LITR 3731: Creative Writing
Student Journal / Portfolio Sample Submission 2005

Micah Goff

05 May 2005

Introduction

Why does someone write?  For me, that is like asking why the heart beats or how do you cry.  There is really no answer, other than it just happens when it is supposed to.  For some writing is a safe place, a world where it is easy to get what is inside out.  For others, writing becomes a tool to capture the stories of the everyday occurrences that distinguish one day from the next. For me, writing is a means of harnessing the overflow of thought and emotion that erupts in the forefront and nether regions of my mind. 

I enrolled in Creative Writing because I wanted to take a more metered approach in my writing.  I was hoping that I might be forced to stretch myself, to do something I had never previously considered, to transcend the work I had previously done.  With this in mind, I established some parameters to govern my experience in the class.  The first parameter was that I would submit new work only. I just didn’t see any purpose for turning in something that had been created at another time, in another place. 

            The next parameter that I established was to write when it was right.  I wanted to discover the creative process that worked for me.  I found that inspiration came to me sporadically.  Sometimes I would lie in bed at night and have the feeling that something was inside of me that needed to be captured.  At other times, writing was a more disciplined endeavor.  I found that the most important part of the creative process for me was to have a clear and definite goal for which to aim.  I discovered that the work I was most satisfied in was the pieces I had been thinking about most intensely. 

            The third parameter that I establish was to keep a positive attitude. I realize that I am no James Joyce, not even Larry Burkett for that matter, but the point was to create something authentic.  However, authenticity is difficult to capture when swimming in the seas of negativity.  I can honestly say that I didn’t gripe or complain about the class or any of the assignments during the semester. I believe that attempting to maintain a positive mind frame best served my purpose exploring creative writing.

            I feel that committing to these standards throughout the creative writing class helped me to improve my writing.  I also feel that as a result of the class I have become a more capable writer. Hopefully, my writing will continue to improve as a result of the new viewpoints I have come to understand by participating in the workshop.

            During the class, we focused on poetry, short fiction, and drama.  I enjoyed each segment of the class but I found myself exploring different realms of the writing world in between assignments.  As a result, I’ve been able to put together a few pieces of creative non-fiction.  I’ve delved into songwriting and I’ve tried writing a few pieces for mass media focusing on advertisements, jingles, and public service announcements.  I feel that my involvement in the class has helped me considerably in each of these endeavors—primarily, that if I just stick with it and keep writing, eventually things will turn out the way I’d hoped them to.

            I’ve included accounts of poetry, fiction, and drama submissions that have comprised the course load for the semester. Hopefully the submissions demonstrate my progression as a writer; however, I feel that the most significant progress that I’ve made this semester has not taken place on paper, but in my mind.

Poetry

A Simple Sonnet

A simple sonnet cannot capture,

With word or rhythmic rhyme,

The depth of heartfelt rapture,

In the morning of our time,

The warmth of daylight breaking,

Still present when apart,

Tenfold and ever-waking,

In stillness of the heart,

At rest or in the rising,

As twilight hour fades,

This chasm’s aggrandizing,

Dissolves at light of day,

For lips may barely whisper of wellsprings in the heart,

Before you look inside me and cast your maker’s mark.

Draft 1

A sonnet cannot capture

with word or rhythmic rhyme

the depth of heartfelt rapture

in the morning of our time

The warmth at daylights breaking,

still present when apart

tenfold and ever waking

in stillness of the heart

at rest or in the rising,

as twilights hour fades

this chasms aggrandizing

dissolves at light of day

for lips may barely whisper of wellsprings in the heart,

before you look inside me and cast your maker’s mark.

GERM

A sonnet cannot capture,

with word or rhythmic rhyme

the depth of heartfelt rapture

in the morning of our time.

In sentimental reasons,

at the very thought of you,

the songbird changes seasons

with notes both strange and true

Account of Development

In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God and not me.  That is to say, writing this poem was a bit more difficult than I thought it would be. I chose to write a traditional sonnet because it seemed challenging, and the majority of the class had submitted free verse poetry. I also chose the sonnet because I intended the poem to be a Valentine’s gift and was quite certain that my laborious linguistic effort would be appreciated much more than a generic card purchased from my local grocer. By choosing the sonnet, I forced myself to commit to a prescribed rhyme scheme, which was interesting and challenging because I like structure about as much as a fat kid likes wearing husky pants. At first, my intention was to craft a response to a very famous sonnet in which the opening line would have been, “I shall not compare thee to a summer’s day”; however, this did not strike me as a very prudent endeavor, so I chose to pursue a slightly more original line of thought. For me, sonnets are almost always about love, or at least the more memorable ones are, so I did not deviate from that theme in the creation of my poem.

