This is Character Creation

This is Character Creation

Roll four six-sided dice. Take the three highest numbers and add them together, and write that amount down. Repeat this process six more times. Throw out the lowest number. The remaining six are your ability scores: strength, dexterity, constitution, intelligence, wisdom, and charisma. These scores will modify every action in the game; they will define how good a character is at what he does. This is the first step of character creation.

Gaming, especially the role-playing kind, has become one of the rituals of my life. In high school, it ruled every Friday afternoon from the time school ended until perhaps seven in the evening. For those four hours each week, we pretended to be all kinds of different people. It was where I met my closest friends in high school, which is interesting because we forged our friendships not as ourselves but as a variety of characters.
Actually, thinking back on it, my love of playing someone else began earlier. As children, my sisters and I invented our own games. We made the rules, and adapted them as we saw fit. We even game our games names: “Magic People” was a game where we each picked an object – a broom, a snow globe, a strange little sandstone pyramid paperweight – and that was the source of our magical powers. For this game, the porch was a castle keep, the sidewalk and the walkway to the house were river and moat, and the pieces of shale that crossed the lawn were small islands. The garden on the side of the house was the jungle, tiger lilies on one side and dogwood on the other, both overgrown, overreaching the path to the backyard. The side of the house required slightly less imagination. We would jump around and go on adventures, holding our magic in our hands, from the safety of our front lawn.

“You can sense that the dead paladin’s soul is trapped within that well of darkness,” Bob tells me. Bob is the DM for this session. He just threw a small horde of zombies at our party, and one of our members died in the battle. He was a paladin; paladin’s are the game’s most righteous defenders of law and good. They are required by their beliefs to attack all evil wherever they find it. To this end, they have many abilities that enhance their defenses, but the sheer number of zombies was too much, and this poor paladin died doing his duty.
“Is it true?” Fred’s character is asking me this, because as a cleric of his order he has put his faith in me. “Does my brother’s soul remain trapped here?” He looks at me for an answer.

After generating ability scores, pick which class the character will start out having. This choice is as important, if not more so, than the ability scores themselves, because most of the abilities a character has come from the options provided by his class. A rogue has a moderate attack bonus, prefers skills that allow her to move around the battlefield without drawing attacks, and deals extra damage when she can stab an enemy (or friend) from behind. She battles with her high dexterity and intelligence, picking her targets carefully. The barbarian has a good attack bonus, many hit points, and ability to enter a rage to gain even more strength and hit points; he rushes in swinging. Barbarians favor strength and constitution, the hallmarks of physical classes. The arcane casters – wizards, sorcerers, bards – need high scores in intelligence or charisma. They stand back from the main battle, using spells to benefit their allies and attack their enemies. Clerics rely on wisdom and heavy armor, can heal, and have a moderate attack bonus. Clerics can play almost any role they want, but usually they act as their deity prefers.

As I said, I’m a cleric, a member of the paladin’s religious order. Normally, a party member’s death casts a pall over the group, but this is different. This death was worse because Abi and Fred, two players, had decided that their characters, both paladins, would be brothers. Now Abi’s character is dead, and Fred’s character is especially bereft. What makes it worse is that a particularly powerful being controls this massive cemetery, and he has somehow prevented the dead paladin’s soul from reaching its final reward. And now I know.
I think about this. The evil guy on the throne, probably some kind of undead himself, has offered to trade the dead paladin’s soul for the living paladin’s, and Fred is just the sort of player who would accept that offer for his dead brother’s sake. But that wouldn’t really serve the party, and we’re going to have to fight the evil guy anyway. So what do I do?

Thinking back, I don’t remember being particularly unsatisfied with my childhood. I think I played these games, which despite an inability to modify the characters, are still role-playing games, out of simple enjoyment. They were easy to love. The character has a well-defined quest to complete, usually before a great evil takes over the world, and a sword and other tools with which to complete that quest. Along the way are numerous baddies trying to stop him, which the hero can defeat with a little deduction and practice.
Such easily defined goals had immense appeal to me. As I got older, and began to interact with my classmates at a more adult level, I began to realize that there were things that were different about the way I viewed things. I was raised in a religious household, and the restrictive views of my parents and church kept me from many of the things that could have formed the basis for forming friendships. I had never been allowed to participate in sports activities, for example, because these were usually held on weekends, and I would not have been able to miss church on Sunday mornings. Or Sunday nights, for that matter. Or any of the other times that my parents felt that a child should be there, participating in church activities. Not being able to discuss sports presented a real roadblock to popularity, and so I felt apart. There were other reasons as well, that would become even more significant as I got older, but those were not apparent yet. At least, not to me.
The social challenges were beyond me at this stage; however, where I lacked skill in the actual world, I was still able to overcome challenges and finish quests in the virtual worlds. These virtual worlds became even more of a draw for me, and I remember spending hours playing the original Final Fantasy, Dragon Warrior, and Crystalis games for the Nintendo. Super Nintendo brought me gems such as Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past, the Secret of Mana, and Final Fantasy II (or IV for purists), which is still one of my all-time favorites. Games like these helped me through some awkward transitional years. I had questions about sexuality, what mine was, and whether it fit in with both popular opinion and religious belief. I didn’t like the thought that I might be different, and turned to video games as a means of avoiding, or at least postponing the questions.

In the game, I’m trying to postpone a different question. “You know where your brother’s soul would go when he died. Why do you believe the evil words of this fiend?” Or something like that. I’m trying to remain true to my character, but I have ulterior motives. We all do. And this is a classic Bob-style moral dilemma, so naturally there is no simple solution.

Choose your feats and assign your skill points next. Feats are abilities that enhance or specialize other class abilities. They allow characters to attack more frequently, give them ways to avoid damage, or allow them to change the way a spell effect goes off. If you’re ever unsure, a good first choice is Dodge, which gives a one point bonus to Armor Class. That is useful for any class; no one wants to get hit by an attack. After that, it’s best to choose feats that enhance the way you prefer to play.
Skills are things the character has learned over the course of her training and adventuring. Some skills are various types of knowledge: religion, history, arcana, etc. These skills are modified by the mental stats, intelligence mainly. Having one of these at the right moment can get a party moving in the right direction or tell them something that they could never otherwise find out. Other skills are physical: acrobatics, climb, stealth, swimming. These skills rely on the physical stats, usually dexterity or strength. Not having one of these when a character needs it can mean death. While having a good score in the appropriate ability can help, a balanced distribution of skill points is essential to a character’s success as an adventurer. Adventurers who haven’t thought out their skill selection end up stumbling around waiting for somebody to come along and help them, slowing down a party immeasurably.

My real problem began when I got out of high school. The people with whom I had been playing went off to college, and I stayed local, and then started working. Somewhere along the way I stopped playing games. I stopped role-playing because I couldn’t find a group of people to play with, and I stopped playing video games because I was working and trying to save money for school. I don’t want to give the impression that I was alone and lonesome; I had friends, and an entirely too active social life. But it was a life that I absorbed from the friends I was hanging around with at the time. I went clubbing frequently, and as one of my best friends loved movies passionately, I saw almost every movie that came out in theaters.
The closest I got to role-playing during this period was seeing the Dungeons & Dragons movie in theaters, and that was a less than stellar experience. Two of my friends left in the middle of it, and another fell asleep. I couldn’t exactly blame them; it was not a well-crafted movie. Still, I noticed the little things that were clever or well done, like the beholder. It was a moment of realization for me: this group of people couldn’t understand where I had come from, or what I really enjoyed.
It took a long time for me to realize that I wasn’t happy. I am somewhat ashamed to say I took it out on my friends in ways I didn’t even realize were unhappiness. Looking back at this time, I realize that I didn’t really have anything in common with the particular group of people. I didn’t listen to the same music they did. They weren’t big readers like I was. I had some common ground with video games, but only with a few of them, and none at all really with my “best” friend. I wonder now if I was myself at all with them. I think this is also when I started having outbursts and mood swings, which turned out to be signs of a larger problem than I realized at first. My relationships grew strained, and then, out of convenience and mutual desire, ended.

