Persuasion Example
(I am going to attempt to use hyperbole to enhance my claim, I am not this parsimonious.)
On the weekend of February 21st, I was instructed to throw a suprise birthday party for my step mother, of whom I am not entirely fond of. It was to be of an Irish theme - though I do not know why - so that was easy enough for me; my obsessive passions for all that is Irish would help me put on quite the party. It was a suprise for all, the entire works I pulled in made the whole place sparkle with greens and whites. The 5o balloons were traditional, the bar was stocked with draft Guinness and Murphy's irish stout, and the music was my own; my favourite Celtic bands with plenty of bodhran to keep the beat alive. At present time, the very last gift was my fathers, naturally I expected his to be the most glorious. I had no idea, however, the impact to which this gift would have on me. The present was a two week vaccation to Ireland, accomodations lying in Dublin and Cork. When my step mother asked, "Is Cork in Ireland?" I lost my sense of self control. I became livid, so angry that I felt it radiating off me in violent waves, I was absolutly sure that my brother beside me could feel my furious tremors. Ireland. My dream. I am the one the should be going to Ireland, not my oblivious step figure. My family knows of my fixations, they even tease me about it, "Don't you think that boy is cute Tori? Huh, bet you would if he relaxed his vowels and picked up a fiddle," "Hey, Tori, you'll fly right over it on your way to Europe, just wave." I write stories with Irish characters, I'm fascinated by the accents, I want so badly to experience village life under first name basis, relaxed and ever slow. I have planned trips, I have learned the Celtic flute, I fill my Ipod with traditional irish favourites because celtic folk rock can truly never be outdone, in my mind. So why does this simple minded woman get my trip? Just because her hair is red does not mean that she is "visiting her home land to aquiant herself with a previous life," that is utterly absurd! At least have some appreciation for the culture you are to experience, stay in a thatched cottage and smell the old timber, rather than exult in the fact that cheap beer and shopping are around the corner. I should be the one going to Ireland, for I appreciate the culture, it pains me day and night to accept the fact that my dream will have to wait, for another, perhaps never coming day. I suppose I should be happy that I will see pictures, but even then, will I forever look with scathing eyes at the vile woman who is taking my trip away from me. I should be the one going to Ireland.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Argument Example
When one thinks of femininity, you respond with images of lace and pink, with fragility and shyness, and often with a sense of helplessness. This is not the case for every one, in all fairness, but universally certain associations and stereotypes are awarded unjustly to our species. This is not the way all women exist, and it is important to see each woman for the unique person she is, and not to lump them into the same category with preconceived notions of "average female behaviour." A woman must never be judged, because we are too headstrong to be figured out so quickly. Each woman should be considered equal, and every woman should never be guessed at. No one should assume all women to be equal, to follow the same pattern as my initial description of the stereotype, because so few of us are truly like this. For the women that have muscled arms, toned bodies, or even an extra couple love pounds floating around their middles, we deserve to be approached with an open mind, and never considered "out of the norm" for not following the frail, pinky suite. Take a woman for what she's worth, and measure her only by knowing her, ladies should never be stereotyped because of the few women that make that acceptable. Treat every woman as a unique individual, and give them the time to explain their uniqueness.
When one thinks of femininity, you respond with images of lace and pink, with fragility and shyness, and often with a sense of helplessness. This is not the case for every one, in all fairness, but universally certain associations and stereotypes are awarded unjustly to our species. This is not the way all women exist, and it is important to see each woman for the unique person she is, and not to lump them into the same category with preconceived notions of "average female behaviour." A woman must never be judged, because we are too headstrong to be figured out so quickly. Each woman should be considered equal, and every woman should never be guessed at. No one should assume all women to be equal, to follow the same pattern as my initial description of the stereotype, because so few of us are truly like this. For the women that have muscled arms, toned bodies, or even an extra couple love pounds floating around their middles, we deserve to be approached with an open mind, and never considered "out of the norm" for not following the frail, pinky suite. Take a woman for what she's worth, and measure her only by knowing her, ladies should never be stereotyped because of the few women that make that acceptable. Treat every woman as a unique individual, and give them the time to explain their uniqueness.
