“Social networks are particularly effective at increasing motivation,” Aaker and Smith write. But that’s not true. Social networks are effective at increasing participation—by lessening the level of motivation that participation requires. ...In other words, Facebook activism succeeds not by motivating people to make a real sacrifice but by motivating them to do the things that people do when they are not motivated enough to make a real sacrifice. We are a long way from the lunch counters of Greensboro.Read the full article here:
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Malcolm Gladwell explores the connection between social media and social change
It's last year's New Yorker article, but still pertinent, I think.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Risky moves: On Bazelon
I really admire what Emily Bazelon is doing in this article. She is looking deeply into this case and making risky moves as a writer to come to what, in the end, I find to not be such a risky point of view: Is it at all reasonable to prosecute these teenagers and essentially ruin their futures all for the sake of teaching them a lesson which they've probably already learned. "They have been the focus of intense, public rage. They've been blamed
for the suicide of a vulnerable, troubled girl. They will live with this
always. Maybe that is already enough," Bazelon finishes her article with. It was interesting to skim over the comments section (I can't really bear to read most comments in depth)--clearly many readers were outraged wither the articles; in particular commentators seemed to attack Bazelon's reputation as a journalist. But I think those commentators failed to realize that Bazelon wasn't simply "taking a side" and attempting to further victimize Phoebe Prince, she was turning our attention to how complicated the situation really is and highlighting potential motives behind the DA's and the school board's decisions. In a sense, she's doing what previous writers had failed to do (or hadn't done yet) as outlined by her extensive link-works-cited throughout the articles--digging deeper into the story.
This article reminded me of Janet Malcolm's May 2010 article, "Iphigenia in Forest Hills", where Malcolm openly involves herself with the case she has been assigned to write about and proceeds to write about how her own involvement may/may not have affected the case. (On a side note, this article ended up being in the Best Articles of the 2010s, a fascinating list that takes on the typical pattern manmanmanmanmanmanwomanmanmanmanmanmanwomanmanmanmanman... I loved this article before I came across that list, and it's still a favorite within that list.) Part of the reason I love it is Malcolm's blatant involvement. I'm not sure what it says about man writing courtroom drama vs. woman writing courtroom drama, if I'm drawn to these articles because the women are taking sides and somehow coming to a defense. It would be too easy to say that I love these articles because I can identify with a woman becoming emotionally involved with her subject material, yet it might not be too easy to say that people reacted strongly to these articles, at least Bazelon's, because she was a woman, and therefore prompted comments like: "i sincerely hope that you, as a journalist, feel the slightest bit of guilt knowing that you gave a voice to kids who already seemed to speak too much," and "you should learn how to write a story," and "this is one of the coldest reactions to case I have ever seen," and "Shame on you!"and, finally, "You're saying that Phoebe Prince ASKED for what she got? And you're a woman?"
Okay, I went back and read those comments more thoroughly.
Anyway, I'm not sure it's entirely appropriate to compare Malcolm's article with Bazelon's three-part series, but each do something risky, likely knowing that people are bound to react.
It was an interesting move on Bazelon's part to compare this story with that of Max and Martin. A similar case where the teen faced potential jail time layers the way we read Phoebe Prince's case. I appreciated the broader scope of her research and the ways we are allowed to draw comparisons between the two cases. If she were writing more about this case, I wonder if she would have gotten into the issues surrounding sex offender registration, how even urinating in public can warrant such registration in some states.
Similarly, I wanted her to delve more into why Carl Walker-Hoover's case didn't receive the same amount of attention Prince's did. What was the motivation behind choosing a case that has already garnered so much attention? (I tried to read the Bergman article she linked to, but it's no longer available.) But then, her point seemed more to be about looking at how Phoebe's pre-existing mental state really should have been taken into consideration. I think in Walker-Hoover's case, his bullies' anti-gay hate (whether or not Carl was gay, or whether he was even old enough to know it) seemed much more odious. I wonder if she would feel the same way though if his perpetrators were sentenced to prison sentences, or time in juvenile hall. She does get herself into tricky territory by suggesting these bullies needn't be punished so harshly.
