Mentor Monday--Writing an Essay

Before you head out to the parade, or picnic, or family gathering, remember what this day is all about. It's a celebration of our break with the British Crown and of our declaring ourselves free to make this country our own. This breach was achieved through a well-written essay, the Declaration of Independence.


We all learned the elements of essay writing back in our elementary school days. So, consider today's Mentor Monday a refresher. We'll use the Declaration of Independence as a model.

An essay should have three parts: an introduction, a body, and a conclusion. The purpose of the introduction is to get the reader's attention, to provide a bit of background, and then to state the intended goal (or thesis). How's this for an attention-getter?

The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America,

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We grabbed King George by the you-know-whats and told him "We're SO over you. We'll gonna tell you why, now, so pay attention."

The body of the essay is supposed to further explain the goal/thesis. The Declaration is specific,

The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world

Eighteen "Facts" are then laid out for the King. (You can tell these are the main points because they all start with "He," as in "He did this," and "He did that." And there are several subpoints, too. The drafters of the Declaration knew how to outline! Good job, Guys!)

The conclusion of an essay should be memorable. The Declaration sort of bitch-slapped the King with:

A Prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

Yowsa! Not only did we call him names, we also demoted him to Prince! Snap! No wonder he sent the redcoats after us!

The conclusion should also briefly restate the goal/thesis. You can't get plainer than this:

We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown...

"We've gone over your head, Prince, and have called on the Big Guy and all our neighbors! So take your crown and scepter and GO HOME!"

An A+ essay if ever there was one!

Have a safe holiday.

--Diane

Poetry Friday

There’s something about a tree. Imagine standing in one place for an entire lifetime. No wonder they grow so tall. They have to if they want to see anything of the world. And those ever-reaching branches? Are they the tree’s attempt to reach out, to touch and feel the things that must seem so far away? And do they stand there and proudly admire their offspring, growing up ten feet away, and another ten feet away, thinking of the day, generations ahead, when one of them might finally reach that distant ocean? Below is a story of two trees, by May Swenson.

All That Time

I saw two trees embracing.
One leaned on the other
as if to throw her down.
But she was the upright one.
Since their twin youth, maybe she
had been pulling him toward her
all that time,

and finally almost uprooted him.
He was the thin, dry, insecure one,
the most wind-warped, you could see.
And where their tops tangled,
it looked like he was crying
on her shoulder.
On the other hand, maybe he

had been trying to weaken her,
break her, or at least
make her bend
over backwards for him
just a little bit.
And all that time
she was standing up to him

the best she could.
She was the most stubborn,
the straight one, that’s a fact.
But he had been willing
to change himself -
even if it was for the worse -
all that time.

At the top, they looked like one
tree, where they were embracing.
It was plain they’d be
always together.
Too late now to part.
When the wind blew, you could hear
them rubbing on each other.

May Swenson

Today's poetry roundup is at A Wrung Sponge.
If you're not a tree, you should get there easily.

Photo: Trees Embracing at Malvern
courtesy of Cross Duck

Women of Wednesday - On Flappers

These are Flappers

This is you if there had been no Flappers.

Flappers are generally known as the girls who just wanted to have fun, and that may be absolutely true. Still, I think they deserve some credit for the advancement of women.

Flappers were girls who came of age during the 1920's. They were girls born at the beginning of the twentieth century, right smack dab in that hard final push for the birth of the nineteenth amendment giving women the right to vote. They grew up in a world of suffragettes, of seeing women fight for what they wanted. They may have had aunts, sisters or mothers marching in the streets. They may have read about suffragettes being tortured in jail. Or they may have heard nothing about suffragettes at all except for what godless, scandalous, barbaric trouble-making women they were. But they heard about them. They knew they were out there. And even if they only absorbed a suffragette’s creed by osmosis, they knew the times were changing. They knew it was no longer their grandmothers’ world. They knew they could have what they wanted. All they had to do was take it.

By 1920, when the nineteenth amendment passed, many of them would have been teenagers, the perfect age for rebellion. And what did the passing of the nineteenth amendment say to them? We can vote now, just like the men. We’re just as good men. We don’t have to be the women are grandmothers were, or even the women our mothers are. And they weren’t.

