“This was my favorite,” he said into the silence. 
      I was still reeling from the picture flashing sat me from his computer screen.  I could see the hole where the bullet had entered the man’s Adam’s apple.  It must have traveled up the curve of the skull before exploding out of the man’s head because brains trailed a couple feet, carried by the impact of the shot.  The body looked broken, its legs angled unnaturally, uncomfortably, one arm flopped over the man’s chest, the other splayed to the side.  The eyes looked lifelessly toward the open, still blue sky while vibrant shades of red splattered the man’s clothes. 
     Was this really the same guy who told me he needed therapy in the middle of a conversation about the latest Shinedown album? Clearly he was right, but by the looks of it, he asserting his manhood and refusing to let humanity show.  She looked up at him and wondered why she was sitting there.  Standing up, she turned to leave.

My protagonist is at the raw age of 22 but was 17 when they enlisted and 21 when they deployed.  He grew up in small town Iowa with little to no parental guidance.  When his sister was home, she instilled her own version of discipline, but for the most part she was her best friends adopted sister.  While his family is nowhere near exemplary, he is more protective of them than he is of himself.  The only person allowed to criticize the situation is someone from the sister’s adopted family. 

As far as education goes, he doesn’t value “book smarts” but is incredible street savvy even if they won’t recognize it.  He did passably in school at best, but in the military, his superiors selected him for field paramedic and leadership positions.  The one thing he wasn’t prepared to deal with overseas was the psychological factors.  He barely passed his psych evaluation before deploying because in some ways he can’t stop thinking, yet he knows how to keep those thoughts to himself out of what he sees as self-defense.

He has had many sexual encounters, but only one real relationship.  However, he doesn’t recognize this because his parents never demonstrated a healthy relationship.  His father while harmless was an aggressive drunk, and his mother while a good person was eager to please every guy she ever dated.  In the same way his psychology didn’t prepare him for deployment, it also did not prepare him for the intimacy of telling someone everything or the companionship of being a team.  This lead him to be cheated on, stolen from, and elsewise mistreated by the people in his life and to push away anyone who wouldn’t do those things.

The culmination of all of this is the molded exterior that says things like “this was my favorite.”

The entire story came from the line “this was my favorite.” A couple weeks ago, that particular phrase what said to me, and for the most part, my discovery draft was me attempting to understand how someone could say that.  I am concerned that I am drawing too much from a specific instance.  While I am writing thoughts and experiences for someone else, I know better than anyone else why that phrase came out of his mouth.  The reason I wrote it as a short story was because I did not explicitly detail any of the instances or fire fights that I know happened.  On the other hand, I am considering changing my story completely because I am not sure what my goal is for the reader.

What would one day in your Ideal Life be like? What time would you get up? Where would you live? With whom would you live? What are your pets, your passions? Allow yourself to dream on the page . . .

                I would live in a cottage or farm style house on the outskirts of town, someplace where I would have lots of space but the neighbors could hear me scream if an axe murder decided to visit.  I would live with my three kids and someone I could trust, I would love, want to get to know better, but someone who returned the affection, and someone who could fight with me (which isn’t fun. Trust me on that one, and if not trust me, trust my mother, my friends, or my ex).  We would have a large dog, a St Bernard or a Huskie who would follow me around the house and plop its self on the floor while I went about my business.  There would be a trial with lots of trees right outside our yard where I could run in the mornings, probably just a short mile or two before I got ready for the day.  I hate waking up, but once I’m out of bed I find that I am actually a bit of a morning person.  I like how the sun rises and everything is quiet.  Then I could have a treadmill and multitask like I do now.  Read papers from my students (I’m an English education major) or read for fun while finishing my usual distance for the day.  I would be able to cook.  I would have a library/craft/project room, so I could work with my hands.

Go back to the eavesdropping exercise and the character sketch you did after it; using the same people and setting, write a new conversation for the characters, a conversation that reveals a conflict at the core of their relationship.

Facing each other under the bell tower shortly after eight o’ clock classes had started, the pair stared at each other in recognition.  Deliberately the boy pulled a pen out of his pocket and threw it as intensely and swiftly as a blade aimed for the expanse of forehead between the girl’s eyes.  She darted and spun to the side just in time for the unlikely weapon to wedge itself in the wall that had previously stood directly behind her.  It was a conversation without words, but both knew that they were the two students, opponents pitted against one another to determine which was worthy of the ninja suit.

Read and respond to “An Interview with My Husband,” given to you in class. Pay attention to the formalism of the piece: how does the piece borrow from/incorporate various forms of writing? What is the effect of using those forms in the story?

I thought it was an interesting use of form to record the conversations like an interview for most of the story.  The present conversation carries this vein of banter, but the content is pretty significant.  The bluntness of the interview style feels more revealing to the reader because it is set up as “objective”, merely a recording of events.  She does something similar with her memories.  It is still minimal as far as the dialogue is set up.  Without the brief narrative introducing the speaker’s reflections, the reader would still be able to tell the past tense because each participants name is preceded with “And”, but you are not given more specifics about how the speaker said something.  It relies heavily on what was said.