It was important for me to attempt the usage of various literary devices throughout the poem. For instance, in the opening lines I chose to use alliteration by employing phrases like simple sonnet, with word, and rhythmic rhyme. I employed slant rhyme by pairing fades with day and heart with mark. I also tried to create a poem that had a very definite meter, almost to the point of being cadenced, without falling victim to a hokey sing-song rhythm. 

I emailed a draft of the poem to a few of the other writers participating in our workshop and received assuring comments concerning the piece. As a result of the conversations I shared, it seemed unnecessary to do a major overhaul; however, it did seem that the poem would be significantly improved by switching from the plural form to the singular form in a couple of spots. There were also a few questions concerning usage, particularly in reference to the words rapture and aggrandizing. Nevertheless, I chose not to revise because I like the way the word rapture conveys the idea of being lifted up and carried away. The word aggrandizing also seemed very fitting and appropriate to me, so I respectfully declined the advice.  

I guess the real question is, “What is the poem about?”  Well, love, I guess. I wanted to capture the way people feel at the very beginning of a relationship, before you even begin to notice the water that flows beneath the bridge. I tried to describe the way it feels to sleep so closely next to someone that you have difficulty knowing where you begin and they end. I hoped only to capture something true—something that was a fair representation of what love may feel like for any particular person at any particular time.  

Short Fiction

Excerpt from The Clergyman

Delbert W. Dunghauser sat silently straining upon a carefully cleaned commode. Curiously faint, he noticed the odd coloration of the grout before his face crashed down upon the dirty tile.  The swelling over his right eye masked the hairline fractures that lay beneath the rapidly forming red and purple knots that marked his banged up brow.  His chin slid loosely upon the reddening tile, as his body jerked and bobbed in complete synchronicity with the rise and fall of the bare brown heel that violently beat down upon him.  The floor, a bloody testament of anger unrestrained, provided clear evidence of the beating laid upon Delbert by the three hundred and twenty three pound Samoan named Frank.

While Delbert laboriously raised himself to his hands and knees, the pudgy Samoan bluntly drove his fat brown knee into the small of his back.  Too weak to fight back, Delbert concentrated only on pushing the blood from his mouth to keep from choking.  For a moment, he looked at himself in the dark red pool of blood that lay beneath him on the gritty, urine-covered floor.  His eyes quickly shot to the reflection cast in the dim light of the restroom.  The light bounced off the misshapen line of his brow to the concave profile of his face, as the menacing Samoan stood laughing in the doorway of the plywood bathroom stall.  Delbert’s heavy gaze furtively fell to Frank’s fat feet, while he wondered if the blood soaked denim that clung tightly to Frank’s fat shins were any indication of the shape he was in.  He looked once more to the dark red pool, but his eyes failed him. 

Momentarily, Delbert heard the fat brown feet slide upon the gritty floor.  He heard the fat Samoan’s ankle pop as his weight shifted, and Delbert braced himself for the explosion that was sure to follow as the dirty brown heel came to rest between his head and neck, driving his face back down to the floor.  Delbert’s swollen purple lips shielded the bloody gums that lay behind as his face came to rest once more on the piss-marked and bloody floor.

Moments later, Delbert felt like the captain of a sinking ship.  He found himself face to face with the frailty of human life, as he lay in a pool of his own blood on the floor of the men’s room. Delbert lay completely still, floating between life and death, not quite here and not quite gone.  Then, for the first time in his life, Delbert made a conscious decision to continue breathing.  With every breath he grew stronger and more determined to rise from the bloody floor.

Suddenly, Delbert lunged forward, grabbing fat Frank’s leg and clinging to it with all his might.  He heard thunderous explosions as the Samoan’s heel peppered the numb area around his spine.  Undeterred, Delbert reached for Frank’s belt and began to pull himself up.  With his face buried in the sweat-laden inseam that floated above the fat Samoan’s crotch, Delbert tried desperately to hold the smelly Samoans wide waist with the hope of shielding himself from absorbing the fiercely directed knees that robbed him of the air within his lungs.  When he began to feel the Samoan’s knee hitting him in the groin, he knew that he was standing.  In an instant, Delbert found himself staring deeply into the dark, cold eyes of the fat Samoan.