In terms of digital formatting: this article does bring up a frustration--namely that when there are dead links that I really want to read and I can't I get annoyed. (How to keep up with this? Whose responsibility is it to go through a bijillion articles and make sure links are actually linking to something? If the article's a year old, is it okay to let those links sit dead?) In terms of the little plus signs for footnotes, I liked that. What a great idea. I hate scrolling to the end of something, and even when it's the kind you click that brings you to the footnote, there's always a moment of discombobulation when returning to the article. I don't know why, but the little plus sign was more attractive than a footnote--Oh, there's more, it seemed to say, and I was always curious, whereas footnotes sometimes seem pesky or distracting.
On a related note, here's a recent case about a teen suicide related to bullying.
This article reminded me of Janet Malcolm's May 2010 article, "Iphigenia in Forest Hills", where Malcolm openly involves herself with the case she has been assigned to write about and proceeds to write about how her own involvement may/may not have affected the case. (On a side note, this article ended up being in the Best Articles of the 2010s, a fascinating list that takes on the typical pattern manmanmanmanmanmanwomanmanmanmanmanmanwomanmanmanmanman... I loved this article before I came across that list, and it's still a favorite within that list.) Part of the reason I love it is Malcolm's blatant involvement. I'm not sure what it says about man writing courtroom drama vs. woman writing courtroom drama, if I'm drawn to these articles because the women are taking sides and somehow coming to a defense. It would be too easy to say that I love these articles because I can identify with a woman becoming emotionally involved with her subject material, yet it might not be too easy to say that people reacted strongly to these articles, at least Bazelon's, because she was a woman, and therefore prompted comments like: "i sincerely hope that you, as a journalist, feel the slightest bit of guilt knowing that you gave a voice to kids who already seemed to speak too much," and "you should learn how to write a story," and "this is one of the coldest reactions to case I have ever seen," and "Shame on you!"and, finally, "You're saying that Phoebe Prince ASKED for what she got? And you're a woman?"
Okay, I went back and read those comments more thoroughly.
Anyway, I'm not sure it's entirely appropriate to compare Malcolm's article with Bazelon's three-part series, but each do something risky, likely knowing that people are bound to react.
It was an interesting move on Bazelon's part to compare this story with that of Max and Martin. A similar case where the teen faced potential jail time layers the way we read Phoebe Prince's case. I appreciated the broader scope of her research and the ways we are allowed to draw comparisons between the two cases. If she were writing more about this case, I wonder if she would have gotten into the issues surrounding sex offender registration, how even urinating in public can warrant such registration in some states.
Similarly, I wanted her to delve more into why Carl Walker-Hoover's case didn't receive the same amount of attention Prince's did. What was the motivation behind choosing a case that has already garnered so much attention? (I tried to read the Bergman article she linked to, but it's no longer available.) But then, her point seemed more to be about looking at how Phoebe's pre-existing mental state really should have been taken into consideration. I think in Walker-Hoover's case, his bullies' anti-gay hate (whether or not Carl was gay, or whether he was even old enough to know it) seemed much more odious. I wonder if she would feel the same way though if his perpetrators were sentenced to prison sentences, or time in juvenile hall. She does get herself into tricky territory by suggesting these bullies needn't be punished so harshly.
In terms of digital formatting: this article does bring up a frustration--namely that when there are dead links that I really want to read and I can't I get annoyed. (How to keep up with this? Whose responsibility is it to go through a bijillion articles and make sure links are actually linking to something? If the article's a year old, is it okay to let those links sit dead?) In terms of the little plus signs for footnotes, I liked that. What a great idea. I hate scrolling to the end of something, and even when it's the kind you click that brings you to the footnote, there's always a moment of discombobulation when returning to the article. I don't know why, but the little plus sign was more attractive than a footnote--Oh, there's more, it seemed to say, and I was always curious, whereas footnotes sometimes seem pesky or distracting.