Cause and Effect Example
The strangest thing happened to me on the way to school yesterday morning. As I approached the intersection at John Street and Huron, I was stopped by the usual red light. As I waited, I watched the cars speed by in front of me, jealous that they were moving and I was not. I watched the opposing traffic slow to a yellow, eager to move the heavy mass that is my van to a gas station. It was then that I decided to play the game I usually play at large intersections, I call it, " who will stop?" It is usually the same types of people that treat yellow lights as fresh greens, the young teenagers who own the road and stop for no traffic authority, but today I was suprised. Speeding towards the stale yellow was an old, and pressumably married, couple in their mid sixties. How odd, I thought to myself, that this couple looked to be driving twice the speed any average senior would like to travel, and decided to watch the car. There was no deceleration, and I panicked, "Should I honk? Do they see the yellow?" Even with no one ahead of them, I could see that they were not going to make the yellow light, they would run the red going at least 50 km an hour. I gaped at the tired and beaten Honda, as it lurched to a skidding and immediate stop, no more than several meters behind the thick white line. My attention was suddenly directed to the driver, who looked outragged at his apparent bad luck and distaste for traffic laws. His wife looked well enough, as though completely unaware of their currant situation. Just then, the man opened his wrinkled mouth and shouted a string of profanities that even I, across the intersection, could clearly make out. I was absolutly flabbergasted, and missed the advance green I was so eagerly anticipating. The blarring horn behind me was unable to move my car, I was stunned, wasn't any one else watching? I took the left slowly, still unable to comprehend the recent events, my thoughts incoherently jumbled in my head, making no sense of his actions. I was able to laugh ten minutes later, drawing heads at my good humor, as I considered the possibilities of where this angry man and timid wife could possibly need to be so very quickly. I guess it's just one of those things in life, that makes a good supper time story, and baffles you without any incentive.
The strangest thing happened to me on the way to school yesterday morning. As I approached the intersection at John Street and Huron, I was stopped by the usual red light. As I waited, I watched the cars speed by in front of me, jealous that they were moving and I was not. I watched the opposing traffic slow to a yellow, eager to move the heavy mass that is my van to a gas station. It was then that I decided to play the game I usually play at large intersections, I call it, " who will stop?" It is usually the same types of people that treat yellow lights as fresh greens, the young teenagers who own the road and stop for no traffic authority, but today I was suprised. Speeding towards the stale yellow was an old, and pressumably married, couple in their mid sixties. How odd, I thought to myself, that this couple looked to be driving twice the speed any average senior would like to travel, and decided to watch the car. There was no deceleration, and I panicked, "Should I honk? Do they see the yellow?" Even with no one ahead of them, I could see that they were not going to make the yellow light, they would run the red going at least 50 km an hour. I gaped at the tired and beaten Honda, as it lurched to a skidding and immediate stop, no more than several meters behind the thick white line. My attention was suddenly directed to the driver, who looked outragged at his apparent bad luck and distaste for traffic laws. His wife looked well enough, as though completely unaware of their currant situation. Just then, the man opened his wrinkled mouth and shouted a string of profanities that even I, across the intersection, could clearly make out. I was absolutly flabbergasted, and missed the advance green I was so eagerly anticipating. The blarring horn behind me was unable to move my car, I was stunned, wasn't any one else watching? I took the left slowly, still unable to comprehend the recent events, my thoughts incoherently jumbled in my head, making no sense of his actions. I was able to laugh ten minutes later, drawing heads at my good humor, as I considered the possibilities of where this angry man and timid wife could possibly need to be so very quickly. I guess it's just one of those things in life, that makes a good supper time story, and baffles you without any incentive.