  Delbert threw his forehead forward with all his might, disregarding the sound of snapping bone and cartilage as it gave way beneath the crushing blow.  He took a step back and watched as blood spewed from the freshly marred face of his aggressor.  Delbert drove his knee into the fat Samoan’s groin with holy rage, severing a testicle and mocking the vas deferens that lay broken between him and Frank. 

 The orange lights lit up the parking lot as Delbert stumbled to his car. Their beams illuminated the dark spots of blood that marked his every step and accentuated the angular deformities that plagued his new face.  He thought of the fat Samoan as he had left him—perfectly still.  He nervously checked the rearview mirror as the flashing lights screamed past him like rockets in the night. 

Delbert stumbled through the doorway of his tattered apartment only to stagger down the hallway and find himself again in the bathroom.  As he pulled back the clear curtain and stepped into the steamy shower, hot water swept across his numb body, reddening the skin that showed beyond the wounds he carefully washed. Unsure if he could handle one more fall, Delbert W. Dunghauser leaned heavily upon the shower wall and watched as the red tide slowly dissipated in the drain beneath him.

2.

His feet shuffled slowly as he made his way down the long, dark aisle. He approached the casket, unsure of what the body would look like. He looked down at the swollen head, the face almost distorted by the trauma.

“Is that really his head?” she asked.

“Yes,” he sullenly said.

She pressed against him as a flood of tears poured from her eyes, masking her intention and drawing the attention of all around. His body stiffened, and he pushed her away without acting. No arm around her, or even an acknowledgement of her presence, other than the words that passed between them. Eventually, she would saunter off, try to take advantage of someone else’s grief, maybe even get herself knocked up by someone who didn’t live in a trailer. 

He could care less. He stood in silence, like time was stopping. He stared at the mahogany box and noticed the way the light rested on the wood before spilling into the coffin.  He felt the rough grain of the cloth that lay just beyond the casket’s edge.  He felt the way that death had hardened his chest and shoulders and noticed the way his hands looked like they were glued together.

A few days’ stubble still present on his chin, he looked down and noted that the only thing that looked natural was his neck. He looked again to the swollen head that lay in the casket; it was like someone had used an air pump to add about twenty pounds of pressure per square inch.

“They could have shaved him.”

“Yeah” he whispered, the words caught between his throat and his tongue. 

“I don’t understand…” he heard nothing else for a while. He just stood there, lost somehow. He turned and walked away. He sat down slowly, choosing a pew far away from everyone. He needed to think, to be alone, unhindered by the ignorance of those around him. He placed his forehead in his palms and went away for a little while. The floor was green, dark, because it was covered by shadows. He could hear the sobs and moans; he hated them now. He hated the way everyone suddenly seemed so fake, so phony. To each his own, he thought.

He stood. Silence filled the room, and he could feel the weight of their eyes as they came to rest upon him. He walked. Each step a little slower than the one before, he tried to keep his head, but he felt like something inside him was about to break or come crashing down.

“Are you okay?”

He could feel her breasts against his arm. He paused, unsure of right and wrong. He said nothing and stared at death. His body stiffened, and he stood tall and nudged her away. He placed his hand on the dead, hard chest and let the moment pass. He turned and walked down the long, dark aisle. People bowed their heads, not wanting to look him in the eye. He raised his head, pushed his shoulders back, and made his way quietly out of the chapel.

He passed by the smokers on the way out and made his way to the parking lot. The air was cool and thick. He got in his car and drove, the world a blur as he headed off into the night. Disregarding the small voice inside of him, he went faster and faster. Now was as good a time as any to test death he thought. Faster he went, recklessly rolling all over the road. He finally slowed, just in time to save his life.

The car slid sideways, two and a half lanes where not enough to avoid the collision.  The cattle trailer was heavier than the imagined.  He felt the impact as it exploded against him.  In a moment he heard the gutteral sounds as the cattle painfully moaned.

“God”, he cried. He could smell the dying cattle and feel the blood trickling down his forehead as his eyes closed.  His eyes opened in time to see the red and blue lights bounce across his shattered windshield.  He could feel the warmth of the spotlight as it came to rest upon him.  His car shook as someone tugged and pulled on his door.