On a related note, here's a recent case about a teen suicide related to bullying.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Structure in Skloot's The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks
"Figuring out the structure of the book was maddening, and it took me a very long time." --Rebecca Skloot
Braided Narratives: The book has three sections, but they don't directly correspond to the three narratives threaded throughout the book: Henrietta's story, Deborah's story, and the cells' story. When she was beginning the book, Skloot envisioned her structure as similar to the one Fannie Flagg used in Fried Green Tomatoes: she pictured having Henrietta's story told alongside her (Skloot's) and Deborah's story, with news clippings explaining the science interspersed throughout. She says she at first "couldn't imagine how I could possibly put the science into some kind of narrative."
The book begins in the middle of it all. Henrietta knows she has a tumor, or something of the sort, and goes to the hospital. This works as the beginning because this is the moment where the three narratives that will be shared throughout the book all converge: Henrietta's still alive, Deborah is a baby, the doctors meet Henrietta's cells for the first time. Only once these three balls have been tossed into the air does Skloot go back to the beginning beginning, starting with Henrietta's childhood.
Story Arc: On p. 49 Skloot inserts herself as a character into the book. A few pages later we then meet, albeit over the phone, Deborah for the first time. This is where the main tension of the book begins, at least for me. With the introduction of Henrietta's cells in the first fifty pages, of I want to know what happened to them, but upon meeting Deborah a new suspense enters the book--now I'm curious to know what will happen. Will Deborah speak to Rebecca? Will there be some sort of reconciliation between the families and the doctors/scientists/journalists?
Skloot says that the storyline of the book/the narrative arc (for her) is the storyline of Deborah. She says she's (Skloot's) only in the book as a vehicle to get to Deborah. About writing in general, Skloot says: "Within a big sweep of history there's usually a story that can hold it all together--then some of the history can be told in flashbacks. ... I'm always looking for narrative with every story I write."
Balance of Scene and Summary: I think it's interesting that from essentially chapter 29 in Part 3 (page 232), when Skloot and Deborah finally meet, the book is essentially one long scene right to the end. From then on we're with Skloot and Deborah and other family members, on the journey with Deborah so she can uncover the past, right up to the end. Why, for example, didn't Skloot meet Deborah earlier in the book and thread those scenes where we're right there with the two of them more evenly throughout the book? I understand Skloot's reasoning behind unfurling the story of the cells, of Henrietta's past, and of the families frustrations alongside one another ("What happened to the cells and Henrietta take on such a different weight if you learn about them at the same time as the science, the scientists, and her family," Skloot says), but something about one long continuous scene at for the last 100 pages feels unbalanced to me. The story is captivating enough so it doesn't bother me, but I'm wondering if anybody else felt that way.
How Skloot Does Structure: "I spent several days pressing play and pause, play and pause and I storyboarded the whole movie of Hurricane on the same three colored index card system I had with my book, and then I literally just laid my book on top of it to see what would happen in the same color coding. And through that I realized I was taking too long and I had these long chapters, and really part of what worked with the structure of the movie was that it happened really fast. So I had written all three of the narratives and then went with my Hurricane/Fried Green Tomatoes structure idea, and actually braided them on the computer and then just sat down and printed it out and read it beginning to end ... so then a lot of rearranging happened in the various drafts. I rewrote the book completely from beginning to end probably five times before I even turned it in, then another many times after that, to my editor's dismay."
Sources:
From the nieman storyboard: "Rebecca Skloot on narrating history: 'looking for that one family, that one person, that one moment that will help hold everything together' "
Rebecca Skoot talks about how Fried Green Tomatoes and the movie Hurricane influenced how she structured The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks:
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Keeping the Creative in Creative Nonfiction: On "My Mother's Lover"
What I like most about David Dobbs’s essay is the ending. It’s
poignant—the two photos side by side really is as close as he could
get Evelyn and Angus. It also represents a finishing point for his own
journey of seeking out the “pieces” of the relationship. For him, for
his mother and Angus, this is the best he can do. The photos were
great (why weren’t there more?!)
But I’m struggling to find much more to rave about regarding this piece.