Comparison and Contrast Example
I was always among the few girls in our gym class that wanted to be there. I could see why, of course, because I could play every sport that was directed at us to play. There were always the same girls every year, the class list at the beginning of the semester never surprised me, and I could automatically pick out the ones that were there for the free time it offered. At the time, I was frustrated, who were these girls to ditch class every second day? Who were these girls to sit inactively on the bench with immovable frowns and scowl at those of us who tried? I never thought twice about who we'd turn out to be, and then today, I began to see how I was so conceitedly wrong. Their were two types of women in girls phys-ed, the ones that tried and the ones that did not. The ones who tried were the athletes, born to raise hell on the court or the field or in the pool, and they enjoyed each activity as they were instructed too. I was among those girls, and found myself arrogantly proud of our differences, for we were cool, and they were not. The ones who did not try wore their gym clothes with accessories, and refused to tie their hair in pony's because they would not work up a sweat any how. I often glared at the girls who stood against the wall, searing a message into their brains with my eyes; Wish you could play like this huh? What a disdainful load of hooey, was I so blind? I saw only one way to be popular, to be cool, and that was to be involved, to be an athlete. I never paused to see that those who could not play, played instruments, sang in choirs, lit up the stage with musicals and comedic short plays, or exceeded grade point averages in the math's and sciences I could never keep up in. Since then I have overcome my days of singular athletic mindsets, and have witnessed the "girls who never tried" become icons of equally special talents, excelling in many areas. I suppose it was a matter of maturity that keep me aloof from the finer lesson here, that we all excel in special areas that should never be underestimated. I share many of the same interests as "the girls who never tried", yet I will always cling to my knack for competition; just without the hoity-toity attitude.
I was always among the few girls in our gym class that wanted to be there. I could see why, of course, because I could play every sport that was directed at us to play. There were always the same girls every year, the class list at the beginning of the semester never surprised me, and I could automatically pick out the ones that were there for the free time it offered. At the time, I was frustrated, who were these girls to ditch class every second day? Who were these girls to sit inactively on the bench with immovable frowns and scowl at those of us who tried? I never thought twice about who we'd turn out to be, and then today, I began to see how I was so conceitedly wrong. Their were two types of women in girls phys-ed, the ones that tried and the ones that did not. The ones who tried were the athletes, born to raise hell on the court or the field or in the pool, and they enjoyed each activity as they were instructed too. I was among those girls, and found myself arrogantly proud of our differences, for we were cool, and they were not. The ones who did not try wore their gym clothes with accessories, and refused to tie their hair in pony's because they would not work up a sweat any how. I often glared at the girls who stood against the wall, searing a message into their brains with my eyes; Wish you could play like this huh? What a disdainful load of hooey, was I so blind? I saw only one way to be popular, to be cool, and that was to be involved, to be an athlete. I never paused to see that those who could not play, played instruments, sang in choirs, lit up the stage with musicals and comedic short plays, or exceeded grade point averages in the math's and sciences I could never keep up in. Since then I have overcome my days of singular athletic mindsets, and have witnessed the "girls who never tried" become icons of equally special talents, excelling in many areas. I suppose it was a matter of maturity that keep me aloof from the finer lesson here, that we all excel in special areas that should never be underestimated. I share many of the same interests as "the girls who never tried", yet I will always cling to my knack for competition; just without the hoity-toity attitude.
Analogy Example: First Prose presentation
When a single tree stands alone, miles away from the forest's edge, it looks back and senses the emptiness that solitary brings. A large grouping of maples can smile wryly at such an isolated tree, as if to say, "why don't you join us? Oh, wait, you can't." For beneath the superficial differences, like species, size and absence of surrounding brothers, the tree has roots. Roots makes moving impossible, for as hard as the lone tree may try to move towards the others, he cannot, because of his roots. They tie him to where he stands, out of fear, and out of familiarity, keeping him away from the unknown, for the unknown can be a vulnerable and scary place. Though the other tree's may tease him, he will not move because his roots will always hold him in isolation. The maples will not meet him half way, nor will they coax him over because he is different; unwanted. He will stand alone, tied to the ground, and remain there until some one with enough sympathy and compassion will dig him up, and carry him to the others. But how often does someone desire to help a loner?
An analogy on behalf of National Bullying Awareness Day, February 25th, 2009.
When a single tree stands alone, miles away from the forest's edge, it looks back and senses the emptiness that solitary brings. A large grouping of maples can smile wryly at such an isolated tree, as if to say, "why don't you join us? Oh, wait, you can't." For beneath the superficial differences, like species, size and absence of surrounding brothers, the tree has roots. Roots makes moving impossible, for as hard as the lone tree may try to move towards the others, he cannot, because of his roots. They tie him to where he stands, out of fear, and out of familiarity, keeping him away from the unknown, for the unknown can be a vulnerable and scary place. Though the other tree's may tease him, he will not move because his roots will always hold him in isolation. The maples will not meet him half way, nor will they coax him over because he is different; unwanted. He will stand alone, tied to the ground, and remain there until some one with enough sympathy and compassion will dig him up, and carry him to the others. But how often does someone desire to help a loner?