The two faces looking down upon him told him not to worry, that everything would be all right and to hang on.  He looked beyond their faces and thought that the sky had never seemed so beautiful. His eyes closed once more.

Manuscript Account

When writing this manuscript I started by visualizing the character, though a physical description is not included, I pictured a wiry red-headed man with a mustache.  Before I could begin, I needed a name.  I’m fond of alliteration, so after a few different ideas, I settled on Delbert W. Dunghauser.  I can’t really explain where the idea came from, except that when I started writing, I sort of got lost in the rhythm of the keyboard as my fingers tapped and glided across it, and when I paused, about half of the introductory scene was written.

            The in class discussion was particularly helpful in further development of the story.  I was hoping for some very specific feedback, primarily, I wanted the class to be able to see what was happening in the story as opposed to just reading about it.  Devon said that she had to quit eating while she was reading the story because of the graphic nature of the piece. While I don’t take any joy in interrupting her breakfast, I was kind of happy to hear that the scene demanded attention.  Mary Kate mentioned that she noticed an underdog theme in the story.  I had not intended this, but it seemed that this theme sort of resonated with those in the classroom.  In hindsight, this theme is probably the driving force behind all of the characters I hope to include in the story. I also let a friend of mine read the piece.  He seemed to enjoy it a bit more than many of the people in the class, that could be because he falls on my side of the he/she divide.  His feedback was interesting because he said that it was like a movie.  In fact, a few days later he showed me some illustrations of the story that he had created. The storyboard that he created was very helpful in the development of further scenes.  I also added an additional scene to the story.  I’ve been to a lot of funerals in the past few years, so I was able to draw upon my memory a bit.  I tried not to sensationalize or over dramatize the scene.  I’ve not had anyone read the addition as of yet, but I’m satisfied with the shape it is beginning to take.

            As for the current status of the project, it is unfinished. I’m hoping to turn the piece into a short story.  Basically, I would like to add a few more characters, each experiencing their own personal calamity and ending up in the same hospital room.  I hope to add more dialogue to the story and hope to add a bit of dark comedy to the piece.  I also intend to build to a climax, an anti-climax really, with a final scene involving a preacher who visits the group. I want to write about things falling apart, about people breaking down and continuing on.

My intention for the story is simply to finish it.  I would like to explore the notion of the anti-hero in some form or fashion.  In my wildest dreams I would like to create a book of character sketches similar to the ones I have offered in the manuscript.  I’m intrigued with the idea of creating a work that is along the lines of Edgar Lee Masters, with a particular interest in creating a social landscape filled with characters of my making.  I’m not really hoping for publication, my only hope is to write a story that I can be proud of and that my friends will enjoy reading.

Drama

For the longest time, I have always had a firmly entrenched stereotype of those in the world of drama.  The stereotype probably started in high school when I noticed that the drama club was filled with effeminate boys who had a slight lisp.  As I grew older and surveyed the makeup of the drama departments in college, I kept seeing more of the same thing.  I began to wonder if masculinity was an abstract principle in the drama world.  The stereotype was further solidified as I learned about Oscar Wilde and Tennessee Williams.  Unfortunately, drama became something I did not wish to embrace.  However, by focusing on drama during the creative writing workshop, I was able to work through these bigoted stereotypes and discover that writing drama was a really enjoyable endeavor.

            My drama started with a hat. I was walking through a resale shop one weekend and I saw a green mesh hat with a cockfighting scene on it.  I began to wonder what kind of person would wear a hat such as this.  So I bought the hat for twenty-five cents and placed the hat on top of my computer monitor to serve as inspiration during the composition of my drama.  While the drama scene was intended to be humorous, one theme that I considered while writing was that of the outsider.

            I thought that it would be interesting to compose a dramatic piece where a character was clearly an outsider, but just didn’t care.  In fact, I wanted the character to thrive on the fact that he or she is not accepted.  However, such a structure would be a little dark for a comedic drama piece so I decided to lighten it up as much as possible while still maintaining the outsider dynamic.

            I wrote the piece in one sitting and did a light edit a day later.  After presenting the piece in class, I received some really good feedback.  One thing the class brought to my attention was that the beginning of the scene was a bit confusing.  The origin of this confusion arose from a question of who wrote the play.  I remedied this problem in the final draft with the addition of the line, “Never ask me to read another one of your stupid plays again.”