After assigning skills, find out how much gold you start with, and then go shopping. Equipment is a character’s lifeblood. Characters purchase their starting weapons and armor, and then pick up more as they quest around their world. The search for obscure or powerful equipment can drive entire storylines. For a starting character, the class determines what types of armor and weapons may be equipped. Fighters may use any weapon and armor: bastard sword, large shield, scale mail. Rogues favor light armors and fast, light weapons: leather armor, dagger, short sword. Clerics may not use edged weapons unless their deity specifically allows it, but are not restricted in armor: heavy mace, plate armor. The arcane casters, wizards and sorcerers, may not use any armor; it interferes with their delicate casting. Their long training in magic has kept them from learning to wield weapons, so they may use only the most simple. If you’re the wizard, you wear clothes, you buy a dagger, and you hope you never need to use it.
Pick up some utility equipment too: A backpack, a bedroll, torches, flint and steel, trail rations, a waterskin, and rope. Always, always buy some rope. It’s my cardinal rule. The rest is up to personal preference, but these are things no adventurer should ever be without. After all, his equipment is an adventurer’s best friend.

In the game, Fred, Tom, Ivan, and Bob are staring at me as I try to figure out the right way to answer this question. It’s amazing how much of an effect my next few lines of dialogue will have on the way this entire segment of the adventure plays out. We’re talking about character death here. I know I can’t lie outright; I am a cleric of a good deity, who would frown on such a tactic. Still, there must be something I can do to get around the whole truth.
“Brother Cleric,” Fred says quietly, “do not delay. If my brother’s soul is indeed trapped here, I must do what I can to free him.” As a player, he knows. He was at the table when Bob told me what I found out. It’s a testament to his willingness to role-play that he is drawing this out. His actions will be based not on the truth, but on what I say.
I look at Tom. Tom is the rogue in this endeavor. Actually, Tom is the rogue pretty much all the time, even when he’s not technically playing one, and even when we’re not playing a game, for that matter. But here he’s not even trying to play against type. He meets my eye, and I can see he knows that we’re going to end up fighting regardless. Ivan, the other cleric, is already thinking about what spells to cast in what order. Fred knows that we need to defeat Evil Guy, but he is a good role-player; if I tell him the whole truth, Fred’s character will give himself to Evil Guy, and we’ll pretty much be sunk. Two clerics and a rogue might be able to take down a powerful, evil undead, but it’s much easier with a paladin to engage it directly.

There came a period when I wasn’t really hanging out with anyone. By merest chance, this period of exile ended at work one day when a coworker noticed me reading through a role-playing game manual that had come in. I hadn’t played anything in years, and in the time I had been away the game had changed greatly. I don’t even remember why I was reading this particular manual. I think it was simply to have something to read on a break. My coworker noticed and asked me if I played, and I replied that I had in high school. From then on, she tried on numerous occasions to get met o come over to her gaming group. For whatever reason, I resisted, until a particular event made the offer too convenient to ignore.
In many ways, I owe my current group of friends to J.K. Rowling and her “Harry Potter” books. I was managing a bookstore, and the release of the fifth book meant that I had to work all weekend, instead of having Sundays off as I normally would. Sundays were when this particular gaming group met to play, and as I was going to be in the area anyway, I said I would come by to meet everyone. And I did. And I kept coming, and have almost every Sunday since.
This group of people was a revelation in many ways. They were adults, raised largely in an urban area, and as capable of navigating their actual environment as they were the imagined environments we shared. They weren’t socially inept or introverted; they didn’t stay holed up in their rooms unless they wanted to be. They accepted my not just because of my interest in playing, but because that is the kind of people they are, and we’ve grown together over the last seven years or so.

The last step is to give yourself a name, a physical description, and an alignment. Alignment indicates whether you are good or evil, lawful or chaotic. Do you follow the law of the land or the ideals of a religious belief? Do you do what you want regardless of the consequences? Do you want people to smile at your name, or would you prefer they run in fear at the sound? Your alignment is the way you live your life. The choices you make for your character should be made with your alignment in mind.

In the game, I’m Neutral Good. I have a little wiggle room there. Being “Good” on the moral axis means that I cannot take evil actions. I must not cause undue pain or torture, attack people who don’t deserve it, steal candy from babies, kick old ladies in the street, etc. On the ethical axis, I am “Neutral”. This means that I can take either “Lawful” or “Chaotic” actions so long as I strive for balance. Were I “Lawful” I would have to tell the truth, the whole truth, so help me whichever deity I follow. But a little white lie here seems appropriate, as it will allow us the opportunity to attack the evil guy and free this area from his influence. And that’s an overall good act. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
Tom’s character has his daggers out. Ivan has decided on his spells. Fred is still waiting for me to decide his character’s fate.
I end up answering with a question of my own, one that plays on the paladin’s pride and faith. “Do you think this creature’s evil is powerful enough to bar a holy paladin’s soul from communion with his deity? Have faith in the power of Pelor, brother paladin.” My character walks over to him and says a prayer, and that prayer just happens to be a spell of Protection from Evil, which I know Fred’s character will need. Fred’s character tells Evil Guy that he will not accept the deal. With that, Evil Guy attacks, and the battle begins.

This is a part of my new gaming ritual; the Sunday evening gaming that started before I met this group, and will hopefully continue for as long as we all enjoy gaming. For four hours every Sunday evening, we pretend to be powerful spell caster, daring warrior, and skillful rogues. Well, generally we leave the rogue to Tom. I am comfortable here. I know that Wilson will always go for the toughest thing on the board first. I can count on Tom to pick his targets wisely, and on Frank not to. I know that if I need to cast and Tom or Wilson are in the area of effect, it’s okay, they don’t mind being brought back to life later. Though our alignments might be slightly different, we form a good party, in gaming and in life.

