The Night I Got Ditched

    So there I found myself, in the bottom of a ditch. My best friend and I were driving home from a party, one that I did not even want to attend. Evan, my best friend, thinks that I went to the party to be his designated driver. In reality I went to look after him at the party, I didn’t want to find out that he hooked up with some strange girl when I was in love with him. So how did we end up in the bottom of a ditch, while I was driving sober? 

          I’m the girl that never gets invited to those high school cliché parties, probably because I avoid that group as much as possible. Evan, on the other hand, is one of the most desirable seniors at our school, and since he is my best friend that is how I end up going to them.

          The party that was tonight was at Melody Wilson’s house, a girl who lived fifteen minutes south of town, off of a long dirt road. Her house was like the Barbie dream house every girl wanted as a child, but only the rich kids could afford. It was a large deep brown house bordering on a mansion, with a circular driveway packed with cars for the party.

 Of course I said yes when Evan asked I me to drive him to the party even though I completely despised these events. My Honda civic was safer than his VW bug anyway. What was the point in getting extremely drunk and not remembering the night anyway? At least I could watch people and secretly laugh at them, and make sure Evan didn’t do anything too bad…

          I stood in front of my closet for about thirty minutes, trying to find an outfit that would catch Evan’s attention, but not make him think that I was trying too hard. When I finally settled on a simple low- cut black dress that reached to my knees, I drove over to Evan’s house to pick him up.

          The drive to the party was uneventful; we hardly even saw a car on the road. The party was nothing exciting either, lots of underage high schoolers binge drinking, making out, and grinding to obnoxiously loud music. Typical. Evan and I hung out a few times during the party, but I decided that I would rather let him have fun and not force him to try to include me. I found some people I knew from my third period history class and talked to them in the corner of the room, far enough away from the dance mob to not get stepped on, but close enough to see the ridiculous movement my generation called dancing. I danced to a few songs, trying to include myself and have a good time, but in reality I was happier watching everyone.

          Around midnight Evan decided that the party was slowing down, and that we should go to Denny’s and get late night pancakes like we usually do to end the evening. We climbed in my car, a red Honda civic, and turned off of Melody’s dirt road. We were about five miles from town on a straight stretch of road, when I noticed bright headlights coming towards us, swerving on the road, and then they settled on staying in our lane. I didn’t know what to do since the lights were getting closer, making a route of escape less likely with each passing second. The only thing I could do was hope they would get in their original lane. I honked my horn and flashed my lights at them, hoping to make them realize that they were heading straight for us, but to no avail.

At the last second I swerved out of the way off of the road, trying to avoid the truck that was heading straight for us. There were trees lining the side of the road, and all I could do was hope that we didn’t hit one. We flew off the road, and somehow landed into a ditch on the side of the road. We were lucky. My throat was hoarse from all of the screaming I didn’t realize I was doing.  I looked around at the quiet scenery that seemed to not care that a car had disturbed it. I unbuckled my seatbelt and climbed out of the car and into the ditch.

          I assessed the damage, which seemed to be fatal to my car but otherwise nothing seemed to be wrong with Evan or myself. The ditch was tall, maybe six feet in height. I looked out on the road and saw the car that was coming towards us, a black Ford F150. They hit a tree head on off of the other side of the road. They must have swerved at the last minute too. They didn’t seem to be as lucky as Evan and I.

          “Tally” Evan called from inside the car.

          “Yes, Evan?” I asked.

          “I’m so glad that we’re okay, that I was with you. You’re like my sister and I wouldn’t want to be in this situation with anyone else.”

          My heart fell.

So that’s how I found myself, in the bottom of a ditch, the guy I was in love with seeing me as his sister.

Mimi Schwartz “Memoir? Fiction? Where’s the line?” Reading Response

I particularly enjoyed this reading because it helped me with the issue of memoir stories, where do we draw the line? I missed class the day we talked about this, so I found it interesting to discover the line on my own. Schwartz discusses how our memories can sometimes (or often) fail us, so we need to be careful when writing memoir as to what is really true or what is made up. She also points out that we must be especially careful since we cannot know when we don’t truly remember something the way it was, and asking someone else who shared the experience doesn’t really matter since they will have the same memory dilemma. Schwartz cleverly solves this dilemma by saying that perhaps you remember the situation or person in a specific way, and that you should describe it/them the way you remember so that other people can picture them the same way.

          I loved the quote from Pam Houston, “I write fiction to tell the truth” because I believe that there is always some hint of truth behind works of fiction.  However this also blurs the line between memoir and fiction and the writer must decide where to draw the line if they are trying to write memoir.

          I also enjoyed when Schwartz discussed how to use fiction to protect certain people who do not particularly want to be included in the story. Another quote that was helpful was “the story is 90 percent factual; the rest is made up to protect those who didn’t as to be in this book”. I think it is necessary to do this because sometimes you need the characters to be in the story to fully capture it, but the person may not want to be in the story. This way you can create a fictional character that does similar things but protects the person’s identity.

          Overall this reading was very helpful, especially since I missed the class where this topic was discussed. 

Margaret Atwood “Happy Endings” Reading Response

I enjoyed this reading because it gives six different endings to the story “John and Mary meet”, all of which are radically different from the one before them. The only particularly happy ending is A, yet readers are still slightly dissatisfied because the ending was “too simple”.

          This reading helped me with endings because it showed me that even though as a writer I want to give the characters a happy ending, there are much more interesting stories to be told from those that do not have the simple happy ending. Each ending gets progressively darker, but they become so interesting. Atwood does a fantastic job at showing readers how many different possibilities for endings there can be.

          At the end, Atwood claims that “the only authentic ending is the one provided here: John and Mary die. John and Mary die. John and Mary die.” Then she proceeds to say that it’s more of the beginning that matters instead of the end. This leaves me with the idea that beginnings are what really count, because in the end all of the characters will “die”. However according to Atwood, the plot is the most difficult, and only the most talented writers can make it important. Overall this reading was very helpful since it put into context how important the entire story is. 

Taking a few Characters out to Dinner

This is a short paragraph inspired by the book “Handle with Care”, written by Jodi Picoult.      

The family was seated at a large booth in the local Chinese restaurant. They didn’t usually eat meals together unless they went to a restaurant and were forced into having quality family time. The talk was minimal and awkward at best until the waiter began to bring out their meal: plates full of pork fried rice, steamy sesame beef, simple white rice, spicy orange chicken, and their famous scrumptious egg flour soup. Instantly it was if they were a family again, not a congregation of strangers forced to spend time together. They were asking each other to pass plates of this or that food, loading out portions of soup for one another. At one point the dad asked the youngest son if he would like some of the orange chicken dish, which lifted the boy’s spirits since that was the nicest thing his father had said to him since… well, the last time they ate at a restaurant together.

Limerick

Once upon a time I was in love
Our hands fit together like a glove
We'd stay up late into the night
Everything felt so right
Then it all ended with a shove

Why I Dislike Writing Poetry

I’d rather write prose

The right thing to say, who knows?

Poetry isn’t easy

It usually ends up too cheesy

Including a cliché

A summary of your day

Looking for inspiration in your front yard

Poetry is just too hard

Zoomed- In Train Station

Mounds of grey and brown rocks beneath the metal tracks. They create a path for travelling. Cigarette butts strewn over the rocks, tossed aside by their owners once their foul smell is extinguished. The taste of the leftover cigarette put out, like its insignificant flame.  The smooth rocks interrupted by the company of the cigarettes. Grey and brown, with the disturbance of the unpleasant tan color. The rocks aren’t disturbed by the trampling of feet, only the garbage mingled within it.