            There were also a few concerns with punctuation and grammar.  For instance, after the discussion I changed “it’s” to “its” and the word “passed” to “past”.  There was also a mention of the inclusion of what might be dubbed ‘bathroom humor’.  I considered removing it, however, I’ve not yet attained a level of refinement in which bodily processes do not equal at least a mild chuckle.

            Overall, feedback was fairly positive, however, there are a few changes I’ve yet to make concerning the piece.  I would like to eliminate the instructions for intonation by choosing language that reflects the desired verbal effect.  For instance, instead of writing the word sadly in parenthesis before a line, I would like to use words that are sad to signal what I’m looking for from the reader.  I also want to make the piece a bit sharper and more intelligent. While the drama scene could be better, on the whole, I would say that for a first attempt at writing a drama scene, it was promising.

Drama Scene

Micah Stinks

By

Micah Goff

Concept Sentence:  On the last day of class, students are overcome with frustration and lash out at a student.

Theme Sentence:  Things are often not as they appear and never as bad as they seem.

Cast:

Daniel

Dr. White

Micah

Devon

Bonnie

Alissa

Tara

Mary Kay

Karen

Andrea

Jennifer

Sherry

Daniel:   (Standing, emphatically proclaiming)  And that is why I believe cockfighting should be the new national past time.

(Class Applauds)

Daniel:   (Tosses hat to Micah and sits down)  Here’s your stupid hat. I hope you never ask me to read another one of your stupid plays again.

Dr. White:   Okay, that was…bizarre. Let’s go ahead and open it up to class discussion.  Any comments?

(Daniel raises his hand)

Daniel:   Ooh, ooh, me, me.

Dr. White:  Sure Daniel, what do you have to say?

Daniel:  Look, I have really made an effort to stay positive over the course of this semester, BUT that was quite possibly the worst thing I have ever heard in my entire life. Micah, you have taken horrible to an entirely new level. I’m amazed—really—amazed, that anyone could write something that bad.  Wow.

Micah:   Well thanks Daniel, I really value your opinion.

Bonnie:  I agree with Daniel.  Micah, you should never ever, EVER write another word as long as you live, not even a suicide note, just go ahead and off yourself and let your friends and family fill in the pieces.

Dr. White:  Class, class, this is NOT the direction we need to be going.  Does anyone have any comments of a more constructive nature?

Devon: I really liked the end.

Micah:  Yeah, cockfighting is something I’m really passionate about.  I thought the best way to capture that passion was to end with a monologue. I’m glad that you liked it.

Devon:  No, I meant that I liked the end, when the play was over and no one was talking. That was the best part. You should have started with that.

Micah: Oh.

Mary Kay:  Micah, I was wondering where your inspiration came from. I’ve never really been exposed to cockfighting before, how did you come up with all that stuff?

Micah:  Well, I have this crazy uncle that has been arrested like fifteen times for running cockfighting rings.  He was actually on COPS a few years ago.

Mary Kay:  Really?

Micah:  Yeah, they came to his house and arrested him.  They confiscated his gaffes and took away his chickens.  He was in jail for three years.

Mary:  Really?

Micah:  No.

Alissa:  What are gaffes?

Micah:  Well, they’re like spurs for chickens only they have razor blades attached to them.

Alissa:  Why razor blades?

Micah:  Well, the razor blades kind of speed things up a bit.

Dr. White:  Okay class, let’s try to get back on track here.  Let’s talk about some of the high points in the scene.  Do any of you have any questions for Micah that go beyond the inner-workings of cockfighting?

Tara:  Micah, I have a question. 

Micah:  Well, I have an answer.

Tara:  I feel like everyone kind of missed the point. I was wondering…have you been eating retard sandwiches again?  I mean what in the wide world of sports were you thinking when you wrote something like this?  Did you think it was going to be funny, because it wasn’t.  You are one stoo…

Dr White:  (interrupts Tara)  Okay, let’s hold off on that Tara.  Devon, it looked like you had a question.

Devon:  Can we go home?

Dr. White:  Excuse me?

Devon:  Can we go home?  I mean, what’s the point?  It’s the last day of class and it’s obvious that this drama scene is meaningless.  Why don’t you just let us go home?

Dr. White:  (pauses)  Devon, maybe you should consider giving a little more respect to your classmate by taking this discussion seriously.  After all, Micah gave you the same courtesy.

