Student Themes One

On the importance of Story, a quote from The Book of Memory by Paul Auster (Penguin Books, 1982)

A child's need for stories is as fundamental as his need for food, and it manifests itself in the same way hunger does. Tell me a story, the child says. Tell me a story. Tell me a story, daddy, please. The father then sits down and tells a story to his son. Or else he lies down in the dark beside him, the two of them in the child's bed, and begins to speak, as if there were nothing left in the world but his voice, telling a story in the dark to his son. Often i tis a fairy tale, or a tale of adventure. Yet often it is no more than a simple leap into the imagination to his son named Daniel, and these stories in which the boy himself is the hero are perhaps the most satisfying to him of all.

This is the first draft of a story that demonstrates the basic story structure I have recommended as a way to do the first narrative.

This story is obviously still very rough, not yet put into the kind of form that will demonstrate its best qualities, make it more interesting and appealing. The story, however, already has many very appealing qualities.

For you to learn how to write better stories, I think you would find it of some value to take a few minutes and point out just what it is that makes this story as good as it is. Point out specific details. Once you isolate those details - don't forget the structural devices that hold a story together-, I think you will agree that there are some very fine elements to this rough draft that allow us to believe that the final story will be a genuine, real, and interesting, story.

It was a sunny afternoon, mid December, and it was a cold and chilling day; it reminded me of home (Detroit, Michigan). I was strolling up the hill, just killing time, with nowhere in particular to be, or to go. My radio was blasting and the sound of a grand old oldie was jumping through my speakers, it was bumping, "OOh, OOh child!" Just as the words were coming through my ears, time faded, and I slipped into the past. A car went by and as it passed, the further it went the further into my past I went. I could hear my mother telling me those very words, while that very same song was playing.

I wanted a new racing car and a pair of skates for Christmas and at that time we couldn't even afford to pay the rent. "OOh, OOh, child, things are gonna get easier, OOh, OOh child, things will get brighter," she would sing over and over, hoping that I understood. I ran outside into the cold with a tear in my heart because I couldn't cry in front of the other kids.

I walked and I walked and when I finally got back to the house, my mother was sitting in a chair by the window, she had a look in her eyes that I had seen before, it was another argument, it was between her and my father, it was about money. I knew she didn't want to hear anymore about skates, racing cars, dolls, guns or anything else from me or brothers or sisters. I knew this for a fact, but I wanted to tell her "OOh, OOh child, things are gonna get easier."

As the song ended I once again realized that everything was going to be alright. "Things are gonna get easier."

-Ford Bey, Federal Corrections Institute, Spring, 1993

Driving by the veterinary clinic on my street, I noticed a lady, weighing about 200 pounds, carrying a dog who must have weighed about as much as she did. She reminded me of several dog lovers I had met in my life-time but especially the time I was in California and found myself stranded at Stuckys,a small gift shop and snack bar, somewhere near Beaumont.

My husband and I were on our way to our new home in California thanks to Uncle Sam, and I wasn't too thrilled to leave my small, comfortable apartment in Texas. I had made a lot of friends there, and I felt at home. But I knew I didn't have anything to say about the matter. Well, actually I had a lot to say, but the person I directed my comments to couldn't change Uncle Sam's mind. So I was on my way to California feeling lonely and sad.

So far, I was enjoying the scenery. We were making good time, and the trip had been uneventful. Little did I know that things were about to change. Listening to the radio, a weather report came across: "Temperatures to reach 125 degrees in the desert today." I don't remember the highway we were traveling, probably Route 10, but there was sand and cactus as far as I could see. It seemed like we were driving deeper and deeper into the sand. As the day wore on, the heat was almost unbearable. I started to complain but comforted myself with the fact that we would soon be there.

Closing my eyes, I decided to take a nap. With my eyes closed I sensed the car swaying somewhat. I opened my eyes and asked Terry, "What is going on?"

I could see that sand was beginning to roll along the ground, but the wind became more fierce and lifted the sand into the air and fell to the ground like rain. Within minutes the car was almost covered with sand. The windshield was blasted, and the car was almost impossible to control. Several cars had pulled off the road and sat along the highway. We saw a sign ahead that read "Stuckys" and decided to stop there, even though we weren't sure what kind of place it was.

We forced our bodies against the wind, and with sand in our eyes we went inside. There were about 30 other people there waiting for the storm to pass. On one end there was a small gift shop with lots of glassware and souvenirs showing beautiful scenes with sunshine, ocean waves, and the beach. Somehow, in my mind all these scenes were wrong. Where was the scene I was living at this moment? We could hardly pass from one isle to another without bumping something or someone. We finally made our way to the other end of the building and found a seat at the snack bar where we ordered dinner, which consisted of hot dogs and cokes. The hot dog almost made me sick, and the coke tasted like syrup.