"Eye" Essay - Final Revision

“Excuse me, sir. I was wondering if I could ask you about a question about a magazine.”
“Of course, ma’am,” I reply. Helping customers with questions is, after all, one of the reasons I’m here.
“I see this issue on the shelf, but it’s a few months old. Is there a newer one?”
“Well,” I tell her, “it’s difficult to tell with magazines, because we don’t list them in the computer the same way we list books, but of course I’ll try.” In looking the magazine up in the database, it seems like there should be a newer issue. Going over to the shelf, though, the magazine isn’t there. “This is not that unusual,” I explain. “It may have sold out, or perhaps a few of the copies came in damaged,” I say. This seems to be a normal customer interaction, up until…now.
“Well, sir, I was wondering if there is any way I could get a discount on this issue, since it’s older.” I look at the magazine again. It is in good condition. It doesn’t look like it has ever been handled before.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say, “I’m not sure I follow.”
“Well, you said yourself that there is a newer issue out. Should I have to pay full price for this old one?”
I reply, with growing incredulity, “Well, ma’am, the magazine is still full of articles that contain useful information. The new issue would simply have different articles. I can’t really offer a discount because it isn’t the current issue.” After all, it isn’t exactly going stale. Only I don’t say that last part, naturally.
“Is that your store policy,” she asks.
“Is what our store policy, ma’am? Charging the listed price on the merchandise we sell? Yes, ma’am, that is our store policy”.
“Is there anyone else I can speak to about this?”
“You are welcome to speak to the store manager, though he is not in today. But yes, I would be happy to take your name and number so he can contact you about this issue.”
Such is one instance in the life of a retail sales person. What is it about shopping that makes people check their brains at the door? Customers seem to have the idea that whenever they are out in public, there are no rules for their interactions with other people. Yes, there is an open invitation into the store. We don’t discriminate; we are a Place of Public Accommodation; however, this is no one’s home, so please don’t act as though it were. It is impossible to clean up immediately after every single customer that walks in. Likewise, we cannot always watch over every square foot of the store at all times, so please, put that child’s shoes back on her, and perhaps your own as well. Thanks so much. It is a safety issue, you see. Also it is somewhat disgusting to think about. Except I could never say that.
Perhaps, like the child covering his own eyes and thinking nobody can see him, customers believe that where they gather no permanent impressions they also leave none behind. It might come as a great surprise to some to know that they persist in our collective memories much longer than their visit to the store persists in their own mind. I can only wonder if they would do some of the things they do. No, we are not a library, but does that conversation need to be yelled into a cell phone so loudly the entire store can hear it? Probably not, and particularly not when it sounds like an episode of some soap opera. Who is sleeping with whom? And whom else? Never mind. I don’t really want to know, and most likely no one else here does either.
It has never ceased to amaze me how little concern people show for things that are not theirs. I understand that people coming in aren’t all looking to purchase. Window shopping and browsing around are things I enjoy. We like to maintain a depth and breadth of stock commensurate with the interest of our shopping public. Yes, we have about twelve different travel guides to the state of Hawaii. Was it really necessary to take one of each over to the café to browse through? How long was it going to take to go through them all? And did the one that the coffee dripped on have to be hidden in the middle of the pile? We found it, of course. We always do.
The real estate market may be difficult outside, but inside the store, it’s an outright war. Unquestionably, the first customers into the store will go right to the café to pick out their preferred tables, where they will leave their belongings and then go browse around the store. Other customers stake out the comfy-chairs like homesteaders during the Oklahoma land rush. Consider this instance. “Manager to Customer Service,” the overhead said. Oh, I thought, they’re playing my song. Walking over, I see an older customer looking unhappy. In introduce myself, and ask how I may be of assistance.
“I want you to call the police.”
“Well, ma’am, could you please give me a few more details? That isn’t something I do lightly,” I explain.
“I put my things down on one of the chairs over by the magazines and then went to look around, and when I came back someone had moved them and was sitting in the chair. I want you to call the police and have her arrested.”
“Well, ma’am, that is not exactly something I can get involved in”, thinking of what the police will say if I call them for this. “It doesn’t affect the store in any way, since it’s between two customers”, I tell her. This is not exactly true, but this woman seems to be a few chips shy of a batch of cookies anyway, and I would simply prefer to diffuse the situation. “We don’t take responsibility for items that customers leave unattended”, I continue. “That really is the customer’s responsibility alone.” The customer walked away, somewhat unhappy, but calmed. Besides, if you knew how many of those comfy chairs we’ve thrown away because people had “accidents” in them, you probably wouldn’t want to sit there anyway. I probably should have said that, for her own sake, but I didn’t.
The store also becomes a battleground between opposing political ideologies. This happens regularly. It would be impossible to stop. It’s particularly bad during an election year, when publishers rush out any book they can dealing with the political upheavals approaching, and it manifests in two ways. The first issue stems from the customers’ unfailing belief that, even though a book is a bestseller and all their friends are talking about it, they are going to be the only person looking for it on any given day. Of course, it should be in stock, and for their convenience displayed right at the front of the store. This has the potential of happening with any book, but it’s much more fun when it happens with a political book. When it’s a political book, not having it on-hand means that we are obviously supporting the left/right-wing agenda, and are bleeding-heart liberals/neo-fascist conservatives, and so forth and so on. What customers tend to forget in these instances is that we are a business. We would sell almost anything that a customer was interested in purchasing. Actually, we don’t have the book because our initial shipment sold out faster than we could be resupplied. While we’re on the topic of political books, it does no good to hide the books written from opposing political views by covering them up with other books. Yes, there are a number of books out now with President Obama’s face on the cover. They aren’t all pro-Obama. Hiding them all behind the new Michael Savage or Bill O’Reilly book is pointless. We know we didn’t face-out those books in five different places. We will figure out what happened, and demean the culprit in absentia for doing it.
Political and social prejudices manifest themselves in other ways in the bookstore. Where books are placed in the store is very important to some customers. Also, what books are next to them becomes an issue. I will never forget the customer who was upset that the African-American Studies section was located next to the Gay & Lesbian Studies section.
“Why is this section here?” she asked.
“We try to keep similar topics together, ma’am, and so all of the sections that deal with special-interest groups are follow one another. See, it goes from History, into Current Affairs, into Cultural Studies, African-American Studies, Gay & Lesbian Studies, Women’s Studies, Asian Studies, Hispanic Studies, Native American Studies, etc”.
“Well, I don’t think it should be here”, she replied, as though hers should be the final word, and walked off. Where should we put it ma’am? The back of the bus…I mean store? Of course I didn’t say that.
Returns are always an issue. Our return policy is simple: only within two weeks, only with a receipt, only in saleable condition. If the item does not meet any one of those conditions, we are not obligated to take back the return. To be sure, we make exceptions. Life is full of unusual and difficult circumstances, and yes, we are humans too; however, we do assume that people who shop in a bookstore have some ability to read, and thus could read the return policy for themselves. As it turns out, that assumption is sometimes incorrect. Some interpretations have been particularly interesting. One customer insisted that the policy was worded in such a way that she needed only to have a receipt or come in within the stated time-period to get the refund. When I spelled out for her exactly what the wording meant, she replied that she had a college degree, and knew that it meant what she had insisted upon. We went back and forth for several minutes as I tried to explain certain basic grammatical rules to her, but she insisted on her reading. Finally, I gave up. Okay ma’am, we will do this return for you; but, just so you know, you are wrong. And yes, that was what really what I said.
My favorite customer interaction happened quite a while ago. This customer was pleasant, and had a simple request. She came up and asked, “Excuse me, but do you have any books on the meaning of names?” Well, yes, ma’am, we do. We have a whole section of books for baby names, I replied, and I turned to show her the way. “Well”, she continued behind me, “do you have any books with adult names?” Thankfully, I was facing away, because it was all I could do not to laugh. And for once, I couldn’t think of anything to say.

Reflective Analysis - Revised

At the beginning of the course, we were asked to consider the definition of creative nonfiction. We were asked that several times, actually, to the extent that I began to dread the question. At the time, it seemed like almost anything could be creative nonfiction; however, now I realize that the generalization is not quite correct. I believe I was not making enough of a distinction between subject and style. After reading many examples of the genre, what I would now say is that creative nonfiction is an attempt to understand a particular subject, which can be an event, person, or idea, by examining it and relating to it through a combination of personal experience and objective observation. The question of whether or not something is creative nonfiction becomes one of technique.
When this class first met, there would have been almost no way I could have written anything that I thought was creative nonfiction. I am still not entirely convinced, though I believe I have made several strides toward that goal. The body of writing that was required for this course was daunting. We wrote journal entries from prompts in most of the classes for the first two months, which was surprisingly difficult for me. I never felt that I was producing anything worthy of being read aloud, whereas my classmates’ journal entries seemed to be much deeper and more evocative of whatever the prompt called for. I wondered if I was able to make it in this course, if I were able to be honest enough with myself.
I decided that wading in slowly was not the way to approach this course. My first essay, on my problems with anger, mined my darkest thoughts and laid them out for people to see. Once I dove in, the remaining essays became much easier. The second essay I wrote, on my lifelong love of role-playing games and the positive effects it has had on my life. It was fun to reflect on various experiences of role-playing. In revising that essay, I incorporated more of the techniques we studied during the semester, namely segmentation and objective study. I am particularly proud of the third essay, even though I know it needs an actual conclusion and ending. That essay is on a topic I truly care about and think about frequently. In terms of technique, the third essay was heavily influenced by John McPhee’s essay “The Search for Marvin Gardens”. While I struggled with the fourth essay, writing first one and then another draft, I feel that the finished product accomplished something different from any of the previous essays. Now at the end of the course, I feel that I have a better understanding of how to go about constructing a creative nonfiction essay.
The revision process has been something of a challenge. I think my main challenge is trying to disassociate myself from what are very personal topics. It is almost contradictory, or perhaps counter-intuitive, to look at these types of essays so objectively that I can analyze them. I think that the only answer for this is practice. Such analysis of others’ examples will likely help me in revising my own work as well.
The blog was another struggle for me. Just as I was uncomfortable sharing work in class, so too am I uncomfortable with posting anything on the web, especially as there was no way I could limit access. Posting that first essay, on anger, on a blog that theoretically anyone could view was a giant leap for me. I still have some reservations about posting on a blog. I wonder whether there may be legal issues with trying to publish something in print that I previously published on a blog. Still, now that I have grown in confidence I feel better about the blog, and I am thinking of continuing it or creating a new one once the class is over.
I think the main benefit of this course has been to increase my confidence in my abilities as a writer, which have been long underused. Most of the issues that I had at the beginning of the course, including blog posting and prompt reading in class, can be traced back to this lack of confidence. The continued studies of various professional pieces, the practice of writing during the semester, and the reflective comments from the professor and classmates have all helped to increase my confidence in my writing abilities. I expect to continue writing these kinds of essays, for personal pleasure if nothing else, long beyond the end of this course.