My writing schedule tends to become less of a schedule and more of a impulse.  I write when I am required or when I fell like I need to.  I write when I need to explore how I have handled a situation or how I feel about something, often resulting in a short story describing the alternative to my decision or a typical journal entry.  I have noticed that I am always more at ease after writing and also that I write almost every day regardless of when in my day I find the time.  If I were to change anything about my writing habits, it would be to find time to write just because I use to enjoy it, not because a class told me to or because I need to see my thoughts on paper.  I would like to find time to write for myself, but there always seems to be something else that I wish I had more time to do whether it be exercise, guitar, sketching, or something else.

I praise the breaded chicken in honor of my mother,
Who slaved over the milk based gravy
Careful not to let it boil—though never sure why
Because it boiled once put in the oven,
Who careful placed the chicken in the pan,
Poured the gravy over the meat,
Blanketed it with swiss cheese,
Sprinkled it with bread crumbs,
And slid the whole mess into the oven to bake.

While the chicken sizzled in its goop,
The family celebrated in its unique and grandiose way,
For Mom only makes the chicken for special occasions.
The food covered the house with a smell
Of childhood my sister and I have tried to replicate
With marginal success—her for her own family
And me for my friends.

Gail White "My Personal Recollections of Not Being Asked to the Prom"

In her poem, she explores her high school self and her mother's expectations. The poem relays how she did not feel like she could be pretty and smart, and Gail continues to infer how she chose her mind over her body in the second stanza. She says her mom never had to buy her a dress for the prom and explains that because she chose her wits she came off as "stuffy". This heedlessness for expectations reflects archetypes for a rebellious teenager that broaden the scope of the poem. She tells her own story as an example and adds significance to the story with the last line "But I got married, Mother, all the same." With the direct address to her mother, it adds a sense of attitude or resentment for the expectations. It says that the author did not have to live her life as her mother saw fit, yet she still managed to get married which the audience is to assume was of up most importance to the mother. The poem makes a statement about family dynamics.

My favorite childhood toy was . . .my American girl doll
My favorite childhood game was . . .horses
The best movie I ever saw as a kid was . . .Beauty and the Beast
I don’t do it much but I enjoy . . .sketching
If I could lighten up a little, I’d let myself . . .stop planning and making lists
If it weren’t too late, I’d . . .have made my ex face me when he got back from deployment
My favorite musical instrument is . . .my guitar
The amount of money I spend on treating myself to entertainment each month is . . .probably about $100
If I weren’t so stingy with my artistic self, I’d buy him/her . . .a polar bear who eats only marshmallows? I don’t follow this one.
Taking time out for myself is . . .running and stretching, playing my guitar, or working with pictures.
I am afraid that if I start dreaming . . .I’ll forget the reasons why I walked away
I secretly enjoy reading . . .the new books in series I started when I was in middle school
If I had had a perfect childhood I’d have grown up to be . . .happy with imperfections because there’s beauty there too
If it didn’t sound so crazy, I’d write or make a . . .book explaining the time between March my sophomore year and about a month ago
My parents think artists are . . .talented
My God thinks artists are . . .full of potential
What makes me feel weird about this creative writing class is . . .the last question about God
Learning to trust myself is probably . . .a work in progress
My most cheer-me-up music is . . .avenged sevenfold
My favorite way to dress is . . .jeans, boots, and layered shirts

List five hobbies that sound fun: dancing, kickboxing, painting, cooking and baking, horseback riding
List five classes that sound fun: pottery throwing, interior design, belly dancing, the robin hood etc. special study class, simulated skydiving
List five things you personally would never do that sound fun: deep sea fishing (I hate boats), cliff diving, robbing a bank successfully, being part of the prank team that busts a bad guy (covert operation of some kind), flying a plane
List five things you used to enjoy doing: color guard, choir, band, dance, horseback riding
List five silly things you would like to try once: dirt biking, dying my hair black with purple highlights, going on a spring break trip even though I don’t drink or road tripping without planning, renovating a house even though I know nothing about construction, bungee jumping

Would you be more likely to integrate yourself into the culture of your host country, or to remain separate from it? Why?

I think there can and should be a middle ground where this is concerned.  The beauty of diversity among people adds interest to our interactions, but for that delicate balance to survive these interactions need to be made possible by a common ground.  I feel like if I am living in a host country I am expected to know something of their language so that I can communicate my own personality, opinions, and beliefs while acknowledging the culture generous enough to host me.  There needs to be a respect for the culture within which I have chosen to live, and part of the experience is trying new things such as food, activities, and other aspects of living.  There is a fine line between resigning myself as a minority and expecting my host country to change itself to accommodate little old me.

Nothing but dirt composed the path that lead into the knot of trees while grass began to encroach upon the trail.  Trees framed the view as they filtered the sun into spot lights.  Boughs reach towards hikers as they take in the nature.  As the branches bow over the road, their leaves add dimension to the canopy above the visitors' heads.  When the path bends, it weaves through the collection of trees and carefully avoids the valleys and creeks while slowly climbing the hill to Winterset's Tower.

