Blog Post about The Pink Institution

A few weeks ago, in class, we talked about the poem that opens the novel, The Pink Institution, and we discussed how it sets up the tone for the novel. I am currently working on a short story called Grandma in the Attic, in which the protagonist, Karen, learns after her Grandmother dies that her grandmother may have killed someone years earlier. Even though the story is told in the third person, it is all from Karen's perspective. In my earlier drafts, I kept Karen too distant from the reader and she comes across as simply revealing facts.

For this reason, I am working on developing Karen's character more. I thought a fun exercise would be to develop a poem, like the one that opens The Pink Institution, in order to explore Karen's feelings about what is going on to help me incorporate more of Karen's personality into the story. In The Pink Institution  fashion, it jumps around to seemingly random ideas and leaves out words. What do you get from the poem?

Light -less corridor

            Torches burning out

Magnifying glass lying in the-

            Oak tree in June

Losing its lush, green leaves

Where? How?

            Question marks floating in ice

    Grandma’s iced tea.

Revision

Writing is not like painting where you add. It is not what you put on the canvas that the reader sees. Writing is more like a sculpture where you remove, you eliminate in order to make the work visible. Even those pages you remove somehow remain.

Elie Wiesel

This quote about revision really struck a cord with me. When I'm developing a character in a first draft, I will often include too much information about their past because it is my way of getting to know the character. I will include details about their past relationships, their high school experiences, and other experiences that are important in my writing process, but not necessarily important to the story. I have learned that during the revision process, a lot of these details can be removed and the qualities of the character still shine.

Sometimes what I will try before the writing process even starts is a character biography on a separate sheet of paper. Or, if I have already written a story and the characters seem flat, I will create one of these bios. Even if none of the details from the bios make it into the final draft of the story, it allows me as a writer to know my characters so well that the decisions I make about their actions in the story seem fleshed out.

Short Story Revisions

I feel as though the way I revise each story is different, and it depends on the story I am working on. For example, I have one short story I am working on in class where I know what the ending is going to be already. So, as I write my story and revise it, I'll focus on the characters and the images.

However, another story I am working on has no clear ending in my mind. For this story, which is unusual for me, I'm going with the flow, so to speak, and seeing where the story takes me. Once I get to a place where I feel the story ends, I will go back and look at ways of tightening the narrative and plot, based on the themes I found emerging from my story. After that, I'll look again at the characters to see where they can be strengthened.

Revison, Revison, Revison

"The difference between the right and the nearly right word is the same as that between lightning and the lightning bug."  Mark Twain 

This quote by Mark Twain reflects my views of revision. The perfect words in the right arrangement can have the effect of lightning on a person, really helping them to connect strongly to the piece of writing. When I revise, I look at my teacher's and peers' comments to see which words and images are only having the effect of a lightning bug, and I try to figure out how to strengthen these words and images so they really deliver an emotional punch. Language is inexact in conveying the same meaning to everyone, but through revision I can do my best to insure my work is doing the most powerful job it can.

Stories, Stories, Oh! and more Stories

In an attempt to realize how many stories I tell in a short period of time, thereby boosting my confidence in my story telling ability, I made a list of stories I've told various people in my life the past week:

1. There is a secret society of bassoon players and when a guy accidentally gets a book about bassoon playing, the secret agents in the society are sent to make sure he is still unaware of the secret society

2. I slept over my cousins’ house for s few days in the summer when I was eight, and when my mom and dad picked me up at the end of my visit, I did not recognize my dad because he shaved off his mustache and beard. I think that was the first time I had ever seen him without them.

3. While I was eating a muffin for breakfast, my green-eyed tabby cat dive bombed my muffin and took a chunk out of it!

4. My boss was in a really good mood on Friday because it was her birthday, and she even brought me back a bagel on her back to the office.

5. Atlantic City’s economy is suffering because fewer numbers of people have been going there. The mayor of the city suggests that the casinos add family friendly attractions to entice families there.

6. I was supposed to be in the play Guys and Dolls in the 7^th grade- and the movie version of this play features the hunk Marlon Brando. Due to a lack of drama club members, the play was changed to Bugsy Malone. In this play the character Bugsy says, “I coulda been something. I coulda been a contender Charlie.” This is a line from the film On the Waterfront, which Marlon Brando is also in.

7. On Thursday, when it was a warm fifty degrees or so, a girl was walking around outside in a strapless shirt with no sweater or jacket.

8. One of my professors looked different on, and we realized after questioning her that she did not have her glasses on. She said she was wearing her contacts, but she normally does not wear them because it takes too long to put them on. It freaks her out to touch her eyes.

9. My parents went to Florida for their honeymoon, and they stayed in the condo of a friend of my grandfather because after they paid for their small wedding they did not have any money left. There were a lot of alligators by the pool of the condo, and at one point my dad had to carry my mom inside.