Rhetorical Analysis - Granta

Granta: The Magazine of New Writing

Granta is a magazine with a long history, having made several comebacks over a period of 130 years. It was founded in 1889 in Cambridge, England, and published the works of Cambridge scholars. Over the years, it has included works by Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, Zadie Smith, Bill Bryson, and Kazuo Ishiguro. It bills itself as “The Magazine of New Writing” and that bears true in the submission guidelines: the magazine accepts only first run works. Otherwise, the magazine publishes essays, stories, poems, and photographic essays on a variety of topics.
In terms of audience and purpose, the magazine is less clear. Beyond a desire to publish only new writing, the magazine’s website indicates that “Granta does not have a literary or political manifesto, but it does have a belief in the power and urgency of the story, both in fiction and non-fiction, and the story’s supreme ability to describe, illuminate, and make real” (http://www.granta.com). Granta publishes both non-fiction, in categories it breaks down variously as “Non-Fiction”, “Reportage”, and “Memoir”, and fiction in each issue.
One item of note with regard to Granta is that each issue has a theme, which may be broad or narrow. The issue currently on newsstands as this is written is #112, is themed “Pakistan”, and contains works by and about Pakistanis and Pakistan, including the land and its people. This issue contained less creative nonfiction. The issue prior, #111, was themed “Going Back”, and contained works that dealt with characters reflecting on past loves, once popular music or styles, and reconsidering the continued relevance of favorite authors. The essays "Mum and Fritz" and "Utterly Dylan" are examples of the creative nonfiction they have accepted.
This may make it sound like the magazine will accept anything, but this is not entirely true. Their submission guidelines are a list of what they will not accept: book reviews, academic essays, straight reporting, genre fiction, or travel writing without a story. The magazine emphasizes the desire for a narrative focus, and a “point”, in all submissions. It also says that some pieces may bend or break these rules at times, but that in general they hold. Granta reminds those interested in submitting work that they receive a huge number of submissions each day, of which they are unable to publish most, despite how well some of them may be written.
As far as the technical elements of a submission:
• Do not submit works previously published in English.
• Submit no more than two stories or five poems at any one time.
• Do not submit by email, as Granta only accepts post submissions.
• Granta will not return unsuccessful submissions, so there is no need to include a SASE.
• Granta does not acknowledge receipt of submissions, and tries to read all submissions within three months of receipt. A response will be emailed after that time indicating whether or not the submission will be published.
• The cover letter need only include a brief summary of the piece as well as where you have published works previously.
• The maximum length is 4000 words.
There is no definite indication of the pay scale of Granta, except that the pay for submissions varies and generally is based on the market rates. The magazine buys at least the world English language rights and first serial rights in unsolicited manuscripts.

Course Reflection

At the beginning of the course, we were asked to consider the definition of creative nonfiction. We were asked that several times, actually, to the extent that the question became almost dreaded. At the time, it seemed like almost anything could be creative nonfiction; however, now I realize that the generalization is not quite correct. I believe I was not making enough of a distinction between subject and style. After reading many examples of the genre, what I would now say is that creative nonfiction is an attempt to understand a particular subject, which can be an event, person, idea, or almost anything really, by examining it and relating to it through personal experience and objective observation. The question of whether or not something is creative nonfiction becomes one of technique.
When this class first met, there would have been almost no way I could have written anything that I thought was creative nonfiction. I am still not entirely convinced, though I believe I have made several strides toward that goal. The body of writing that was required for this course was daunting. We wrote journal entries from prompts in most of the classes for the first two months, which was surprisingly difficult for me. I never felt that I was producing anything worthy of being read aloud, whereas my classmates’ journal entries seemed to be much deeper and more evocative of whatever the prompt called for. I wondered if I was able to make it in this course, if I were able to be honest enough with myself.
To get over this, I decided that wading in slowly was not the answer. My first essay, on my problems with anger, mined my darkest thoughts and laid them out for people to see. Once I dove in, the remaining essays became much easier. My second and third essays were, I thought, much better examples of the requested type of writing. I am particularly proud of the third essay, even though I know it needs an actual conclusion and ending. While I struggled with the fourth essay, I still feel that I have a better understanding of how to go about constructing a creative nonfiction essay. The revision process has been something of a challenge. I think my main challenge is trying to disassociate myself from what are very personal topics. It is almost contradictory, or perhaps counter-intuitive, to look at these types of essays so objectively that I can analyze them. I feel that I need to read more examples of creative nonfiction, to understand better the literary techniques and include them in my own work. Such critical analysis of others’ examples will likely help me in revising my own work as well.
The blog was another struggle for me. Just as I was uncomfortable sharing work in class, so too am I uncomfortable with posting anything on the web, especially as there was no way I could limit access. Posting that first essay, on anger, on a blog that theoretically anyone could view was a giant leap for me. I still have some reservations about posting on a blog. I wonder whether there may be legal issues with trying to publish something in print that I previously published on a blog. Still, now that I have grown in confidence I feel better about the blog, and I may continue it or create a new one once the class is over.
I think the main benefit of this course has been to increase my confidence in my abilities as a writer, which have been long underused. Most of the issues that I had at the beginning of the course trace back to confidence. I hope, by the end of the course (which is fast approaching) to read something in front of the class.

Reflective Analysis Rough Draft

At the beginning of the course, we were asked to consider the definition of creative nonfiction. We were asked that several times, actually, to the extent that the question became almost dreaded. At the time, it seemed like almost anything could be creative nonfiction; however, now I realize that the generalization is not quite correct. I believe I was not making enough of a distinction between subject and style. After reading many examples of the genre, what I would now say is that creative nonfiction is an attempt to understand a particular subject, which can be an event, person, idea, or almost anything really, by examining it and relating to it through personal experience and objective observation. The question of whether or not something is creative nonfiction becomes one of technique.
When this class first met, there would have been almost no way I could have written anything that I thought was creative nonfiction. I am still not entirely convinced, though I believe I have made several strides toward that goal. The body of writing that was required for this course was daunting. We wrote journal entries from prompts in most of the classes for the first two months, which was surprisingly difficult for me. I never felt that I was producing anything worthy of being read aloud, whereas my classmates’ journal entries seemed to be much deeper and more evocative of whatever the prompt called for. I wondered if I was able to make it in this course, if I were able to be honest enough with myself.
To get over this, I decided that wading in slowly was not the answer. My first essay, on my problems with anger, mined my darkest thoughts and laid them out for people to see. Once I dove in, the remaining essays became much easier. My second and third essays were, I thought, much better examples of the requested type of writing. I am particularly proud of the third essay, even though I know it needs an actual conclusion and ending. While I struggled with the fourth essay, I still feel that I have a better understanding of how to go about constructing a creative nonfiction essay. The revision process has been something of a challenge. I think my main challenge is trying to disassociate myself from what are very personal topics. It is almost contradictory, or perhaps counter-intuitive, to look at these types of essays so objectively that I can analyze them. I feel that I need to read more examples of creative nonfiction, to understand better the literary techniques and include them in my own work. Such critical analysis of others’ examples will likely help me in revising my own work as well.
The blog was another struggle for me. Just as I was uncomfortable sharing work in class, so too am I uncomfortable with posting anything on the web, especially as there was no way I could limit access. Posting that first essay, on anger, on a blog that theoretically anyone could view was a giant leap for me. I still have some reservations about posting on a blog. I wonder whether there may be legal issues with trying to publish something in print that I previously published on a blog. Still, now that I have grown in confidence I feel better about the blog, and I may continue it or create a new one once the class is over.
I think the main benefit of this course has been to increase my confidence in my abilities as a writer, which have been long underused. Most of the issues that I had at the beginning of the course trace back to confidence. I hope, by the end of the course (which is fast approaching) to read something in front of the class.