Biography for guy #1 (The one convincing his friend to go to Mug Night)

My name is Brett and I’m a twenty one year old business major from Kansas City. I’m tall, dark, and definitely handsome. I work out every day because I am always trying to look good for the ladies. I would have a girlfriend but I can never choose which girl I want to be with. I come from a well off family and drive a really nice car that my parents bought for me as a graduation present. When I'm not working out, I like to party with my boys and pick up the ladies on the weekends. I like to play sports, especially football and basketball with my roommates. I like to have fun and am up for anything

--Emily's Blog

This blog reminded me about the jock in young adult fiction.  We read about him all the time, but it was kinda fun to see it in first person.  When I was in high school, my friend did a murder mystery party where we were each assigned a character, and one of them was the "good for nothing play boy".  This biography reminded me of the costume that person created for the character.

Tipping her Italian soda as she tried to catch herself, the girl stumbled into the booth .  If her "friend" only knew she had already found her ninja master.  In fact that was her first assignment when she decided to accept her invitation to the assassin academy.  She was in the middle of her final exam before her black suit ceremony where she would be given her traditional ninja garb.  Her mission was to find the marked student on campus.  When she discovered him or her, they would have a small X just under their right ear.  It was simple and probably cliche, but the X served its purpose.  She also bore the X tucked behind her ear partially obscured by her hair.  The two students were pitted against one another to determine which was worthy of the ninja suit.  The winner would attend their ceremony while the opponent would be place in another environment to try again.

--Two friends in Java City--

You could practice stealth killing. That's a work out.
*Snorts* I’m too much of a clutz they would see me coming...may as well embrace that fact.
That's why you practice. Get better. Show them corporate douche-bagels the art of work-out-killing. DO ITTTT.
*Laughs* I’ll get right on that. Know anywhere I can sign up for ninja classes?

--They grab their food and come back to their table--

So you gonna take those ninja assassination classes?

Of course, but ninja masters are so hard to find.  They’re just so ninja-ee
Let me know if you find one.
Oh I’m keeping my eyes peeled.

Walking down a street typically traveled by cars, you skirt a barricade and continue down the wet pavement.  The rain is merely a drip on your skin, but it slowly makes your clothing cling damply to you.  The smell of cinnamon and freshly baked dough wafts toward you, so you beeline to a small enterprise situated on the street corner.  You have to duck under the canvas awning which droops with the weather.  The breakfast you purchase sticks to your fingers as you start to pick apart the roll and taste the family recipe exclusive to the vendor.  Staying tucked under the shelter to finish eating, you notice carts roughly your height housing trays and trays of baked goods creating a back wall while three adjacent tables complete the enclosure.  Two entrepreneurs lean over the tables competing with a babble of voices on the street to make sales.

Perched on my desk stool, I absentmindedly bounce my foot with an urge to get out of my dorm.  My roommate had gone ho me for the weekend, so the emptiness puled around me.  I could hear my pen tapping anxiously, echoing as the only sound in the empty loft.  Abruptly my phone started to dance on my desk top as it vibrated and sang.  Without letting my phone finish the ringtone's chorus, I jumped to answer the call and cursed into the phone when I fell off my seat.  My best friend's laugh emanated from the speaker in recognition of my infamous lack of grace. 

"You comin home this weekend?"
"I am now." Anything to free myself from the moment of boredom.

Within five minutes I was in my car headed to the back roads that begin my two hour drive home.  My open windows blew my barely packed belongings around my back seat where I had thrown them while my hair whipped in my face.  The air smelled fresh after last night's rain.  The sunshine colored the fields a lush green, and if my radio were not cranking my current favorite band, I would have been able to hear the farm equipment and seasonal birds. 

A) About an hour into my drive I was thoroughly enjoying myself as I raced my dark cloud home.  My back pack was supplied for my short schedule of Friday classes, not a weekend at home.  When I settled into doing my homework on Saturday morning, my computer blinked angrily at me as its battery quickly died.  Reaching into my bag, my hand scrapped the bottom as I came up empty.  I hadn't needed my charger for my solidary class.  I had hardly needed my laptop.  I closed my notebook and forgot about my assignment for the weekend...that is until about nine o' clock on Monday.

B) About half way home, my phone started ringing against the cup holder.  The racket was loud enough to cut over my music, and I reached over to turn my radio down.  Picking up the phone, I heard my assistant manager somewhat frantic on the other end of the line.  My coworker called in sick, and she had already called all the other local employees to find coverage.  I started doing the math in my head.  I could potentially work an eight hour shift and replenish my dwindling checking account.  I happily accepted.  When Tash called to do a movie on Saturday, I could say yes guilt free.

Introduction

My name is Lauren Gilliard, and as of yesterday I am twenty years old.  I am in my third year at Northwest Missouri where I am majoring in English education.  I have taken several composition classes while meeting my degree requirements, but this blog is for my first creative writing class.  My other interests include reading, running, music, sketching, and traveling, but like most college students I am still learning how to be me.