Meanwhile the excitement grew, and the place became more and more crowded as others came in for shelter. Listening to the people talking, predicting our outcome, and telling horror stories, I had all I could stand. I wanted to run, but with all the people I slowly made my way to the rest room where I throw up and then the tears came. I was sure if I came through this I would get on a plane and go back to Texas as soon as possible. After some consoling from Terry, I gained my composure once again. The wait seemed endless while we watched the parking lot fill up. By 11:00 p.m. there were about one hundred people there. The employees tried to accommodate us by making more room on the floor along the wall where we could rest our backs.

About the time I closed my eyes I was startled by a cry for help when a lady came in screaming,"My dogs, my poor babies." The lady was traveling in a truck with three large dogs. The dogs were riding behind her in some kind of recreational vehicle which had blown over with the dogs inside. After the tears began, a few good men, including Terry, went outside to rescue the dogs. Now Stuckys didn't only have one hundred people inside but also three very large dogs.

Finally, the Red Cross came to our rescue and sent a bus to take us to the next little town, Beaumont. By the time we arrived there the winds had died down. After getting off the bus, we were directed to a large gym at the school where they had sit up cots for us to sleep on. After a restless few hours of sleep, we were loaded back on the bus and taken to our cars which were nearly demolished.

After this experience, I can say life in California wasn't so great. I didn't live there very long, and I wouldn't live there again. I wouldn't care to visit, but next time I go to California, I'll take a plane.

The following theme has the same basic structure, but the content is entirely different. Ask the same questions about it. What are your answers? No matter what you have answered, you have begun to look critically at writing based on the Form of the essay not its Content. This distinction between form and content is the most basic and the most important distinction in criticism. Unless you can easily criticize both form and content, you will never be able to make changes in your own writing that will enable you to write better.

Does a tree tell a story? I asked that question earlier, and a student has answered it. Well, sort of answered it. Below is a story inspired by a tree, and this is one way a tree talks to us. The story is also a demonstration of how metaphor works to make a simple story universal, a complex structure of language that makes one person's story becomes a part of our own.

Is it possible for a leaf to speak? I'm not talking about an audible voice, but for this tiny leaf to transmit thought to our subconscious? I was sitting under one of the two small maple trees in our front yard, waiting for our grill to do its job of cooking those Idaho bakers. A small leaf ever so softly made its way to my lap. I slowly looked in the direction of the leaf to see it dressed in fall colors of yellow, orange and red. Taking the stem between my thumb and forefinger, I began to spin the leaf like a little top. It began to make a sound all its own. The little leaf seemed to be whispering to me. How quiet a sound has to be before it is considered silent, I don't know. This little leaf seemed to be whispering to my subconscious, taking me to another yard, and another time, making me wish I could visit once more.

My mind has placed me on a porch looking at a scene I have seen many times before. In a yard belonging to my grand-parents stood three huge maples. Every fall these leaves also dressed themselves in fall colors. The trees were slowly dropping its leaves as though they were trying to place themselves in certain areas inside that big old yard. Then came a gust of wind, and every leaf seemed to be waiting to parachute, landing on the soft grass beneath.

For a few weeks a small war was fought in this yard. An old gray haired, stooped shouldered, wrinkle-faced, ready-for-combat woman, "my granny," was launching an all out attack on these little paratroopers. Somehow there was a magic number, and when that number was up, off the porch she would go with rake in hand, "her weapon," raking the little bodies in piles only to be burned in the garden later. Granny's enemies were sitting high watching as though they there were scouts, the leaves patiently waiting for the right command to launch their attack. The maple trees in unison held their bombing, waiting for granny to retreat to the porch again. Then on what seemed like a command, granny not knowing which one gave the signal, the bombing began as the little invaders intruded on her private domain. Somehow that magic number was reached, and off the porch she would go with weapon in hand, the cycle beginning all over again. Finally, after a couple weeks, the enemies were out of ammo. Granny had won the battle, but not the war. For a whole year this enemy of hers would be building an arsenal waiting for the next fall to begin this on-going battle.

Still spinning the tiny leaf, I was awakened to the present, bringing my attention to the grill on which I had earlier placed the Idaho potatoes. I couldn't help but give this little leaf a smile, hoping it would understand I appreciated the journey back to a yard, and a granny I loved very much.

STUDENT THEMES: Narration