Audience and Literary Journals

The audience for my work would probably vary. My essays have been all over the place. I expect that the essay on Wildwood would be of interest to anyone who has visited it with any kind of frequency. This is possibly the most widely interesting essay, so I would be comfortable sending it to any literary journal that dealt with travel, or a more generic one like New Letters or Granta, if the theme matches, since almost every issue of Granta has a theme. The others I am not sure about. There were no hits I could find for journals that consider gaming in particular, and so I don't know where I should look for a market for the gaming piece. I don't know quite what "fits" means in this context. I am working on making these essays more like what "literary" readers would like. Ideally they will become the kind of thing that shows up in The New Yorker or Harpers someday.

Essay 4 - Is the Customer Always Right?

“Excuse me, sir. I was wondering if I could ask you about a question about a magazine.” Of course, ma’am, I reply. Helping customers with questions is, after all, one of the reasons I’m here. “I see this issue on the shelf, but it’s a few months old. Is there a newer one?” Well, I explain, it’s difficult to tell with magazines, because we don’t list them in the computer the same way we list books, but of course I’ll try. In looking it up, it seems like there is a newer issue. Going over to the shelf, the magazine isn’t there. This is not that unusual, I explain. It may have sold out, or perhaps a few of the copies came in damaged, I explain. This seems to be a normal customer interaction, up until…now.
“Well, sir, I was wondering if there is any way I could get a discount on this issue, since it’s older.” I look at the magazine again. It is in good condition. It doesn’t look like it has ever been handled before. Excuse me, ma’am, I say. I’m not sure I follow. “Well, you said yourself that there is a newer issue out. Should I have to pay full price for this old one?” Well, I reply with growing incredulity, the magazine is still full of articles that contain useful information. The new issue would simply have different articles. I can’t really offer a discount because it isn’t the current issue. After all, it isn’t exactly going stale. Only I don’t say that last part, naturally. “Is that your store policy,” she asks. Is what our store policy? Charging the listed price on the merchandise we sell? Yes, ma’am, yes, it is. “Is there anyone else I can speak to about this?” You are welcome to speak to the store manager, though he is not in today. But yes, I would be happy to take your name and number so he can contact you about this issue.
Such is one instance in the life of a retail sales person. What is it about shopping that makes people check their brains at the door? Yes, there is an open invitation into the store. We don’t discriminate. We are a Place of Public Accommodation; however, this is no one’s home, so please don’t act as though it were. Please, put that child’s shoes back on her, and perhaps your own as well. Thanks so much. No, we are not a library, but does that conversation need to be yelled into that cell phone so loudly the entire store can hear it? Probably not, and particularly not when it sounds like an episode of some soap opera. Who is sleeping with whom? And whom else? Never mind. I don’t really want to know, and no one else does either.
It has never ceased to amaze me how little concern people show for things that are not theirs. I understand that people coming in aren’t all looking to purchase. Window shopping and browsing around are things I enjoy. We like to maintain a stock breadth commensurate with the interest of our shopping public. Yes, we have about twelve different travel guides to the state of Hawaii. Was it really necessary to take one of each over to the café to browse through? How long was it going to take to go through them all? And did the one that the coffee dripped on have to be hidden in the middle of the pile? We found it, of course. We always do.
The real estate market may be difficult outside, but inside the store, it’s an outright war. Unquestionably, one of the first customers into the store will go right to the café to pick out their preferred tables, and they will leave their belongings there and then browse around the store. Other customers stake out the comfy-chairs like homesteaders during the Oklahoma land rush. Consider this instance. “Manager to Customer Service,” the overhead said. Oh, I thought, they’re playing my song. Walking over, I see an older customer looking unhappy. In introduce myself, and ask how I may be of assistance. “I want you to call the police.” Well, ma’am, could you please give me a few more details? That isn’t something I do lightly, I explain. “I put my things down on one of the chairs over by the magazines and then went to look around, and when I came back someone had moved them and was sitting in the chair. I want you to call the police and have her arrested.” Well, ma’am, that is not exactly something I can get involved in. It doesn’t affect the store in any way, since it’s between two customers, I tell her. This is not exactly true, but this woman seems to be a few chips shy of a batch of cookies anyway, and I would simply prefer to diffuse the situation. We don’t take responsibility for items that customers leave unattended, I continue. That really is the customer’s responsibility alone. She walked away, somewhat unhappy, but calmed. If you knew how many of those we’ve thrown away because people had “accidents” in them, you probably wouldn’t want to sit there anyway. I probably should have said that, for her own sake, but I didn’t.
The store also becomes a battleground between opposing political ideologies. This happens regularly. It would be impossible to stop it. It’s particularly bad during an election year, when publishers rush out any book they can dealing with the political upheavals approaching, and it manifests in two ways. Part of it stems from the customers’ unfailing belief that, even though a book is a bestseller and all their friends are talking about it, they are going to be the only person looking for it on any given day. Of course, it should be in stock, and for their convenience displayed right at the front of the store. This has the potential of happening with any book, but it’s much more fun when it happens with a political book. When it’s a political book, not having it on-hand means that we are obviously supporting the left/right-wing agenda, and are bleeding-heart liberals/neo-fascist conservatives, and so forth and so on. What customers tend to forget in these instances is that we are a business. We would sell almost anything that a customer was interested in purchasing. Actually, we don’t have the book because our initial shipment sold out faster than we could be resupplied. While we’re on the topic of political books, it does no good to hide the books written from opposing political views by covering them up with other books. Yes, there are a number of books out now with President Obama’s face on the cover. They aren’t all pro-Obama. Hiding them all behind the new Michael Savage or Bill O’Reilly book is pointless. We know we didn’t face-out those books in five different places. We will figure out what was done, and demean the culprit in absentia for doing it.
Political and social prejudices manifest themselves in other ways in the bookstore. Where books are placed in the store is very important to some customers. Also, what books are next to them becomes an issue. I will never forget the customer who was upset that the African-American Studies section was located next to the Gay & Lesbian Studies section. “Why is this section here?” she asked. We try to keep similar topics together, ma’am, and so all of the sections that deal with special-interest groups are follow one another. See, it goes from History, into Current Affairs, into Cultural Studies, African-American Studies, Gay & Lesbian Studies, Women’s Studies, Native American Studies, etc. “Well, I don’t think it should be here”, she replied, as though hers should be the final word, and walked off. Where should we put it ma’am? The back of the bus…I mean store? Of course I didn’t say that.
Returns are always an issue. Our return policy is simple: only within two weeks, only with a receipt, only in saleable condition. If all three of those conditions are not met, we are not obligated to take back a return. To be sure, we make exceptions. Life is full of circumstances, and yes, we are human. We do make the assumption that someone who shops in a bookstore has the ability to read the return policy for themselves. Some interpretations have been particularly interesting. One customer insisted that the policy was worded in such a way that she needed only to have a receipt or come in within two weeks to get the refund. When I spelled out for her exactly what the wording meant, she replied that she had a college degree, and knew that it meant what she had insisted upon. We went back and forth for several minutes as I tried to explain certain grammatical rules to her, but she insisted on her reading. Finally, I gave up. Okay ma’am, we will do this return for you, but just so you know, you are wrong. And yes, that was what really what I said.
My favorite customer interaction happened quite a while ago. This customer was pleasant, and had a simple request. She came up and asked, “Excuse me, but do you have any books on the meaning of names?” Well, yes, ma’am, we do. We have a whole section of books for baby names, I replied, and I turned to show her the way. “Well”, she continued behind me, “do you have any books with adult names?” Thankfully, I was facing away, because it was all I could do not to laugh. And for once, I couldn’t think of anything to say.

Essay 4 - Rough Notes

I can't even really call this a draft.  It's barely anything at the moment.  But here it is, a beginning, and maybe something like a conclusion.

...
The sounds of simmering coming from the pot on the stove are a welcome, restful sound.  It is a sound that recalls a mother's (or father's) cooking dinner, holiday gatherings, the communion of friends and family.  This recipe, for Chai-Spiced Stone-Fruit Chutney, is not one that appears in my family's repertoire.  Time alone will tell if it becomes a part of mine.

The time is long past when recipes were learned solely by watching and learning from a parent - a mother, most likely.  This recipe came from a cookbook, Five Ingredients of Less, which is not unusual.  Cookbooks have been around for ages, and in widely published forms for over a century.  But this cookbook is based not on any family collection or cultural adaptation, but on a program of the same name that airs on the Food Network.