Devon:  Yeah, but my drama scene wasn’t as nearly as bad as this one.  Bonnie is right, this guy should never write another word for the rest of his life.  I never thought I’d say this, but I actually feel less intelligent for have heard this scene—it’s like Micah’s stupidity is an infectious disease or something.

Daniel:  Hey Micah, did I ever tell you how inspiring you are?  I’ve never been around someone so ‘differently-abled’ as you.

Micah:  And what does that mean Daniel?

Daniel:  It means that I’ve seen jell-o sharper than you.

Micah:  That’s really funny, did you think of that one all by yourself?

Dr. White:  Okay guys, enough machismo.  Let’s put the emphasis back on the drama scene or there will be a reflection on your final grades for the semester.

Micah:  (mumbles something unintelligible under his breath)

Dr. White:  Did you have something you’d like to say Micah?

 Micah:  I didn’t think my drama scene was as terrible as you have all made it out to be.  Some of you are just blinded by hatred.  I think you’re prejudiced, bigoted even.  It’s because I’m white isn’t it?

Bonnie: What?

Micah:  It’s because I’m white.

Karen:  That’s ludicrous.

Micah:  No, people feel like they have the right to say all these mean and hurtful things to me because of the color of my skin.  You hate me because I’m white.

Daniel:  I hate you because you’re stupid.

Dr. White:  (exasperated)  Daniel, that is quite enough.

Daniel:  I’m sorry Dr. White but my remarks are a matter of religious freedom.  In Deuteronomy 25:11 the Lord commands his people not to give false testimony about their neighbor and if I were to say that Micah’s drama scene was tolerable when it stank worse than rancid meat, I would be a liar.  Heavenly Father doesn’t like liars.

Jennifer:  Daniel, that’s not what Deuteronomy 25:11 says.

Daniel: Okay, what does it say Jennifer? Are you going to provide a little hermeneutical exegesis for us?

Jennifer:  This may not be exact, but I think Deuteronomy 25:11 goes something like this: “If two men are fighting and the wife of one of them comes to rescue her husband from his assailant, and she reaches out and seizes him by his private parts, you shall cut off her hand. Show her no pity.”

Devon:  Speaking of no pity, how much longer will we be in here?  Dr. White are you waiting on signs and wonders to let your people go?  Can we go home?

Andrea:  Yeah, can we go home?  My cousin is going to be on Maury Povich today and we are going to find out the results of a paternity test.

Bonnie:  See Micah, that’s drama.

Mary:  Yeah, you should have written a scene called “Baby Mama Drama”, instead, you just wrote some lame cockfighting pageant.  What time is it?

Micah:  It’s a hair past a freckle. Did you know that the same tests that they use to established human paternity can be used on chickens?  My family has the most extensive collection of broiler DNA in North America.  Can you say, cash crop?

Karen:  Can you say chicken shh….

 Dr. White:  (Interrupting)  Okay, let’s not let this get out of hand.  Micah do you have any questions for the class?

Micah:  Was there anything that any of you liked about the scene?

(seven seconds of silence)

Sherry:  I thought the play was sweet.

Devon:  You have got to be kidding.

Sherry:  No, I thought it was sweet, it made me really care about the chickens.  I could almost see the feathers flying about and the way Micah had Daniel flapping his arms around, pretending to be a chicken, it was….beautiful.

Bonnie:  You’ve been shroomin haven’t you Sherry?

Sherry:  What?

Dr. White:  Thank you Sherry for your positive remarks.  Does anyone have any other positive remarks, maybe a little constructive criticism?

Daniel:  I’m gonna have to go ahead and say no on that one Dr. White.  There is absolutely no way that anyone could possibly have anything positive to say about this train wreck of a drama scene.

Dr. White:  Daniel, you may well be the rudest, most inconsiderate student I have ever encountered.

Daniel:  And you may well be the least qualified instructor I have ever encountered if you can honestly find one good thing about that drama scene. 

Dr. White:  Micah, you really did a wonderful job with your punctuation.  I have never seen such a superb use of the colon in all my years of teaching.  Good job.

Bonnie:  He sure used the colon, but I don’t think you call that punctuation.

Daniel:  I stand corrected, Micah’s use of punctuation was impeccable.  Get it?  Im-PECK-able…chickens….cockfighting?  Guess not.

Mary Kay:  Micah, I had a question, how long did it take for you to write this.