An analogy on behalf of National Bullying Awareness Day, February 25th, 2009.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
My newest blogs will be up very soon!!! I feel terrible that they aren't and am very upset with myself because i'm falling behind, this is especially not helped by volleyball and thanks be to god it is almost completely done. So i am very sorry, you'll hear this again, but my apologies, and need to get things straightened out and start doing something again. This is not the time for screwing up! Or lagging behind! Bah!
Thursday, February 12, 2009
"A Fire Truck" by Richard Wilbur
A Fire Truck was an extremely well developed poem, with a dramatic and entrancing take on such an every day occurrence. The purpose of the poem would be to portray, in detail, the emotions and experiential occurrences when a fire truck passes by. It was interesting to observe the truth in his words, and the literally perfect descriptions of the exact happenings when a fire truck interrupts daily activity.
This is good poetry, because though there is no immediate or necessary underlying meanings, one simply hears the verses and becomes aware that it is simply true, and just takes it for what it is. Each stanza progresses chronologically, making it simple to focus on the immediate action only. In the first stanza, the "siren-blast" catches your attention and you immediately stop to consider what's happening, clearly, the "redness, brass, ladders, and hats" of the fire truck have caught your attention, just like a real one would. Following the first stanza, as quickly as it came, the fire truck "(makes) it around the turn in a squall of traction", and it's gone before you can think twice about it's destination or impact on the rest of the observers, quite literally, "though is degraded action" because it does no good to examine what's just happened, just accept it and then let the effects sink in. The third stanza does just this, allows time for the blurry incident to sink in, to take it's effect. The writer simply tells it like it is, your mind would be blank, "purged of nuance," and you can think about nothing else except for the 'loud, obvious thing" that's just passed you by. To make the poem complete, and add a sound ending to the short burst of chaotic incidence that's just impeded on your day, the writer says "as you howl," signifying that though the fire truck is gone, the memory is still fresh in your mind. Your perhaps previous irritation for the loud truck fades away with the thought of an "extinguished fire," and you immediately feel comfortable and rested knowing that some good is coming out of this interruption to your day.
This is very good poetry, and effective because you do not have to decipher the stanza's to appreciate the happenstance. One can read the poem and know that for the instant that ones day was interrupted, the fire truck has passed, done it's duty, and you may continue safely along. Very concise and effective; I think that the next fire truck I see will have some strange effects on me, and I hope that no one will be near.
A Fire Truck was an extremely well developed poem, with a dramatic and entrancing take on such an every day occurrence. The purpose of the poem would be to portray, in detail, the emotions and experiential occurrences when a fire truck passes by. It was interesting to observe the truth in his words, and the literally perfect descriptions of the exact happenings when a fire truck interrupts daily activity.
This is good poetry, because though there is no immediate or necessary underlying meanings, one simply hears the verses and becomes aware that it is simply true, and just takes it for what it is. Each stanza progresses chronologically, making it simple to focus on the immediate action only. In the first stanza, the "siren-blast" catches your attention and you immediately stop to consider what's happening, clearly, the "redness, brass, ladders, and hats" of the fire truck have caught your attention, just like a real one would. Following the first stanza, as quickly as it came, the fire truck "(makes) it around the turn in a squall of traction", and it's gone before you can think twice about it's destination or impact on the rest of the observers, quite literally, "though is degraded action" because it does no good to examine what's just happened, just accept it and then let the effects sink in. The third stanza does just this, allows time for the blurry incident to sink in, to take it's effect. The writer simply tells it like it is, your mind would be blank, "purged of nuance," and you can think about nothing else except for the 'loud, obvious thing" that's just passed you by. To make the poem complete, and add a sound ending to the short burst of chaotic incidence that's just impeded on your day, the writer says "as you howl," signifying that though the fire truck is gone, the memory is still fresh in your mind. Your perhaps previous irritation for the loud truck fades away with the thought of an "extinguished fire," and you immediately feel comfortable and rested knowing that some good is coming out of this interruption to your day.