...
Finished, the chutney smells spicy sweet.  It thickens as it cooks, and the little remaining juice becomes like jelly around the chopped fruit.  It tastes much like it smells: spiced from the chai tea, slightly sour and tart from cherries and pomegranate juice, and sweet from the apricots.  Paired with a leftover roasted chicken, it revitalizes the dish.  It breathes new life into the meat, warming it in a way the oven can't even match. 

Descriptive Scene

This is the descriptive writing for the class:

The brown-and-orange tablecloth bunches in undulating waves against the weight of the basket that dominates the table.  These waves – the wake of something larger, perhaps - carry with them papers, letters, a coaster, and the odd magazine - Saveur, some catalogs – all are borne along on the cresting cloth.  The basket, full of plastic-and-cloth flowers, is largely unmoved though it has been pushed slightly askew from the centered position it would normally hold.  The wooden surface is unchanged by the drama that is playing out across its surface, though it is not entirely unaffected.  The faintest traces remain of the energy that propelled the cloth and the flowers. This evidence sits on the edge, balancing precariously between stability and descent: a small, cotton-like tuft of something.  It quivers in a breeze nothing else seems to feel.  Is the momentum that created it still, somehow, trapped within?  The cause of this disorder peeks her whiskered face innocently from around the corner of the table, unaware of the effect the force of her passage has had, as the tuft of her fur tries to decide its fate one foot above.

Essay 3. No idea what to call it.

            The Rio Grande is the way in.  Not to Mexico; this Rio Grande is not a river between the nations.  This one is Rio Grande Ave, the thoroughfare between mainland New Jersey and the Wildwoods, the collection of communities that comprises one of the state’s most popular vacation destinations.  It’s actually an interesting inverse.  Instead of being a river of water between two nations of land, it’s a narrow channel of road between the ocean and the bay.  It is the gateway to vacation.  From Rio Grande Ave, one can access the four major roads that run the length of the island of Wildwood: the Atlantic, Pacific, Ocean, and Seaview Avenues. 

            It’s a familiar trip.  I’ve made it almost every year that I can remember, and I apparently made it for a number of years that I can’t remember.  There are photos as evidence that I was there, in the case of the years I can’t remember personally.  In fact, given that I was born in September, right after the summer vacation season, I can safely say that I was there before I was even born.  After so many trips, I can almost recite the path.  I know it by the sights, which remain largely the same, and by the smell of the brackish water, which Rio Grande passes beside and over as it bridges land and island. 

            One of the first landmarks that will be visible is the Boathouse restaurant, which will appear on the right of someone coming over the bridge into Wildwood.  Behind it, slightly, is the dock where the Silver Bullet speedboat picks up the passengers for the high-speed tour it offers.  Just across the street is Urie’s, a restaurant whose continued popularity and, in fact, existence are a source of wonder for me every time I see it.  Cconsidering the unfortunate dining experiences we’ve had there, I wonder how it can be anyone’s favorite.    

            Our favorite restaurant was probably Johnson’s Family Restaurant.  That was our first choice when we were children.  Or that was our parent’s choice for us, but whichever, we were happy with it.  We were always there for the early bird specials.  I remember the kids menu, where names like “The Cowboy” or “The Giraffe” would be a turkey dinner, or spaghetti and meatballs, or whatever.  I remember the fish tank in the center, with the live lobsters.  We never ordered lobster.  I don’t actually remember anyone ever ordering lobster, actually.  Perhaps this wasn’t the kind of restaurant where lobster eaters went.  The tank may have been there for entertaining the children who came to dine.  It was a staple of our summer vacation until the year we went out to eat there and found it closed, after a kitchen fire.  It never reopened.  Now the building houses an Uncle Bill’s Pancake House, a shore chain which, while good, is hardly the same.  They do still have the Johnson’s sign though, hanging inside.  It is a nice link for people like us who remember the former restaurant. 

            Driving down Rio Grande Ave this year, we noticed that something had changed.  The Harley-Davidson dealership, in a distinctive doo-wop style building had closed and reopened as Wildwood Cycles.  The dealership had been there for 35 years, longer than I had been around to see it.  Pictures of it were features in a book on Wildwood that was published earlier this year.  And while it may be the same family that owns it, it is just another item on the list of things that is different.

            Every year for the last few years, I’ve been on the lookout for things that are different.  Last year, we drove out to find the miniature golf and ice cream shop combination that we had been going to for at least ten years.  We drove around, and then around again, thinking perhaps we had missed it or forgotten the address.  We hadn’t; there was a drugstore where it had been.  We drove back to the motel.  There wasn’t anything else we felt like doing.

            The motel we’ve stayed at for the last few years is the Imperial 500.  This is a more recent development in our vacationing history.  For many years, we stayed at a motel called the Nomad.  I remember the sign had something round that was either a compass or a ship’s wheel.  I accepted the name without question for years, until one day it struck me that it probably meant something.  I remember thinking how appropriate a name it was when I learned the definition.  The motel itself was nice.  It had a pool with a waterslide, and a laundry/gaming room where I used to spend time and quarters when I was a child.  It once had a little diner facing the shore, but that was closed up years ago.  I remember it being open, and getting egg and cheese sandwiches, and chocolate milk, and my father getting coffee. 

            We would have been staying there still, except that the motel was sold to developers several years ago.  We didn’t know at first.  My mother tried calling every year to make reservations, and couldn’t get through to the motel.  She thought it was a temporary phone problem, and tried again several days later, then again, until she began to get worried that she would not be able to get a reservation for the time we wanted.  She called Wildwood’s chamber of commerce, who informed her that the motel was closed.  By the time we got down there in August of that year, the building had been completely demolished.  By the next time I was there, the condominiums were already up.

            There have always been condominiums in Wildwood.  They dominated the very southern tip of the crest, past the area where we used to stay.  They were very exclusive, many of them gated.  It was something my parents dreamed of, having a permanent place down the shore.  They, like many people in the surrounding states – and Quebec – settled for weeklong vacations in the motels that lined the shore of Wildwood Crest. 

            This longstanding demographic is changing.  Over the last few years, many of the so-called Doo-Wop motels of Wildwood have been sold off to developers, and now condominiums start farther north than they did when I was a child.  This is why the National Trust for Historic Preservation placed the entire area on its list of “America’s Most Endangered Places” back in 2006.  Their concern illuminated the issue, but has not stopped the sale of land and the transformation of motel properties into condominium developments.    

            Once there was an area of Wildwood where the streets were blocked off.  The sidewalks were decoratively tiled, and a number of small shops and restaurants opened.  We used to go there when I was a child.  There was a shop my sisters and I looked forward to, where they sold beach and ocean toys and other knickknacks.  There was a barbecue restaurant there, Cassidy’s, one of few on the island.  At first, every storefront was full.  Then perhaps, one or two might be empty.  Now there are only a few stores or restaurants there.  If people want to walk around small shops, they go into Cape May and hobnob with the bed-and-breakfast crowd. 

            Even the Boardwalk, the most popular group of attractions in Wildwood, has not emerged unscathed.  There was once a pier on the boardwalk that had small shops, but now it is gone.  Our favorite candy shop, Douglass, is still there, but the Atlantic Bookstore that was a popular stop is not.  Each year, it seems like more and more goes away.  The condo owners require fewer restaurants, and less entertainment; consequently, they feed less money into the local economy, and businesses close.  As developments take over more of the island, the change in demographics will undoubtedly force many more of our favorites to close down. 

Further Thoughts on Essay 3

The real problem is, I don't actually have much in the way of thoughts on essay 3.  I am still thinking about doing something about cooking.  The problem is that I don't know what exactly to say about cooking.  Actually, the problem is that we've done so much work on "I" essays, I am thinking only in terms of topics and their relation to me.  From the "eye" essays we have read, it seems like the idea should be more externally related.  I could do something about the "foodie" revolution.  I've been a fan of the Food Network since its inception, before Rachael Ray, Emeril, and Iron Chef.  In the beginning it was David Rosengarten, Two Hot Tamales, and a cooking game show, the name of which I can no longer remember.  That was probably fourteen or more years ago now - yes, really that long.  It's amazing to see how far that little channel based on cooking has come.  Now their chefs are celebrities and have brands based on them.  The Food Network even publishes a monthly magazine.  So, maybe this revolution would be something to write about.  I've participated in it on various levels.  Does that make me a participant observer?