Micah:  A few weeks, I’ve been researching the piece for years though.

Mary Kay:  Years?

Micah:  You could say that cockfighting is a part of my heritage.  I’ve been going to the matches since I was little.  I eat, sleep, and breathe cockfighting.  It was a labor of love.

Alyssa:  Dr. White, I don’t mean to be rude, but can we please leave? Please, I’ll do anything, just let me go home.

Devon:  Yeah Dr. White, it’s the last day of class, please Dr. White, I’ll wash your car.

Alyssa:  I’ll clean your house.

Bonnie:  I’ll give you the deed to my soul.

Dr. White:  (sharply) Listen, we will leave as soon as the discussion has run its course, not a minute sooner.  Remember, I still haven’t tallied your final grades.

Daniel:  Micah, I’d like to say I’m sorry.

Micah:  It’s okay Daniel, seven times seventy right?

Daniel:  Whatever.  Micah I’m really sorry—sorry that you have wasted my time with a scene as bad as this.

Micah:  But I thought…

Daniel: (interrupting)  No, let me finish. I also feel terribly—terribly sick of hearing you talk about cockfighting like you’re the god of white trash or something.  If I never read another word you write for the rest of my life it will be ten lifetimes too soon.

Tara:  Micah, I didn’t realize it until this very moment, but I hate you.  I just wanted you to know.

Micah:  Thank you for your candor Tara, I hate you as well.

Devon:  (standing up, holding crumpled ones in her hand) I will pay everyone one dollar and thirty seven cents to not say another word.

Dr. White: (to no one in particular) It looks like I’ve finally lost control.

(class sits silently staring at Dr. White)

Dr. White:  (sadly)  Fine, go home, but don’t think that this won’t reflect on your final averages. 

(class stands and begins to shuffle out of the room)

(Daniel and Micah find themselves in the hallway)

 Daniel:  Do you think they bought it?

 Micah:  Hopefully, did you see Dr. White’s face?

 Daniel:  Should we invite him to the bar to smooth things over?

Micah:  Yeah, he looks like he could use a drink right about now.

Daniel: All that kill whitey stuff was hilarious, did you make that up on the spot?

Micah: Yeah.  So what are we drinking this afternoon.

Daniel:  They have ninety-nine cent ‘ritas at the Sandbar.

Micah:  Wine or tequila?

Daniel:  They were tequila last time.

 Micah:  Sandbar it is.

Overall Summary

After reviewing the material, I feel that the short fiction piece was the most rewarding to write. I understand that some people in the class felt that the piece was a gory or too violent, however; this is partly due to the lofty goals I had for the piece.  Everyday, I see broken smiles and sad faces.  I see people crippled with depression or anxiety or whatever mental ailment that sets them apart for others.  However, these people continue living.  Life is crazy like that sometimes.  I had hoped to write a story about broken people transcending what pains them and I still plan to do so. Hopefully, upon completion, the story will be something I can be proud of and not as gritty as it seems in its unfinished state.

            I’m not quite as passionate about the poetry peace, even though it is significant to me.  I thought that writing a sonnet would be challenging and it was.  However, I can’t help but feel as if the piece is unfinished or in need of some serious revision.  Hopefully, when the timing is right, the right words will come.  I enjoyed writing the poetry and I feel that some of the work that I did not include in the portfolio has much more promise than the sonnet that I did include.

            A great surprise was how enjoyable writing the drama scene was and how easily it came together.  I think the best tool that someone can use for writing drama is the ear.  That is to say that drama is all around.  The words people say, their inflection, and the story behind their words are so interesting.  I’ve come to believe that people are by far the most interesting subject on earth.  I feel that the drama scene still needs work.  Possibly a revision of the ending or something else, but something definitely needs to be added or taken away.

            Overall, I’ve really enjoyed the class.  I’ve tried not to compare my work to that of others, instead, I’ve tried to appreciate each piece for what it is and learn what works and what doesn’t as it is played out in the writing of others. One really interesting thing about the class, maybe the most interesting for me, was the classroom dynamic that developed over the course of the semester.  I thought it was sometimes humorous and sometimes intriguing the way we would assume different roles during the feedback portions of the workshops. 

            To close, I feel that I’ve progressed as a writer.  I have a desire to continue writing and try new things.  I’m more confident and I feel that if I work at it, I may be able to create something that I can be proud of, something worth sharing with others beyond my circle of friends.