Dobbs’s authorial presence throughout the essay is hugely burdensome;
he will not allow me the freedom of forgetting HE is the one writing
this story. For example on page….oh yeah, no pages, location 204… when
Dobbs is viewing the photo of his mother and Angus in a seemingly
distant mood, before I am allowed to draw any conclusions regarding
the tensions of the couple—as could be drawn from, were it present,
the delicately rendered description of the photo, after having formed
a sense, had it been presented to me, of the sort of characters Angus
and Evelyn were (not the sentimental mother-in-the-garden/Angus-as-
“Was she suddenly feeling ashamed? Had she and Angus been fighting?
Had the regrets latent in the earlier photographs broken into the open?
Or had the rolled-up papers in Angus’s front pants pocket—awkward to carry
but apparently too important to discard—brought bad news?”
In terms of scene, the following is the closest we get (aside from the
beginning and his moment at the cemetery), and it seems Dobbs himself
doesn’t feel comfortable handing the scene over to his actors, hence
the glaring shift to present tense, which seems Dobbs’ way of
announcing that SOMETHING IS HAPPENING:
“She looks up, and with the back of her sleeve she pushes her black
curls from her forehead and gives me a wondrous smile. She delightedly
says my name. This smile will embarrass me at other times. But now it
completely drives from my head whatever inspired this search only
moments before. She smiles that radiant smile, and when she asks me
what brings her the pleasure of this visit, I can’t recall what I’ve
come to her for” (location 423).
Is there irony in this that I’m missing?
I feel as though this is the closest I get to Angus: “28 April 45
Saipan: “It ain’t necessarily human” — look at the angle on that - uh
- er - - breast.” (location 259)
Now that’s an interesting piece of writing (at least to include).
Angus’s choice to insert the “uh” and the “er” tell me something about
his sense of humor, about his comfort with Evelyn. With those few
words, I can begin to form a sense of their characters and
relationship. Yet, Dobbs foils even this little experience with his
need to assure us, “ The angle of which is indeed most improbable.”
Sorry, I realize this is sounding like one of those bitchfest reviews,
and whenever I come across one of those I usually find something to
hate about the reviewer. However, if you took a quick peek at the above
review, you might agree with Hensher, the reviewer: "No one will doubt the
intensely felt emotions that drive this [Reif's] book. The trouble is that books are
not made out of emotions; they are made, as Mallarmé said, out of words."
So rather than just point out all the things that render what I found to be a compelling
story into a dry and uneventful narrative, I’m going to turn this into some broader
questions regarding (creative?) nonfiction:
Rearranging, trimming, somehow tweaking events is a delicate topic in
nonfiction: Well, when is it okay to leave the events as is? Isn’t it
a writer’s duty to do something with those events, to make them enticing for the reader?
When you’re writing about a relationship you were never able to
witness, how do you allow for those scenes, those events, to speak for
themselves? Essentially, how do you create nonfiction characters with
photos and letters?
What is the line between history and historical fiction? For example,
how could Dobbs have made us really experience Saipan, really put us
there (or anywhere that he writes about) without crossing the line
into historical fiction? (I’m thinking O’Brien—questionable,
obviously-- Klinkenborg, Raban, Krakauer…)
Then again, maybe I have this all wrong. I just took a peek over at
Nikki’s blog and now I’m paranoid that I’m missing something here. (By
the way, Nikki, your WWII stories are much more vivid and alive that
what’s presented here). Perhaps it was his purpose to keep it all at a
distance, to simply narrate the story of what happened. I guess if I
force myself to look at it this way, I could see Dobbs trying to
create a picture-album effect: we are allowed this fleeting glimpse
into the past, but we are only allowed so much, and with Dobbs as our
guide through this essay we must piece together what we can. This
would fit nicely with the theme of the “the idealized lost chance”
(location 436). Because Evelyn never really put closure on Angus’s
death; his memory is much like a photo: static, representative of only
a slice, and able to say only so much for itself.
poignant—the two photos side by side really is as close as he could
get Evelyn and Angus. It also represents a finishing point for his own
journey of seeking out the “pieces” of the relationship. For him, for
his mother and Angus, this is the best he can do. The photos were
great (why weren’t there more?!)