Thoughts on Essay 3

     So, this is supposed to be an "eye" essay, which means I need to find something outside that relates to me somehow. In class we brainstormed a list and I have a few things from it that might make a good essay.
One of these is cooking. I'm not exactly a gourmet, but I do like to cook and bake. And maybe I'm just a little bit of a foodie. I read all kinds of cooking magazines and I'm constantly looking through cookbooks at work. I also watch my mother frequently. I have since I was little, and our whole family has looked to her for baked goods. I think that I could do something about that.
     Another topic is more of a travel essay. I've gone to Wildwood every year for about along as I remember. Apparently, I was even there in utero. Over the years, I've racked up all kinds of memories about our vacations there. In the last few years, things have really changed. Many of the 1950s-era motels that were a permanent presence down there have closed, including the one I stayed at for most of my life. In their place, condos are being put up. The typical condo owner doesn't spend in the same way as a one-week vacationer though, and the shift is having some pretty far reaching effects. That's something I would definitely like to write about.
     I also have learned about healthy eating and exercise in the last few years.  I spent the first twenty-odd years of my life overweight and hating myself for it. It took quite a while, but eventually I decided that I needed to do something about it.  I stopped eating fast-food almost completely, and with my increased interest in cooking began making my own meals whenever I can.  Learning to exercise properly has been an ongoing process. So this is also a potential topic, that I have invested time working on already.
     As always, the issue is trying to figure out what each of these topics will actually be about. I could relate the cooking to family history, or some other family related topic. The healthy eating/exercise topic could be a self-esteem idea, or related to ideas about life and aging. I could tie so much to Wildwood: family, aging, growth, money, economics, etc. So the real question is, which of these do I pick?

Gaming and me

            Gaming, especially the role-playing kind, has become one of the rituals of my life.  In high school, it ruled every Friday afternoon from the time school ended until perhaps seven in the evening.  For those four hours each week, we got to pretend to be all kinds of different people.  It was where my closest friendships in high school came from, which is interesting, because we forged those friendships not as ourselves but as a variety of characters. 

            Actually, thinking back on it, my love of playing someone else began earlier.  I gloss over video games too easily here, but they were my first experience in gaming, and they have maintained a place in my life even now.  I may have asked my parents, back when, for the system that had Mario, meaning in my childish, brand-addled way Nintendo, but my desire for Mario ended as soon as I encountered Link at my cousins’ house.  I became enamored of the Legend of Zelda, so much so that when my copy stopped working (even when I blew into both the cartridge and the game unit) I had to have another one.  And despite some disappointment in Legend of Zelda 2: Link’s Awakening, that series has remained one of my favorite of all time. 

            I don’t remember being particularly unsatisfied with my childhood.  I think I played these games, which despite the inability to modify the characters are still role-playing games, out of simple enjoyment.  It was easy to love.  The character has an easily defined quest to complete, usually before some great evil takes over, and a sword and other tools with which to complete that quest.  Along the way are any number of baddies trying to stop him, and he can defeat them with a little deduction and practice. 

            Such easily defined goals had immense appeal to me.  As I got older, and began to interact with my classmates at a more adult level, I began to realize that there were things that were different about the way I viewed things.  I was raised in a religious household, and the restrictive views of my parents and church kept me from many of the things that could have formed the basis for forming friendships.  I had never been allowed to participate in sports activities, for example, because these were usually held on weekends, and I would not have been able to miss church on Sunday mornings.  Or Sunday nights, for that matter.  Or any of the other times that a child should be there, participating in church activities.  Not being able to discuss sports presented a real roadblock to popularity, and so I felt set apart.  There were other reasons as well, that would become even more significant as I got older, but those were not apparent yet.  At least, not to me. 

            These challenges were beyond me at this stage; but, where I lacked skill in the actual world, I was still able to overcome challenges and finish quests in the virtual worlds.  These virtual worlds became even more of a draw for me, and I remember spending hours playing the original Final Fantasy, Dragon Warrior, and Crystalis games for the Nintendo.  Super Nintendo brought me such gems as Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past, the Secret of Mana, and Final Fantasy II (IV), which is still one of my all-time favorites.  Games like these got me through some awkward transitional years.  I had questions about sexuality, what mine was, and whether it fit in with both popular opinion and religious belief.  I didn’t like the thought that I might be different, and turned to video games as  a means of avoiding, or at least postponing the questions. 

            In high school, I joined the Science Fiction & Fantasy Club, which was really a euphemism for the role-playing game club.  The school wouldn’t allow a club with that exact premise though, so it had to be hidden under the semi-educational guise of a club for readers of those genres.  This was perfectly acceptable to the club members, for whom playing characters became second nature.  This was the first real gaming ritual I had, and I loved it.  I had enough friends to get by, and could ignore the taunts of other classmates, secure enough that I had a place.  And for four hours a week, I could be almost anything.  My first character was an elven cleric, who could heal, and who wielded a halberd even though the rules prevented it because we were all still learning the game.  I think he blew up after drinking an unlabeled potion.  Hey, I was still new to role-playing, and I didn’t know any better. 

            It was easier to recover from mistakes in role-playing.  If something fatal happened, a new character was some dice rolling and chart consulting away.  If I wasn’t doing as well in the real world, I decided that I didn’t care.  I had something else to turn to. 

            The real problem began when I got out of high school.  The people with whom I had been playing went off to college, and I stayed local, and then started working.  Somewhere along the way I stopped playing games.  I stopped role-playing because I couldn’t find a group of people to play with, and I stopped playing video games because I was working and trying to save money for school.  I don’t want to give the impression that I was alone and lonesome; I had friends, and had an entirely too active social life.  But it was a life that I absorbed from the friends I was hanging around with at the time.  I went clubbing frequently, and as one of my best friends loved movies, I saw almost every movie that came out in theaters. 

            It took a long time for me to realize that I wasn’t happy.  I am somewhat ashamed to say I took it out on my friends in ways I didn’t even realize were unhappiness.  Looking back at this time, I realize that I didn’t really have anything in common with this particular group of people.  I didn’t listen to the same music they did.  They weren’t big readers like I was.  I had some common ground with video games, but only with a few of them, and none at all really with my “best” friend.  I wonder now if I was myself at all with them.  I think this is also when I started having outbursts and mood swings, which turned out to be signs of a larger problem than I realized at first.  My relationships grew strained, and then, out of convenience and mutual desire, ended.  

            There came a period when I wasn’t really hanging out with anyone.  By merest chance, this period of exile ended at work one day when a coworker noticed me reading through a role-playing game manual that had come in.  I hadn’t played anything in years, and in the time I had been away the game had changed greatly.  I don’t even remember why I was reading this particular manual.  I think it was simply to have something to read on a break.  My coworker noticed and asked me if I played, and I replied that I had in high school.  From then on, she tried on numerous occasions to get me to come over to her gaming group.  For whatever reason, I resisted, until a particular event made it too convenient to ignore.

            In many ways, I owe my current group of friends to J.K. Rowling.  I was managing a bookstore, and the release of the fifth book meant that I had to work all weekend, instead of having Sundays off as I normally would.  Sundays were when this particular gaming group met to play, and as I was going to be in the area anyway, I said I would come by and meet everyone.  And I did.  And I kept coming, and still have almost every Sunday since. 

            This group of people was a revelation in many ways.  They were adults, raised largely in an urban area, and as capable of navigating their actual environment as they were the imagined environments we shared.  They weren’t socially inept or introverted; they didn’t stay holed up in their rooms unless they wanted to be.  They accepted me not just because of my interest in playing, but because that is the kind of people they are, and we’ve grown together over the last seven or so years.    

I have a new gaming ritual now, in the Sunday night sessions that began long before I even met this group of friends.  Interestingly enough, we aim for four hours at a time, which must be a magic number for role-playing games.  Perhaps the various games I’ve played are practice sessions where I try out different methods of interacting with people.  Perhaps I was just waiting for the right group of people to come along.  I certainly feel more comfortable in this group of friends than in almost any other group of people I’ve known before. 