This is very good poetry, and effective because you do not have to decipher the stanza's to appreciate the happenstance. One can read the poem and know that for the instant that ones day was interrupted, the fire truck has passed, done it's duty, and you may continue safely along. Very concise and effective; I think that the next fire truck I see will have some strange effects on me, and I hope that no one will be near.
Metacognitive Reflection #1
As it so happens, I was not able to be in class for the Socratic circle on Tuesday, and will be reflecting on the volleyball games I played that day. Volleyball has never been my favourite sport, it does not intrigue me or motivate me in the way that my sport does; soccer. I cannot take it seriously, and so my attitude towards the team is dampened by my lack of enthusiasm. This is quite out of character for me, as I tend to contribute one hundred percent of my effort to playing soccer, and my devotion to the sport keeps me focused and active in team life. However, volley-ball is much the opposite for me, it is my hobby, my time filler, and quite frankly I've grown tired of the petty high school team drama. I tend to close myself off from the team, detach myself in a way. I don't want to involve myself and become too absorbed in such an insignificant part of my life. My competitive edge urges me to play hard and contribute to the team, but my reasonable self tells me that high school volleyball will do nothing for me, and does not benefit me in any way any more. It may appear to my team mates that I have no motivation or aspiration, or it may appear that I don't care about the team, and this is not normal for me. I care about sports, and I care about my team mates around me, but I believe I care for things that might just take me somewhere in life. Volley-ball is so very insignificant, and I think - much like I do with math and chemistry - that things in my life that will take me no where, tend to cause me to lose my compassion. I need a reason for the things I do, I need to love them, to aspire to succeed at them. The aspects to my life that I care most about, and spend the most time improving and cherishing, are the aspects that I love and will carry with me. Thankfully, volley ball is almost over, and I will be able to concentrate on more important areas without having to fake enthusiasm. I would never tell my coach, but high school volley ball has officially lost it's appeal.
As it so happens, I was not able to be in class for the Socratic circle on Tuesday, and will be reflecting on the volleyball games I played that day. Volleyball has never been my favourite sport, it does not intrigue me or motivate me in the way that my sport does; soccer. I cannot take it seriously, and so my attitude towards the team is dampened by my lack of enthusiasm. This is quite out of character for me, as I tend to contribute one hundred percent of my effort to playing soccer, and my devotion to the sport keeps me focused and active in team life. However, volley-ball is much the opposite for me, it is my hobby, my time filler, and quite frankly I've grown tired of the petty high school team drama. I tend to close myself off from the team, detach myself in a way. I don't want to involve myself and become too absorbed in such an insignificant part of my life. My competitive edge urges me to play hard and contribute to the team, but my reasonable self tells me that high school volleyball will do nothing for me, and does not benefit me in any way any more. It may appear to my team mates that I have no motivation or aspiration, or it may appear that I don't care about the team, and this is not normal for me. I care about sports, and I care about my team mates around me, but I believe I care for things that might just take me somewhere in life. Volley-ball is so very insignificant, and I think - much like I do with math and chemistry - that things in my life that will take me no where, tend to cause me to lose my compassion. I need a reason for the things I do, I need to love them, to aspire to succeed at them. The aspects to my life that I care most about, and spend the most time improving and cherishing, are the aspects that I love and will carry with me. Thankfully, volley ball is almost over, and I will be able to concentrate on more important areas without having to fake enthusiasm. I would never tell my coach, but high school volley ball has officially lost it's appeal.
In all other cases, applying to my favourite activities and passions, I would use the adjective compassionate to describe myself. If I find reason enough to excel in a certain area, for pleasure or for meaningfulness to my life and future, I will invariably put forth all of my effort to succeed in that area. The things in my life that I love, well... I love. I cherish. I care. And the things that I do not care for, I repel emotionally, and if I can help it, physically. Surrounding myself with intrests and passions keeps me generally happy and well rounded, and I will continue to do so to reach my goals and obtain perpetual happiness. (please forgive the euphoric statement, a 17 year old girl should be able to imagine such a state exists :) )
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Narrative- April Fools on Polar Circus By: Janet Roddan
This piece was fascinating to me, as the adventure aspect to the story very captivating. Through this brief journey with the writer, I feel like I understand her, and can relate to her. Since a narrative is designed to tell a story, the plot structure is important, and Roddan demonstrates all of the elements to story telling perfectly.
