Friday's "Discovery"

When one endeavors to "discover the self" through the type of post I made below (on Friday), then he (or she) had better get it right. And by getting it right, I mean writing honestly and truthfully, because if you avoid the truth, your audience will sense it practically every time. (Which makes me wonder how Washington Post reporter Janet Cooke actually got away with it. But we'll leave that for another time.)

It's not that the post is deliberately dishonest or ignores the "truth." What it is, is an example of not being honest or truthful enough. As I read it over a second time, I can see that there are (unintentional) omissions that, in a reverse sort of way, act as the sort of self-serving nonsense that can really alienate a reader. And there are other problems too. So let's take a closer look; some revision is in order.

That bit about "a pile of charred remains" in an early paragraph. That's got to go. Sounds like something Stephen King made up in his salad days. But........since it's Saturday and I'm feeling more self-deprecatory than usual, I think I'll leave it in there, and only as a reminder that humility is also necessary for "honest," "truthful" writing. Now to continue...

Note where I wrote, "...I did regret one person was not there to share my birthday with me, even for just a hour or a half-hour -- That person is my daughter." Stop right there.......Now a reader would be justified in asking, why so short a time for a visit? Why just an hour or a half-hour? Okay. That's a fair question. Wanna hear the answer? Good, then here it is....Because that just might probably be the total amount of time we can stand to feel comfortable with each other! Ah, but I left out that little morsel of information, didn't I? Now why was that? Was it because I feared it would spoil the otherwise sombre mood of the piece as a whole? Maybe. But more than likely, I just didn't feel like revealing that much of our relationship at the time the post was written. The point is, I made the choice not to include it. And that's dishonesty through omission.

There are other spots. But I won't belabor the issue; I think you get the point. If you write these sorts of -- what? Outpourings? -- you can not consciously or unconsciously omit the "truth" from your writing. Because your audience won't "get" it, unless you're seeking solace from the gullible. Instead, you'll be on the receiving end of a big Bronx cheer. Deservedly too.

On Not Reflecting

Thus far, this blog contains three separate examples of personal writing observed objectively:

(1) Essay-writing to win a contest prize;
(2) Essay-writing to be published in a newspaper (where the author is employed);
(3) Essay-writing as a sample for a college's admissions office.

Three separate purposes. So, I guess it's my turn. Well then, here goes. (And I don't even know my purpose yet.)

Yesterday was my birthday. How old am I? The answer is of small consequence. Let's put it this way: if I baked a cake and stuck in the number of candles required to designate my age, then my place of residence might possibly be a pile of charred remains this morning.

Yesterday, I received no presents, no cards, no calls. Absolutely nothing from no one. But I did not mind. It was my birthday. I was left alone. Well, almost. But I did not mind terribly the e-mailed memorandum from my place of employment telling me that I had neglected to turn in a personal information form at the start of term. That was easy to take care of; in fact, they were very nice about it. They suspected it was all a mistake in paperwork due to a "transition" in the office team.

Yet there was nothing special about yesterday...except for the fact that I did regret one person was not there to share my birthday with me, even for just a hour or a half-hour -- That person is my daughter. My daughter, whom I have not seen in three years.

Actually, the last I had heard about her was in early 2006, when her mother phoned me up at school and told me that my "little girl" had been using her high-school graduation present, a new Izusu, to transport loads of methamphetamine for her boy friend. In fact, she was sampling some of the merchandise herself.

Her mother and I are separated; and customarily, we never communicate with one another. That's the way we prefer it. But on this rare occasion, her mother deemed the situation serious enough for her to call. And yet she knew that if my daughter discovered that I had been informed of what she had done, it would shame her no end. Thus, I did not do what I probably should have done; rushed right over to have a talk with my daughter -- even while she was still speeding. Instead, I did not do a thing, based on the recommendation of her mother that I should feign ignorance of the affair.

Yet, why did she call with this news of my daughter? Why did she feel it necessary for me to know -- and then to say, "but don't tell her I told you so?" What was this? A game? Yet at the time, I was too surprised and disappointed to even consider such possibilities. I was in no mood to reflect.

