itesser ink: progress, uncensored

I read something. It was neat. In the midst of the reading I said to myself, "I should blog about this so I remember more about the piece and the experience". Then I got distracted and wandered around the internet. Because I'm lazy. But I want to be less lazy, remember? So here's digging in for some concentration and writing about it.

The personal essay in question is Dumpster Full of Windows by Raquel D'Apice who I normally refer to (in my mind) as theuglyvolvo. (It's not personal or judgmental, she chose that username.)

Raquel seldom posts, less than once a month, but the quality of her essays more than make up for the "pain" of having a silent party on my friends list. Each entry is a personal story, but comparing it to what one finds on most diary-type blogs is comparing mountains to molehills. And besides climbing such mountains, I'd like to build them.

Components I think I'll need to construct such gems of creative writing (I've included a single example of each, usually the first occurrence, not necessarily the best, but definitely not the only):

+ Attention to detail
The tan vinyl on one of the seats has been slashed and someone has fixed it by stitching it back together in a zipper pattern with light pink thread, the inch-long ends hanging frayed from either side.

+ Connections of "unrelated" things
The train slows and the woman’s automated voice says, “This station stop is: Nanuet.” . . . The woman’s voice says all the syllables clearly and distinctly, as if Nanuet is the final answer in a multiple-choice question that my teacher is reading aloud.
In 1863, the Civil War battle with the largest number of casualties was fought at which location:
a. Appamatox
b. Gettysburg
c. Dorney Park and Wildwater Kingdom
d. Nanuet

+ Personal recollection
“But what DO you actually do?” a friend asked once.

+ Personal revelation
I have only a beginner’s carpentry set that has been used mainly to hammer nails into the walls and assemble shelving.

+ Recurring themes
.She pulls her sunglasses from the dashboard—they are always in a small compartment in the dashboard—and puts them on and kisses me.
.She puts her sunglasses back into the compartment in the dashboard.
.Opening the car door she reaches for her sunglasses, which are always in a compartment in the dashboard.

Perhaps this deserves a little more explanation. The first mention of her mother's sunglasses is part of the attention to detail that immerses me in Raquel's writing. The second occurrence underlines the use of "always" from the first mention. The third time the sunglasses show up, they help to wrap the piece up neatly as her mother is fetching them to "help with the glare" that will no doubt be an issue when Raquel builds a house out of the windows she saw in a dumpster.

The thread of her mother's sunglasses is probably the most pedestrian running theme in the essay, but necessary for the conclusion:

I thank her and put on the sunglasses. I will wear these to work on Monday, I think. I will saunter in to the office in my mother’s sunglasses, holding an idyllic wood-framed window, which I will set on the wall of my cubicle, propped against a bookcase. I will leave it open—it is nice to have windows, but it is nicer, sometimes, to have open windows; to feel a little bit of air on your face.

I will leave the window open and the wind will rush through. It will blow the smell of cookies back into the far corners of the office, where people on other floors will suddenly realize that they are hungry, and it will blow the papers from my inbox—shooting them out in sheaves out onto 49th street, leaving the air hung with forms—white and blinding and precipitating like snow.

(I pause a moment to swoon again.)

One last component bullet point:

+ Creative wit
The strongest example of this requires too much context for me to copy verbatim. The author is telling the reader a bullet list of her rules for organizing her office. In the middle of the list, Raquel's mother interrupts twice. It breaks an informative section of writing into a narrative (though fictional, I'm sure) form in a way that tweaks my brain. In a good way. It feels as though in the realm of body-of-writing, platonic-ideal-author and platonic-ideal-audience, there is also platonic-ideal-Raquel and platonic-ideal-Raquel's-mom who can see and relate to the bullet point list as though it were a solid object, like a building.


The individual components aren't as impressive, however, as the intricate way the essay is constructed. Sometimes I write "essay", sometimes "story", but neither feels wholly true. Poetry, in fact, seems closer to an accurate description for the rhythm, refrains, filigrees of words, and charming way it all comes together to ride off into the sunset.

Forgive me, Raquel, for this attempt to dissect your writing. It is only so I may learn from it. I hope you are not of the bourgeois, those who will send the bobbies after this poor worker caught trying to steal their secrets.

1- I was going home and saw windows in a dumpster
2- future conversation with sister about #1
3- details relating to #1
4- unrelated joke about voice on the train (mentioned in #1)
5- long details about getting off train
6- sunglasses
7- conversation with mom ("relax")
8- description of job (ends with imagination)
9- more thoughts about job (ends with imagination)
10- interaction with mom (groceries)
11- sunglasses (#6)
12- continuation of #10
13- Kitchen description (#10)
14- stuff on sale (#10)
15- dollar stuff for office (8, 14)
16- office forms, poetry (#8)
17- exchange with mom (16, 2 [in spirit])
18- rule from elementary school (#16)
19- putting away groceries (#10)
20- interaction with mom, clothing details (#10)
21- more interaction with mom (20, 2[memories and Pam])
22- observing clutter (10, 20)
23- groceries, overwhelming, organize (10, 8)
24- "Rules for organizing a workspace" (10, 8, 17)
25- what are these (24, 17)
26- weird stuff "for grandkids" (25, 17)
27- "don't throw out the coupons" (14, 25)
28- deep breathing (21)
29- apology conversation (7, 20)
30- different job (8, 1)
31- talking with Pam, house of windows down the street (2, 1, 21)
32- check on the windows (1, 2, 3)
33- tools in the garage (24)
34- if i had that house... (1, 31, 15, 24)
35- glare in the house (34, 20, 6, 20)
36- work on monday... (8, 1, 6, 15, 16, 35)

In retrospect, that's a dissection with scissors instead of a scalpel. Not every description of a passage (one or two paragraphs or a section of dialog) is exact enough to know what is being referenced or reiterated when the number recurs. I hope the list conveys the snowball effect that takes place over the 3500-odd words of the piece.

I feel like I know the author once I reach the end. Not only because she shares many details about her family, her thoughts, her life, but because she calls on me to use those details of what she's shared as the "conversation" between writer and reader goes on. Little things accumulate over those 3000 words until you feel like you're sharing an inside joke at the end. Through the repetition the pattern, the web, of interrelated thoughts emerges, so when we're comfortable with the author's rhythm, the poetic, imaginative ending is very satisfying.

It's time for me to get out of bed, I've spent almost two hours on this. I'll ruminate some more, let thoughts settle and sink in, then see what I may be able to apply to my own reflective writings.