In the introduction, she announces that "the dance with fear fascinates me." This is a very interesting quote because upon hearing it, you want to understand her draw, and you want to know if she's crazy. She establishes her purpose for the adrenaline pumping sport of ice climbing, that it "leads (her) into (herself)", and that while she climbs, "fear talks to (her)," a very intimate feeling to share. Already you've established a strong character trait in the writer, that she's fearless; this quality is hard to obtain. In learning this, I gained a respect for her, and wanted to climb with her and follow the story. The strong correlation between fear and bodily responses was described very well, using intense phrases like "(fear) wraps its fingers around my heart and squeezes gently." I could feel my heartbeat picking up when she mentioned adrenaline, and the "whispered warnings." If the introduction to a story can actually cause an increased heart rate and sweaty palms, the writer has done a good job.
Roddan describes a very intimate relationship with nature, and truly connects with her surroundings. By using "we" so often when referring to her actions, she establishes a connection with the reader, and a sense of respect and coordination with the natural environment. She looks at nature as a force to be respected, awe inspiring, like the single most omniscient force in our world, it is perfect and above all else, it is "unconcerned with whether we view (it) or not." The writer adjusts to the mountain, taking it for what it is and becoming one with nature, she "articulates the right series of moves, body position...with a frozen tongue of ice," signifying her connection with the mountain. She allows the reader to feel inspired by the power of nature, like the quote, "To talk with the mountain is strong medicine." She also writes in present tense the entire time, allowing the reader to see every angle and know exactly how she's feeling. There is not a single instance in the narrative where you are sitting in the dark, or confused, she keeps you right up to date with describing her journey very particularly, like her paragraph description of just one axe placement into the ice, as WE "hold on, struggling to control the fear that pounds through OUR veins and capillaries."
As she climbs, Roddan describes her journey using very powerful images, such as "pitch of ice" and "burn our calves" or "undulating ice." It seems like such a long and powerful climb, and the reader becomes intrigued by the experience. Her journey illustrates an excellent rising action, and quite literally the climb to the peak. The climax to the story is also very well done, as she describes her struggle with the ice, and the terrifying point where "a big block of ice disengages itself; (her) tool is embedded in it. Time stops." Roddan, as the hero of the story reaches an epic realization of "desire and commitment," when her friend talks sense into her so that she can finish the climb. The ending of the story leaves the reader with a sense of relief, and accomplishment as she makes it to the peak, and she uses great imagery like the "great Goddess" at the top of her climb. The falling action is very effective, the slow rappel down the mountain, and her analogy between the fireflies and Roddan and her partner was very effective, connecting herself with nature once again as the fireflies hum and buzz softly, just like her and her friend. She exhibits a wonderful example of a narrative, and shares a very personal experience with the reader in a unique, and intimate way, by taking us with her on the climb and allowing us to experience her exact feelings together.
This piece was fascinating to me, as the adventure aspect to the story very captivating. Through this brief journey with the writer, I feel like I understand her, and can relate to her. Since a narrative is designed to tell a story, the plot structure is important, and Roddan demonstrates all of the elements to story telling perfectly.
In the introduction, she announces that "the dance with fear fascinates me." This is a very interesting quote because upon hearing it, you want to understand her draw, and you want to know if she's crazy. She establishes her purpose for the adrenaline pumping sport of ice climbing, that it "leads (her) into (herself)", and that while she climbs, "fear talks to (her)," a very intimate feeling to share. Already you've established a strong character trait in the writer, that she's fearless; this quality is hard to obtain. In learning this, I gained a respect for her, and wanted to climb with her and follow the story. The strong correlation between fear and bodily responses was described very well, using intense phrases like "(fear) wraps its fingers around my heart and squeezes gently." I could feel my heartbeat picking up when she mentioned adrenaline, and the "whispered warnings." If the introduction to a story can actually cause an increased heart rate and sweaty palms, the writer has done a good job.