But I’m struggling to find much more to rave about regarding this piece.
Dobbs’s authorial presence throughout the essay is hugely burdensome;
he will not allow me the freedom of forgetting HE is the one writing
this story. For example on page….oh yeah, no pages, location 204… when
Dobbs is viewing the photo of his mother and Angus in a seemingly
distant mood, before I am allowed to draw any conclusions regarding
the tensions of the couple—as could be drawn from, were it present,
the delicately rendered description of the photo, after having formed
a sense, had it been presented to me, of the sort of characters Angus
and Evelyn were (not the sentimental mother-in-the-garden/Angus-as-
“Was she suddenly feeling ashamed? Had she and Angus been fighting?
Had the regrets latent in the earlier photographs broken into the open?
Or had the rolled-up papers in Angus’s front pants pocket—awkward to carry
but apparently too important to discard—brought bad news?”
In terms of scene, the following is the closest we get (aside from the
beginning and his moment at the cemetery), and it seems Dobbs himself
doesn’t feel comfortable handing the scene over to his actors, hence
the glaring shift to present tense, which seems Dobbs’ way of
announcing that SOMETHING IS HAPPENING:
“She looks up, and with the back of her sleeve she pushes her black
curls from her forehead and gives me a wondrous smile. She delightedly
says my name. This smile will embarrass me at other times. But now it
completely drives from my head whatever inspired this search only
moments before. She smiles that radiant smile, and when she asks me
what brings her the pleasure of this visit, I can’t recall what I’ve
come to her for” (location 423).
Is there irony in this that I’m missing?
I feel as though this is the closest I get to Angus: “28 April 45
Saipan: “It ain’t necessarily human” — look at the angle on that - uh
- er - - breast.” (location 259)
Now that’s an interesting piece of writing (at least to include).
Angus’s choice to insert the “uh” and the “er” tell me something about
his sense of humor, about his comfort with Evelyn. With those few
words, I can begin to form a sense of their characters and
relationship. Yet, Dobbs foils even this little experience with his
need to assure us, “ The angle of which is indeed most improbable.”
Sorry, I realize this is sounding like one of those bitchfest reviews,
and whenever I come across one of those I usually find something to
hate about the reviewer. However, if you took a quick peek at the above
review, you might agree with Hensher, the reviewer: "No one will doubt the
intensely felt emotions that drive this [Reif's] book. The trouble is that books are
not made out of emotions; they are made, as Mallarmé said, out of words."
So rather than just point out all the things that render what I found to be a compelling
story into a dry and uneventful narrative, I’m going to turn this into some broader
questions regarding (creative?) nonfiction:
Rearranging, trimming, somehow tweaking events is a delicate topic in
nonfiction: Well, when is it okay to leave the events as is? Isn’t it
a writer’s duty to do something with those events, to make them enticing for the reader?
When you’re writing about a relationship you were never able to
witness, how do you allow for those scenes, those events, to speak for
themselves? Essentially, how do you create nonfiction characters with
photos and letters?
What is the line between history and historical fiction? For example,
how could Dobbs have made us really experience Saipan, really put us
there (or anywhere that he writes about) without crossing the line
into historical fiction? (I’m thinking O’Brien—questionable,
obviously-- Klinkenborg, Raban, Krakauer…)
Then again, maybe I have this all wrong. I just took a peek over at
Nikki’s blog and now I’m paranoid that I’m missing something here. (By
the way, Nikki, your WWII stories are much more vivid and alive that
what’s presented here). Perhaps it was his purpose to keep it all at a
distance, to simply narrate the story of what happened. I guess if I
force myself to look at it this way, I could see Dobbs trying to
create a picture-album effect: we are allowed this fleeting glimpse
into the past, but we are only allowed so much, and with Dobbs as our
guide through this essay we must piece together what we can. This
would fit nicely with the theme of the “the idealized lost chance”
(location 436). Because Evelyn never really put closure on Angus’s
death; his memory is much like a photo: static, representative of only
a slice, and able to say only so much for itself.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Two Inspirational Nonfiction Writers
Eula Biss. Here she is reading two essays from Notes From No Man's Land.
