride looks not so indistinguishable, insofar as a physique oriented adjectival attribution system could qualify, standing from her seat, than does a soggy waffle. Perhaps it’s coincidental, or sheer luck on Old Ben’s part, that his two favorite things in the world – his soggy, frail mistress and soggy breakfast foods – are about to come into conjunction, the painted yellow kitchen a pulsating uterus, minutes from birthing heaven itself.
“Run that waffle under some warm tap water, harpy.” Old Ben’s peppery voice is deep, demanding, and crunchy. “Bitch, what about these flies?” Whack! “This cave is hardly lit!” Fwump!
“Doonn’t hurt yuurself, Bennjimin,” her trembling, crackling, sputtering voice barely reaches Old Ben’s busy ears. She’s practically drooling, her lips as squashy as Ben likes.
Looking up to address her, and seeing his soon-to-be bride holding a flimsy golden waffle, Ben is elated, grabs a jar of his favorite jam to spread on his waffle, but then sees or hears a fly, warbling, buzzing about the kitchen, and the fly, which he has to kill, having landed on his waffle, has him in a real fit. Ben’s eyes scan, frantically, the kitchen for the swatter. No luck. Frustration, among rage, among mental untidiness and an irresponsible caretaker lead Ben, uncontrollably, to pounce on his soon was-to-be bride, raging arms. Thunk! Bop! Hwoosh! Pow!
“Don’t” – smack! – ”confuse identity” – whamp! – “with form” she is soggy minded, indeed. Casts a spell. “Wiggly biggly boo” – . . . – “Bennji” – . . . – . . . – . . . – Splat!
“Ha ha!” victoriously. “Where’s that waffle?” It lay, bleeding, on the black-white checkered kitchen floor, unmoving, saturated. Old Ben, standing on his strong hind legs, witnesses the consequence of his actions. Two dead, soggy old things, though he couldn’t quite make out their precise shapes, must be some cavers, died of starvation, or flies, which are wicked, which currently swarm over the bodies.
Nyuuurrg!!! Flies! Old Ben, running, through one cave corridor and then through the next, jumps into a small, dimly lit pond for safety, waiting until the flies cleared out. He dips his head under water, reemerges merrily and sings:
The inland sea is an old man’s home,
Those black buzzing fucks,
Submerged, submerged,
Would die, would die
Sam, Old Ben’s caretaker, unlocks the front door and finds all the lights out, and flicks on the kitchen light, and there is cranberry jam spread over the kitchen floor. Old Ben is in the bathtub with a chubby and two butter knives. Zyprexa, Thorazine, high doses, Ben swallows, takes a short nap on the couch and cleans the kitchen of jam when he wakes.
How Do I Write?.
I consider myself to be a mediocre writer. As in mediocre, i mean average, good, but not great. I'm able to get my idea across, but I have a hard time coming up with ideas. So somewhat like Trevor and Sonya, I use images to give me an idea. But instead of using photos, I draw pictures, or use my old paintings to create a story or an idea. More then likely I'll get writers block if I can't come up with a characters name. Unlike Trevor, I don't use numbers, because I like to create characters based of people I've encountered. I'l create the character off the past experience of the person or sometimes of how I think the characters' life may be.
Sharde R. Pratt
Sharde R. Pratt
How Do I Write?
This piece gave me a fair insight into my own writing process, granted when I do write on my own time. Usually it is late on a weekend or pending on the week week night. I would normally be having something to drink to gain what little bit of courage I have to push down on the keys of my computer and compose a cognitive thought. In the morning I look over what I had done the night before, and usually it looks as if I'm venting out of necessity or there is simply gibberish smeared all over my computer screen. I was able to relate to Sonja Huber when she spoke of taking pictures and forming ideas based on the pictures, I am the same way more or less. I use music to trigger sensations, feelings, and memories that I might have otherwise lost, in a way I suppose that this could be viewed as a form of stealing from an artist, but it's what I do. I've been working on a screenplay for about the past year. In no way would I consider myself to be a writer, more specifically a fiction writer. I like the idea of telling stories, I love that, I just don't care to make the mistake that other people would find my writing to be interesting, so at times I force myself to change parts of my stories to make them more enjoyable for the poor soul that had stumbled upon them. So in that light I suppose I could see myself as a writer of fiction, not a good one, but I only do this to not hurt the ones I write about, out of respect of those who do not know that they are being written about. If I can't name a character I become stuck, so in most instances I number characters in order to avoid my mental block. Then again this is exactly why I am in this class, to force myself to write, which sounds bad, but trust me, it's for the best.