More than simply being myself, I think my friendship with these people has helped me to define myself, to become myself  Over the last few years, I’ve developed some concrete goals about what I want to do with my life.  I’ve taken trips to places I would not have gone before, in real and imagined worlds.  It seems strange, looking back at years of playing games that I should find myself most fully realized through the act of pretending to be someone else. 

Musings on Essay 2

I'm still having trouble coming up with a topic for the second draft.  There are various stories that I could write about, but I keep coming back to the problem that plagued the first essay: how do I make the essay about something?  I'm not afraid to analyze the situations I've found myself in, but somehow I can't focus anything on a particular topic. 

For example, I have been thinking about the differences between friendships I've had in the past and the current group of friends I have now, and why this group has been better for me, and perhaps how I've been better for them.  Hopefully, at least, I've been as good to them as they are to me.  And I have no shortage of anecdotes from hanging out with these groups of people for years.  The issue is, what would such an essay be about?  The power of friendship?  To do what?  And that seems to be awfully cliched; however, it keeps coming to the forefront of my thinking about this essay, in a way that makes me feel like it wants to be written about. 

The question is, what is writing about friendship actually writing about?  Acceptance?  Connection?  Communication?  Respect?  All-of-the-above?  It could be about my ability to accept the limitations of my friends, and how they have accepted my limitations.  It could be about how one group of friends expanded my horizons while another group seemed to limit them.  It could be about maturity, or the maturing process, and "when I was a child..." and all that.  Or an older child.  Hell, there are things about which I still think like a child. 

I think I need to do some more free writing on the topic of connection and communication.  As I was writing that last paragraph, those words jumped out at me from somewhere.  I think there might be a focus hiding in there somewhere. 

Playing Games Against Myself?

I was sitting in my car one night after blowing up at a friend’s apartment that I really began to wonder if something might actually be wrong with me.  We had been playing a game, Pictionary, and I had gotten frustrated with my teammate’s inability to figure out what I thought was a relatively simple drawing.  Having played this game numerous times before, I was familiar with this kind of frustration, as would be almost anyone who has ever played that game; but this time, instead of the feeling rising and ebbing, it kept rising, and I actually became angry.  I said something regrettable, the situation became uncomfortable, and I left.  It was a great way to ruin what had been a relatively quiet, fun evening. 

            In the car, I sat for a while, as the anger finally faded and was replaced with an immediate and all-consuming guilt.  I might have cried; I don’t remember exactly.  I remember texting my friend to apologize.  I texted because I couldn’t bear the thought of actually speaking to anyone at that moment.  I’m sure I would have cried if I had spoken out loud.  I didn’t want to speak to anyone because of the question that might have come up, the question, “Why?”  It was a question that I was and was not trying to think about, one that I was not able or willing to answer. 

            The problem with this situation was that it didn’t stop happening.  It was not a regular occurrence.  I could not schedule it.  But it happened on occasion, and the situation would repeat.  Or sometimes I was able to hide the way I felt, to bottle it up until I was able to get away from my friends on some other excuse.  I’ve never bothered to ask if they believed those excuses, mainly because I don’t want to go back.  I have a feeling they knew something was up.  Even when I managed not to blow up in everyone’s face or hearing, the cycle was the same.  The anger would rise and fade and an enormous guilt would come to take its place. 

            I should say, at this point, that I have always been a relatively private person.  I listen far more than I speak, and don’t have long heart-felt conversations with any kind of regularity.  There are certainly people who would be willing to listen, or who would have to given how frequently I had listened to them, and yet I didn’t discuss this with anyone.  Obviously, my friends knew something was up.  Every so often one of them would bring it up, and always I would have to answer, “I don’t know.”  I don’t know why I got so angry at that game.  We were all having fun.  I don’t know why I got angry when we all decided to go out to the restaurant.  Someone was just being obnoxious; I could have ignored him.  I don’t know why I got so angry when you decided to take your family out to a restaurant I wanted to go to again.  It was a family outing, and – technically – I’m not your family.  I can understand that.  It makes perfect sense.  In each of these situations, the anger came, and in more I can’t remember clearly.  And as night follows day, always after came the guilt.    

            It took a long time before I finally got called out on this behavior.  My best friend was angry with me now, because in one of my terse moments I had slighted his girlfriend.  I think I ignored a greeting.  And even though she didn’t make an issue of it, he felt he should.  We had a difficult conversation.  I cried, in front of my friend.  It was not easy.  I told him how I felt, how I didn’t know why I had these outbursts.  I told him that I hated to feel alone.  I’m not sure how that was relevant to the entire conversation.  It became significant afterwards.  He calmed himself down, calmed me down.  We hugged at the end.  And for a time, it helped.  I tried to be better after that. 

            The problem was, I couldn’t tell why it kept happening.  For a time, I thought games were the trigger, so I avoided playing games with my friends.  Games with clear winners and losers anyway.  We played games frequently in those days, so not engaging meant that I was sitting on the sidelines regularly.  I thought that was better than the chance of getting angry and losing my friends.  The thought of that was heartbreaking.  I wonder how I never seriously considered suicide during this period of my life.  I think in some way I thought I deserved the suffering.  It would have served as the karmic repayment of the suffering I was inflicting on my friends. 

            It’s strange now, to think about all of this.  I don’t know why it never occurred to me that I should talk to someone.  My health insurance at work would certainly have covered some measure of therapy.  It would have been the better thing to do.  And yet none of my friends suggested it either, despite having to deal with my frequent periods of rage. 

            This might relate to the way I view modern psychiatry.  It seems that, anymore, drugs are the answer for our lives.  Somewhere out there is a prescription for everything that ails us.  But that doesn’t make sense to me.  Evolutionarily speaking, we are changing our lives too quickly for our bodies to keep up.  That seems to be the flip side of the coin of progress, the real problem with the growth of the internet and the birth of social media networking.  I was resistant to the idea of drugs.  Drugs were for the weak of body and mind, and I was not willing to consider myself weak-minded.  It was perhaps slightly broken, but with a little work it would come out just as strong as it had been growing up. 

            Instead I preferred to think of myself as being childish.  I had never played sports as a child.  My mother did not like that sports for children are held on weekends.  I might have had to miss church for that, and missing church was not acceptable for any reason short of severe bodily illness growing up.  As such, I never really learned sportsmanship or gained the competitive spirit that those activities instill.  That missing part of my nature was what I blamed these outburst on, and it was particularly convenient that these outburst were largely triggered by games.  Largely, but not entirely.

            Now I think I have a different cause.  While they are a social activity, games divide us.  We split into teams, as in Pictionary, or everyone plays for themselves, as in Monopoly or Super Smash Brothers or whatever the rest were.  This division is, I believe, what caused my outbursts.  Rather it is what triggered them. 

            The cause is still unknown to me.  Over time, I have learned to control myself, and to a large extent I no longer feel triggered to anger by many of the same things that once would have.  What I believe is that I had, or still have, borderline personality disorder.  I can’t remember where the idea first hit me.  Having worked in a bookstore for my adult life, it is likely that I came across a book one day and saw the description.  Borderline personality disorder is a mental disease comprising any several of a long list of traits.  I read the list and felt that I might have been reading an account of my outbursts: unstable relationships, unstable self-image, chronic emptiness, periods of baseless anger, and fears of abandonment.  I was hearing the conversation I had with my friend all over again.  I bought the book and read it, and finally felt like there was someone who understood. 

            It sounds disturbing, even to me, to say that I was relieved to find that I thought I had a mental disorder.  Essentially, I was glad that I was, in essence, crazy.  I wasn’t really glad.  I was still struggling with it at that point, but now I had some ideas, a path along which I could discipline my mind and finally fight what was happening. 

            I did take a break from my friends.  For three months I had no contact with any of them.  It was a rough three months, and many times during them I wondered if they would ever want to speak to me again.  I felt it was essential for my continued well-being to take this step.  Between this distance and the research I was doing into how to control myself, I was able to return after some time and interact normally.  At times I still struggle with a difficult emotion.  I have thrown things (not at anyone, and nothing very breakable) and hit things (like walls, again no people), but I have managed not to have an outburst like the ones I nearly ruined my friendships with for several years now.  In some ways, it’s like a game I play with myself, my mind against my mind.  Now that I know the rules, I win more often than not.