And, um, Alan Rabinowitz. Who's not really known for his writing, but for his research with wild cats (the environmental writing thing--his book Jaguar is one of my faves). He was on The Moth and you can listen here.
And, um, Alan Rabinowitz. Who's not really known for his writing, but for his research with wild cats (the environmental writing thing--his book Jaguar is one of my faves). He was on The Moth and you can listen here.
Monday, September 5, 2011
On "Three Cups of Deceit"
I'm a fan of Krakauer, and his work in this article reminds me a lot of Banner Under Heaven, his deeply researched history of and expose (I think you can call it that) of Mormon culture (which, admittedly, I'm only halfway through--but it's incredibly disturbing and fascinating). Here I see a similar process--the focus on one character in particular, and how that person is connected to a broader organization, institution, or other affiliation. While learning about one person's story in particular, we are taken down all these side roads and tributaries of related persons, or histories, that at first seem unrelated but are slowly woven in to the matrix. Krakauer's main focus seems to be information--the gradual and methodical unfolding of a series events, the carefully paced and finely wrought narration of those events, presented in such a way that allows for the reader to come away with her own view of the situation. As Banner sometimes implicated Utah politicians as negligent for not prosecuting child abusers in Mormon country (i.e., Mormons weren't always functioning in a vacuum), "Three Cups"--despite the fact that his main criticism is on Mortenson--sort of implicates American culture for buying into the feel-good narrative. I haven't read Mortenson's books, but the way Krakauer presents it here, the questions scream out: Why weren't the publishers suspicious? Why didn't others pick up on the saccharine tidiness of the endings of these books? How come no one questioned Mortenson's Taliban abduction story? Maybe people did and I just missed it, but it seems like we were all too happy to accept the do-good work of Mortenson, that to question it would have been to poke at a finely constructed sense of hope. "How could those of us who enabled his fraud—and we are legion—have been so gullible?" Krakauer asks on page 68. Shortly after he quotes Callahan:
"The way I’ve always understood Greg," Callahan reflects, "is
that he’s a symptom of Afghanistan. Things are so bad that
everybody’s desperate for even one good-news story. And
Greg is it. Everything else might be completely fucked up
over there, but here’s a guy who’s persuaded the world that
he’s making a difference and doing things right.” (68)
Whereas I admire Krakaeur for his exhaustive research, his broader implications, and for outing (or further outing) Mortenson--I can't help but be somewhat suspicious of the fact that the point of the article is to reveal Mortenson's fabrications and difficult personality. Well before halfway through I get an "okay, enough already" feeling. I actually find Callahan's narrative with what he did experience out in the Wakhan, and details such as Abdul Rashid Khan's "wry sense of humor" (64), the most compelling parts of this article. I also loved learning about Hoerni and Wilson, and how Hoerni and Mortenson hit it off. To me, what Wilson contributed was the most revealing in terms of Mortenson's character: "he struggled to find a place in our Western culture" (29).
I think others mentioned their frustration with the abrupt ending, ending on Hornbein's words rather than his own, and I think I feel a similar frustration--I wanted Krakauer to bring it up to the next level, to say something grander about the pressure of catering to consumers and making sure that a book hits the shelves by Dec. 1st, just in time for the shopping season. Or I wanted him to leave us on a bigger note of the feel-good narrative, how we're all gullible readers. I guess I'm left wondering to make of all this except, don't lie, and don't do major heroic-looking tasks simply to "anchor the narrative" (67), which I think I knew already. Perhaps I'm expecting too much?
On the other hand, I do get the sense that Krakauer's work isn't really finished here, and that this article is an investigative cliff hanger: the saga will continue. I checked out Central Asia Institute's website, and Mortenson's defense to the various lawsuits that have ensued is pretty pathetic. And I become suspicious looking at the FAQ page--each "question" leading to basically the same explicit instructions on how to send money (there's really nothing else you can do for the organization)--including which currency to send it in. (I love this repeated line: "While our co-founder, Greg Mortenson, would like to provide personal guidance in your efforts, there are already too many demands on his time.")