Roddan describes a very intimate relationship with nature, and truly connects with her surroundings. By using "we" so often when referring to her actions, she establishes a connection with the reader, and a sense of respect and coordination with the natural environment. She looks at nature as a force to be respected, awe inspiring, like the single most omniscient force in our world, it is perfect and above all else, it is "unconcerned with whether we view (it) or not." The writer adjusts to the mountain, taking it for what it is and becoming one with nature, she "articulates the right series of moves, body position...with a frozen tongue of ice," signifying her connection with the mountain. She allows the reader to feel inspired by the power of nature, like the quote, "To talk with the mountain is strong medicine." She also writes in present tense the entire time, allowing the reader to see every angle and know exactly how she's feeling. There is not a single instance in the narrative where you are sitting in the dark, or confused, she keeps you right up to date with describing her journey very particularly, like her paragraph description of just one axe placement into the ice, as WE "hold on, struggling to control the fear that pounds through OUR veins and capillaries."
As she climbs, Roddan describes her journey using very powerful images, such as "pitch of ice" and "burn our calves" or "undulating ice." It seems like such a long and powerful climb, and the reader becomes intrigued by the experience. Her journey illustrates an excellent rising action, and quite literally the climb to the peak. The climax to the story is also very well done, as she describes her struggle with the ice, and the terrifying point where "a big block of ice disengages itself; (her) tool is embedded in it. Time stops." Roddan, as the hero of the story reaches an epic realization of "desire and commitment," when her friend talks sense into her so that she can finish the climb. The ending of the story leaves the reader with a sense of relief, and accomplishment as she makes it to the peak, and she uses great imagery like the "great Goddess" at the top of her climb. The falling action is very effective, the slow rappel down the mountain, and her analogy between the fireflies and Roddan and her partner was very effective, connecting herself with nature once again as the fireflies hum and buzz softly, just like her and her friend. She exhibits a wonderful example of a narrative, and shares a very personal experience with the reader in a unique, and intimate way, by taking us with her on the climb and allowing us to experience her exact feelings together.
Ashley LaFramboise: You Call This Literature? The Re-mix!
Looking through the "Literature" section and expecting to find articles on Woolf and Morrison, I was disgusted to see "Dan Brown" littered all over the place like candy wrappers in a field, and realized that this is in fact what we have come to. Although Brown’s earth-shattering theory is not even his own, and his writing is generally quite uninspired, what I find appalling is how a best-seller, based on a plot everyone loves to believe, is what defines what we talk about; it defines what we think we ought to read.
Fine literature is being overlooked by so many of us, to the point that Chapters now has candles, calendars, journals and pens at the front of the store, and we have to go to the back to see what it’s really selling. Moreover, on the tables nearest the entrance are shiny, colourful, hard-covered best-sellers, and anything with Oprah's Book Club's seal of approval sticker. In fact, it took William Faulkner almost an entire century to finally be recognized as a valuable writer, until Oprah recommended a three-volume set of his "best" work. It seems that we want what someone thinks is "best," without having to dig through piles of books. Rather, we gather bits and pieces, caring only to read the books that the New York Times deems "Brilliant" and "Dazzlingly unique."
For the people who want to read more of an author's work, we would be hard pressed to find anything else by that author in the same store.A few of us haven't even heard of some Canadian writers, and have never read anything by Atwood or Munro. No, it seems some would rather read up on astrology, while picking up mini Positive Thinking cards while we're at it. Everyone wants to read for "enjoyment," to dissolve into a world of predictable plots and happy endings, but it may seem at times that we don't want to look around us, and read about things that matter. If what we're reading is mass-market, best selling, cliched plot-driven books, I'm concerned about what that says about where humanity is headed.
Looking through the "Literature" section and expecting to find articles on Woolf and Morrison, I was disgusted to see "Dan Brown" littered all over the place like candy wrappers in a field, and realized that this is in fact what we have come to. Although Brown’s earth-shattering theory is not even his own, and his writing is generally quite uninspired, what I find appalling is how a best-seller, based on a plot everyone loves to believe, is what defines what we talk about; it defines what we think we ought to read.