10. There’s a woman who works at Quiznos who always criticizes the orders. One time I wanted cheese and lettuce only, and not toasted, and the woman rolled her eyes and indelicately put the sandwich together.

I've also made a list of 5 story ideas I have. Are there any that sound interesting to you?

1. A man of small monetary worth wins a settlement over an accident at work. He is waiting for the checks to start coming, but they never do. When he talks to his lawyer, the lawyer has proof that the checks were cashed by the man, though the man insists he has never seen the checks or the cash. The man slowly notices that his wife has new jewelry.

2. A young woman grapples with the death of her grandmother after she discovers a series of documents in her grandmother’s attic, which indicate that the grandmother might not have been the person she thought she was.

3. When a bright college student loses her job, she must find creative ways to raise money before her next school payment is due.

4. A young woman works for a boss that drives her crazy – she belittles the woman and changes her mind on a minutely basis about how she wants different tasks done. The woman has to find ways to deal with this boss before she goes absolutely mad.

5. As a group of close-knit cousins grow up, they try to stay close as they all move in different directions in their lives.  

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

One more contemporary poet I like is Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I was first exposed to his works when I took a course on the Beat Generation last year. One of his poems. "Dog," which I have included below, is a favorite of mine because it is able to explore the nature of reality while simultaneously being humorous. I am interested in Philosophy , which the poem touches on. Plus, who doesn't like a poem that makes you laugh every once an a while?! Poems that can be both insightful and funny are wonderful. If you like this poem, you might also want to check out "Constantly Risking Absurdity," which is another great poem of his. I've also included a link to his website, which includes more recent poetry.
http://www.citylights.com/Ferlinghetti/?fa=ferlinghetti_poems

"Dog," by Lawrence Ferlinghetti  

The dog trots freely in the street
and sees reality
and the things he sees
are bigger than himself
and the things he sees
are his reality
Drunks in doorways
Moons on trees
The dog trots freely thru the street
and the things he sees
are smaller than himself
Fish on newsprint
Ants in holes
Chickens in Chinatown windows
their heads a block away
The dog trots freely in the street
and the things he smells
smell something like himself
The dog trots freely in the street
past puddles and babies
cats and cigars
poolrooms and policemen
He doesn't hate cops
He merely has no use for them
and he goes past them
and past the dead cows hung up whole
in front of the San Francisco Meat Market
He would rather eat a tender cow
than a tough policeman
though either might do
And he goes past the Romeo Ravioli Factory
and past Coit's Tower
and past Congressman Doyle of the Unamerican Committee
He's afraid of Coit's Tower
but he's not afraid of Congressman Doyle
although what he hears is very discouraging
very depressing
very absurd
to a sad young dog like himself
to a serious dog like himself
But he has his own free world to live in
His own fleas to eat
He will not be muzzled
Congressman Doyle is just another
fire hydrant
to him
The dog trots freely in the street
and has his own dog's life to live
and to think about
and to reflect upon
touching and tasting and testing everything
investigating everything
without benefit of perjury
a real realist
with a real tale to tell
and a real tail to tell it with
a real live
    barking
    democratic dog
engaged in real
  free enterprise
with something to say
           about ontology
something to say
  about reality
           and how to see it
           and how to hear it
with his head cocked sideways
           at streetcorners
as if he is just about to have
     his picture taken
                  for Victor Records
           listening for
    His Master's Voice
 and looking
         like a living questionmark
           into the
                  great gramophone
              of puzzling existence
           with its wondrous hollow horn
       which always seems
               just about to spout forth
            some Victorious answer
         to everything

An Ode Poem

Below is an ode by John Keats called "To Autumn." I initially read this poem because fall is my favorite season and I was interested in what Keats had to say about it. I like the way he praises autumn in the last stanza for having its own music, recognizing beautifully that fall has its own sound and rhythm, not just spring.

To Autumn

by John Keats

 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

   Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

ConspiringConspiring Working together; literally, to conspire is “to breathe together” (OED) with him how to load and bless

   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-evesthatch-eves Thatch-eaves, the edge of thatched roofs run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

      To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

      For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

   Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

   Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowingwinnowing Separating the wheat from the chaff, the heavy from the light wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

   Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hookhook Scythe

      Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleanergleaner One who gathers the remaining food after the reaper has harvested the field thou dost keep

   Steady thy ladenladen Loaded down head across a brook;

   Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

      Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?Where are they? Rhetorical convention known as ubi sunt, often appearing in poems that meditate on the transitory nature of life and the inevitability of death.

   Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barred clouds bloombloom “to colour with a soft warm tint or glow” (OED) the soft-dying day,

   And touch the stubble-plainsstubble-plains Fields made up of stubble, the remaining stumps of grain left after reaping with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

   Among the river sallowssallows Willow trees, borne aloft

      Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

   Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

   The red-breast whistles from a garden-croftgarden-croft A croft is a small enclosed field;

      And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.