On a structural note, I admire the way Krakauer deftly juggles the three various threads he's working with towards the end of the article. The three sections coalesce nicely, and Krakauer's able to show how the fabrication of the events, the shady financial dealings, and the empty schools all tie together:
All that remained was the final chapter—
which couldn’t be written until the school was completed.
Anxiety over whether a happy ending would take place in
time for Stones to arrive at bookstores before Christmas cre-
ated considerable suspense in the offices of Viking Penguin.
To generate suspense on the page, Mortenson injected
the failing health of Abdul Rashid Khan into the narrative. (64)
And so on and so forth.
So, I guess what I take away is a great example of how to research properly and how to construct an intricate, fool-proof, and compelling narrative. But at times I feel like the effort to keep reaming out Mortenson detracts from the piece, oddly enough. (For example, I feel like Krakauer is a little to eager to emphasize how Mortenson failed to summit K2). I'm compelled to explore the idea of how responsible we are as readers, and how we might even be "enablers of fraud," as Krakauer suggests.
"The way I’ve always understood Greg," Callahan reflects, "is
that he’s a symptom of Afghanistan. Things are so bad that
everybody’s desperate for even one good-news story. And
Greg is it. Everything else might be completely fucked up
over there, but here’s a guy who’s persuaded the world that
he’s making a difference and doing things right.” (68)
Whereas I admire Krakaeur for his exhaustive research, his broader implications, and for outing (or further outing) Mortenson--I can't help but be somewhat suspicious of the fact that the point of the article is to reveal Mortenson's fabrications and difficult personality. Well before halfway through I get an "okay, enough already" feeling. I actually find Callahan's narrative with what he did experience out in the Wakhan, and details such as Abdul Rashid Khan's "wry sense of humor" (64), the most compelling parts of this article. I also loved learning about Hoerni and Wilson, and how Hoerni and Mortenson hit it off. To me, what Wilson contributed was the most revealing in terms of Mortenson's character: "he struggled to find a place in our Western culture" (29).
I think others mentioned their frustration with the abrupt ending, ending on Hornbein's words rather than his own, and I think I feel a similar frustration--I wanted Krakauer to bring it up to the next level, to say something grander about the pressure of catering to consumers and making sure that a book hits the shelves by Dec. 1st, just in time for the shopping season. Or I wanted him to leave us on a bigger note of the feel-good narrative, how we're all gullible readers. I guess I'm left wondering to make of all this except, don't lie, and don't do major heroic-looking tasks simply to "anchor the narrative" (67), which I think I knew already. Perhaps I'm expecting too much?
On the other hand, I do get the sense that Krakauer's work isn't really finished here, and that this article is an investigative cliff hanger: the saga will continue. I checked out Central Asia Institute's website, and Mortenson's defense to the various lawsuits that have ensued is pretty pathetic. And I become suspicious looking at the FAQ page--each "question" leading to basically the same explicit instructions on how to send money (there's really nothing else you can do for the organization)--including which currency to send it in. (I love this repeated line: "While our co-founder, Greg Mortenson, would like to provide personal guidance in your efforts, there are already too many demands on his time.")
On a structural note, I admire the way Krakauer deftly juggles the three various threads he's working with towards the end of the article. The three sections coalesce nicely, and Krakauer's able to show how the fabrication of the events, the shady financial dealings, and the empty schools all tie together:
All that remained was the final chapter—
which couldn’t be written until the school was completed.
Anxiety over whether a happy ending would take place in
time for Stones to arrive at bookstores before Christmas cre-
ated considerable suspense in the offices of Viking Penguin.
To generate suspense on the page, Mortenson injected
the failing health of Abdul Rashid Khan into the narrative. (64)
And so on and so forth.