Fine literature is being overlooked by so many of us, to the point that Chapters now has candles, calendars, journals and pens at the front of the store, and we have to go to the back to see what it’s really selling. Moreover, on the tables nearest the entrance are shiny, colourful, hard-covered best-sellers, and anything with Oprah's Book Club's seal of approval sticker. In fact, it took William Faulkner almost an entire century to finally be recognized as a valuable writer, until Oprah recommended a three-volume set of his "best" work. It seems that we want what someone thinks is "best," without having to dig through piles of books. Rather, we gather bits and pieces, caring only to read the books that the New York Times deems "Brilliant" and "Dazzlingly unique."
For the people who want to read more of an author's work, we would be hard pressed to find anything else by that author in the same store.A few of us haven't even heard of some Canadian writers, and have never read anything by Atwood or Munro. No, it seems some would rather read up on astrology, while picking up mini Positive Thinking cards while we're at it. Everyone wants to read for "enjoyment," to dissolve into a world of predictable plots and happy endings, but it may seem at times that we don't want to look around us, and read about things that matter. If what we're reading is mass-market, best selling, cliched plot-driven books, I'm concerned about what that says about where humanity is headed.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Examples of good and bad writing: (numbered by paragraph)
2) This writer apparently renders grammar to be obsolete, as this piece is a giant run-on sentence. It falls under the category of "clever by half", as it uses large words and business terminology in every place possible. I could not see the direction the writer was headed, and the few possible claims it introduces were mashed into one confusing sentence.
3) The direction of the claim is unclear in the beginning, and I could not fully understand what the writer wanted to prove. It also appears that the writer has introduced two claims, one concerning the theories of science stirring emotion, and the second identifying religion as a filler for lost love. It begins with one claim and ends with a different thesis, confusing the reader. I also felt like the writer was ignoring the reader, by ranting about ideas too deep and too complex in too short a paragraph. Too much information was being presented, and none of it flowed well together either.
Good Writing
4) The paragraph begins with an interesting hook, mentioning a "fascinating ceremony". The rest of the paragraph explains that statement clearly, giving the reader clear points of information, and direct points of interest. He develops his claim nicely without going over board, and leaves the reader feeling satisfied with new, clear knowledge.
5) The writer introduces a question, and explains the answer clearly and confidently. The opening quote is also quite appropriate, and instantly catches your attention. It is not overly descriptive, and clearly demonstrates the answer to his opening question, leading in one direction, developing one claim.
6) The writer clearly identifies his claim, taking in the readers perspective and making sure that both the writer's thought process and the reader's are at the same level. He then permits the reader to take in many sides to his original argument without heading in a different direction, and staying true to his opening claim. His ideas are fairly clear, and they are also interesting to the reader, presenting a neat idea that is not a truism.
Bad Writing
2) This writer apparently renders grammar to be obsolete, as this piece is a giant run-on sentence. It falls under the category of "clever by half", as it uses large words and business terminology in every place possible. I could not see the direction the writer was headed, and the few possible claims it introduces were mashed into one confusing sentence.
3) The direction of the claim is unclear in the beginning, and I could not fully understand what the writer wanted to prove. It also appears that the writer has introduced two claims, one concerning the theories of science stirring emotion, and the second identifying religion as a filler for lost love. It begins with one claim and ends with a different thesis, confusing the reader. I also felt like the writer was ignoring the reader, by ranting about ideas too deep and too complex in too short a paragraph. Too much information was being presented, and none of it flowed well together either.
Good Writing
4) The paragraph begins with an interesting hook, mentioning a "fascinating ceremony". The rest of the paragraph explains that statement clearly, giving the reader clear points of information, and direct points of interest. He develops his claim nicely without going over board, and leaves the reader feeling satisfied with new, clear knowledge.
5) The writer introduces a question, and explains the answer clearly and confidently. The opening quote is also quite appropriate, and instantly catches your attention. It is not overly descriptive, and clearly demonstrates the answer to his opening question, leading in one direction, developing one claim.
6) The writer clearly identifies his claim, taking in the readers perspective and making sure that both the writer's thought process and the reader's are at the same level. He then permits the reader to take in many sides to his original argument without heading in a different direction, and staying true to his opening claim. His ideas are fairly clear, and they are also interesting to the reader, presenting a neat idea that is not a truism.
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