How convenient to be told that your daughter's screwing up her life; and then told afterwards that it's okay to ignore it, based upon even more convenient reasoning.

I have not seen my daughter in over 3 years. Maybe I don't deserve to see her. Maybe I deserve birthdays in which aloneness is both apprecitated and despaired.

The rough part is my inability to experience any guilt over my own complacency. Even now, I feel no anguish over my decision to accept her mother's recommendation. But I did. And I feel no remorse.

I only feel cold.

So happy birthday to me.

From the Land of 10,000 Lakes

Anne Van De Veer, 16, won a $100 worth of gifts for this entry in an essay contest sponsored by something called Teens Against Dating Abuse. (I don't take lightly the apparent purpose of this something, merely the multiple references suggested by the object of the preposition.)

In her essay Miss Van De Veer confesses:

Now I’m 16; still pretty young and not very experienced in dating relationships. But I do know something about love. I know what love isn’t.

Right. And I know something about Timbuktu...because I have never been there. But leaving aside this bit of Palinesque logic (in honor of the candidate from Alaska who knows all about Russia because she can see it outside her window), one can glance further down Anne's essay and realize that she's at least trying to get at something:

If the person you love has a sense of humor and teases you, that’s fine, but I feel that real love is seeing the line, and staying away from it. When the teasing is too much, and it perhaps turns mean, then they’ve crossed a highly important line. Then it’s no longer funny and the relationship isn’t as healthy as it ought to be. Teasing in a hurting way is not really love...

...Love is kindness, honesty, forgiveness, differences, imperfections, and disagreements. However, we are blessed with the ability to love infinitely.

But, hey! What do I know about love?

Probably more than I know, Anne dearest. I reached the Age of Indifference long ago.

After the Storm

The Houston Chronicle has been publishing a series of "personal essays" on survivors of Hurricane Ike. These creative entries serve as riveting recordings of what, for many, will become a red-letter date in Golden Triangle history.

This essay mourns the damage to a large acreage of gardens planted by Houston's famed benefactor, Ima Hogg (1882-1975).



"A city abhors the darkness. When we light up the night we can walk on the sidewalk with no fear."

Thus concludes David Kaplan in his selection on how one city pub has discovered for itself (and its patrons) a suddent, quiet ambience:

...Normally, the place is more of a sports bar, with games blaring on multiple TVs, he said. Working at a noisy sports bar night after night can wear you down, he said. On this night, though, the people were not as loud and "weren't acting up as much," John said. He felt like he was still on vacation. Behind the bar, Jesi and Charlotte served beer. Their faces glowed from candlelight. They could have been 17th-century waitresses. In Ike's wake, there was a feeling here at the bar: This is all we're left with, and this is all we need...

Two other essays in this series are linked below.
Glory, With Flick of Switch
Unplugged, and Oh, So Uneasy

The authors are city-desk and staff reporters, but here they respond to the challenge of injecting the personal into their otherwise just-the-facts style of composing. And they are more than up to the task.

Strictly Business

Personal essays are fine and dandy....for Freshman Comp 101. But not if you're trying to crash the college scene in the first place. So says this Boston College professor and part-time advice-columnist.

"Hi. I'm Ron...Dr. Fletcher to you.
I teach personal essay-writing at B.C. and publish an advice column on the side...Dr. Phil's got nuthin' on me!"
Quoth he:

Each year I've had to walk a fine line with students who've wanted to write about intimate matters, such as discovering their true sexual orientation or revealing a struggle with depression. I applaud their courage and candor, but ask that they step back and consider the audience and objective of the college essay.

Tales of besting adversity can work well. Tales of existential despair, however, can appear as a red flag to admissions committees, many of which are increasingly concerned about their prospective students' state of mind.

And in this era of Columbine and Virginia Tech, one can see why.

Thus, Fletcher warns, if you wanna wow the powers-that-be and show the big-shots in Admissions that your wonderful writing can move mountains more forcefully than a California earthquake, then you better wait till you sign up for his class. Until then, cool it and keep it strictly impersonal.