They shucked off convention and social mores and, in a mere four or five years, they got women out of corsets and into the workplace. They made it acceptable for women to go out without a chaperone, to have their own apartments, to drive cars and even airplanes. They got women out of God-only-knows how many layers of clothing and into light and sleek and comfortable dresses that didn’t drag on the ground accumulating dust and dirt. They not only showed off their ankles, they showed off their knees. Such a scandal back then.

And they danced. In public. And not those old stodgy waltzes their grandparents danced to. They did the Charleston, shaking and shimmying and showing off their stuff. They made it acceptable for women to drink and smoke and wear make-up, and while we know better now, smoking and drinking were steps forward in the ‘20's. Flappers didn’t care what the older generation thought. They didn’t care what men thought. They did what they wanted because it was fun, and all those “Good women never . . . .” rules came tumbling down. It was that easy.

And that’s probably why they don’t get any credit. It was easy and it was fun. And they didn’t have an agenda. Still, I think we can learn some lessons from those self-indulgent girls of the ‘20's.

Don’t waste your time worrying about what other people think.
Be who you are.
And most importantly, just do it.

Freedom belongs to those unafraid to grasp it.



For some interesting historical articles on Flappers
For a look at the Flappers Dictionary

Mentor Monday - Internal and External Plots

We all know that without plot, there is no story. Plot is the map that takes you from beginning to end and everywhere in between. It’s what drives the story forward. It’s what took Bilbo Baggins there and back again, and what drove the Starship Enterprise to boldly go where no man had gone before. And if all you’re looking for is a fun adventure, then external plot is enough. But, if you want your story to have any depth, if you want to give meaning to your little adventure, you also need an internal plot.

What’s the difference?

An external plot is tangible and straightforward. Jack plays guitar in the school band. He wants to buy a guitar of his own. He finds a job, saves his money, has a few setbacks here and there, and finally buys his guitar. You can see and touch the guitar. You can see every success and failure Jack has along the way, and you can see him getting closer and closer to reaching his goal. And with each step he takes, the plot moves forward a bit.

An internal plot is not tangible and is generally complicated. It’s all about feelings and emotions, ethics and morals. It’s about Jack figuring out who he is, and what his place is in the world. Jack wants to win his father’s love. But what is love? If I show you a guitar, we can both agree it’s a guitar. But love? We all have our own definitions and our own ways of showing it.

So Jack brings Dad breakfast in bed. Dad grumbles about crumbs on the sheets. Jack sits down and talks to Dad about the baseball game on tv. Dad tell him to be quiet so he can hear. This could go on and on forever because Dad already loves Jack, he just doesn't know how to show it. Since Jack doesn't know this, and Dad doesn't know how to change, there is no movement in the plot. The situation will remain the same until Jack has his light bulb moment and realizes Dad always loved him but just didn’t know how to show it, and that will happen at the end of the story, so there's no progression toward the ultimate goal. It just suddenly happens because that’s how realizations come to us. Suddenly and unexpectedly.

Can a story work with one kind of plot without the other?

You can create a decent story with just an external plot, although it will have little depth. But it’s harder to make a story work if all you have is an internal plot. As we’ve seen in the example above, there is little or no plot movement with an internal plot, which means boredom sets in quickly. Your story goes nowhere fast, because all you have to talk about is how do I win Dad’s love.

It’s like swimming in a pool, back and forth, round and round, until you either get out or drown. Not very exciting. With an external plot, you’re swimming in the ocean. You can swim to another beach. You can explore beneath the waves. You can get on a passing boat or catch a fish. And each advancement creates a new situation.

Of course, the ideal situation is to use them both together. Jack’s homelife sucks because he believes his dad doesn’t love him. When he plays guitar in the school band, it fills the emptiness inside him. He figures if he can get his own guitar, he can play at home and take that good feeling with him, rather than stare at the walls because Dad never talks to him. So he gets a job, but Dad loses his. In an effort to win Dad’s love, Jack sacrifices his guitar and gives Dad the money he’s made to help out. Dad sees it as an insult and flings the money out the window. Now Jack has a dilemma. Does he continue working and keep the money and get his guitar? Or does he quit so Dad won’t feel like less of a man? Or does he continue to work and put the money toward food and rent even though it makes Dad angry?

Regardless of what he decides, the plot moves forward because Jack was forced to make a moral, ethical or emotional decision, and that makes him a more rounded character. He becomes more human. The story also becomes more interesting because the internal and external plots are working against each other, which causes conflict and tension. As the story progresses, these two plots will continuously intertwine and, instead of having a story that’s all action or all emotion, you have a story that contains both. You have a story with depth. You have a story kids will want to read.

Poetry Friday: Forgetfulness (and author attribution)

Well, I completely spaced the blog today - apologies!

 Hence - two poems by Richard Lee King - one of which has already achieved the status of having become one of those things that floats around the internet without attribution. So let me attribute it here, and point out that the author has a website and several books in print (and for sale).

MY REMEMBERER IS BROKE

I’ve forgotten what I can’t remember,

or can’t remember what I forgot.

This remembering thing is a problem,

cause I think it happens quite a lot.

The things I can’t remember

seem to slip right out of my mind.

I can’t remember why it happens,

but it seems to happen all the time.

I leave myself reminder notes,

then can’t remember where I left them,

and since I’ve forgotten where they are,

It’s more than likely to happen again.

When I do find one of my notes,

can’t remember what it’s about.

Likely, if they were more complete,

they’d carry a lot more clout.

I seldom remember what I’ve forgotten,

though I’ll remember that I forgot.

Sometimes I’ll be reminded,

but after the fact, likely as not.

But, now on my computer

there’s a calendar in my software

and if I remember to remind myself,

I can find the answer there.

So now, my daily chore

to keep my mind fancy free,

remember to turn on my computer

and send a reminder note to me.

Copyright 2010 Richard Lee King

MY REMEMBERER IS BROKE - REVISITED

Recently I wrote a poem

called, My Rememberer is Broke.

I wasn’t really serious,

it was intended as a joke.

But, for some it touched a nerve

and wasn’t all that funny,

though it was mostly about me

with parts of it, about my honey.

I wrote it for my mom,

just some fun I wanted to poke.

A little something for her to read,

while having her morning smoke.

You see, I sometimes don’t remember things

and I live here all alone.

Just the other day I had to call myself,

‘cause I couldn’t find my phone.

And recently I found the TV remote

in the cradle where the phone should be.

I wondered who could have put it there,

knowing all along the answer was me.

Like I said, I live alone,

there’s no one I can blame.

I always say, “That’s the last time.”

Yet, it keeps happening just the same.

I find things in all sorts of places

that I know they don’t belong.

I’ve heard them sing about things like that,

but I can’t remember who sings that song.

Found my keys in with the silverware,

while I was looking for a spoon.

I’d been looking for the damn things,

since yesterday afternoon.

I spend hours on my computer

and I’d probably spend many more,

but they keep asking for my key word

and I can’t remember where its stored.

Over the years I’ve used different ones

before I completely filled my brain.

Now when I try to recall them

it causes memory strain.

I’m sure I wrote them down

and stored them where they’d be safe,

but now I can’t remember where,

boy that really makes me chafe!

Seems things often get misplaced

and I know it’s all my fault.

I just keep forgetting things

like the combination to my vault.

I bought it to keep my things safe,

should have gotten one with a key.

turns out the one they’re safest from

just happens to be me.

Course if it had a key,

I'd have to keep track of where is was,

something else for my brain to remember,

which it hardly ever does.

So, I stashed my spare money

till the combination was resolved.

Then I couldn’t find it,

oh the nasty words I mouthed.

I finally came across it

long after I’d given up.

It was up in my cupboard

inside my favorite coffee cup.

I’m sure I put it there

during a brief moment of reason,

thinking my next cup of coffee

would turn out really pleasing.

Pleasing doesn’t describe

the sensations that I felt,

for if I was a religious man

I’m certain I would have knelt.

You see that stash of money,

was quite a healthy wad

and if I’d have never found it

I’d have had a serious talk with God.

Copyright 2010 Richard Lee King