So, I guess what I take away is a great example of how to research properly and how to construct an intricate, fool-proof, and compelling narrative. But at times I feel like the effort to keep reaming out Mortenson detracts from the piece, oddly enough. (For example, I feel like Krakauer is a little to eager to emphasize how Mortenson failed to summit K2). I'm compelled to explore the idea of how responsible we are as readers, and how we might even be "enablers of fraud," as Krakauer suggests.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Why I'm taking this course: Stepping out of the vacuum
I found out late this summer that this was going to be a digital forms class. If "Readings in Nonfiction: Digital Forms" was listed on an electives list, honestly, I probably wouldn't have signed up for it. Digital media has always fallen into the category of something I "need to learn." Something I "should" know about. Something I kind of always thought I would tackle on my own when the time came. The reason I have always thought I would wait is because I wanted to have a compendium of work--essays, articles, stories etc.--that I felt was worthy of bragging about. That's why I came to an MFA program--to work on my writing. Once I felt I had a substantial amount of work that was publishable, that I was proud of, then I would begin the journey of blogging, twittering (tweeting?), tumbling, and other forms of "hey, look at me."
I don't like to be looked at when I don't feel like I have something really kick-ass to show.
Yet, knowing that a bunch (or just a few; or just one, even) of people are "following" me, "liking" me, linking to me, etc. is a great way to light a fire under the old arse and produce something worthy of sharing. So, I suppose I'm taking this course to transcend from the private and quiet writing life to the public and connected writing life. Being connected via social media--the simple act of starting a blog, acquiring these accounts as we will be doing throughout the semester--is akin to going from "I like to write" to "I am a writer." It's stepping away from thinking about something to just doing it.
I'm mostly just mulling over this for myself, trying to locate what this all means for me. Paige, I think your question that you asked of us on the first day of class is a good one: What is my role in all this? Where is my place in the digital world? What do I want to do with my writing and which of these various outlets will be for me, won't be for me?
Now that I've gotten the metaphysical reasons for taking this course out of the way, let me give some more concrete reasons for taking this class:
1.Publication opportunities.There are some blogs and online-only publications that I love, that I think produce (or find and reprint) fantastic writing. I'm hoping to learn about many more during this course, and, while enjoying some recommended reading, also finding more publication opportunities.
2.Self-presentation. Am I an environmental writer? Am I a generalist? Am I more of a journalist, or am I more of a philosopher? Does my writing tend to go inwards or outwards? Online media gives so many opportunities for creating an image that it becomes really overwhelming to pin down exactly what it is I do. (Which also forces me to pull away from defining myself at all.) I'm hoping within this course to shape an identity, or identities, that incorporate the various types of writing I like to do and aspire to do.
3. Nexus. Half of the reason I don't have a twitter account, don't maintain a blog regularly, or have a social media site is because of the commitment. I think about doing these things, but then an idea for a post goes by, two days, three days. Then it just doesn't seem relevant any more. I am a very slow person. I tend to do things only when it feels very important. Can I really have twitter followers if I only re-tweet things once every three weeks? In order to be part of the network, I have to move at a faster pace, and to move at a faster pace implies, to me, a loss of quality. There's just so much shit out there. Do we really need to be pointing out every little thing that interests us? Yet, I could make the commitment. I think part of this course will be about discipline for me. Doing the daily, or weekly, post. Linking to something I like. Tweeting. This course, I hope, will boost me up to speed.
4. Technology. I'm a pretty quick study. I'll pick this up quickly. The trick is picking it up.
5. Not about me at all. I also see this course as a grand look at what it means to be living in a digital world. What do all these various outlets for writing mean not just for me personally, but what do they mean at all?
5. Personal enrichment. I'm not being snarky here. This course will simply make me more aware. I will read books, articles, blogs, etc. that I wouldn't have. I will be introduced to writers, writing styles, and opportunities.
I'm especially looking forward to the reading list. Great books! Great articles! But I'm also looking forward to being pushed out of my comfort zone a little bit. The first day of class I mentioned that having an online presence can make a person feel vulnerable. I still believe that. But I also think it's worth giving it a shot, even if I think I might look a little stupid. This course will give me the opportunity to try out tools of the trade. When it's over, I can go back and recalibrate, incorporate what was useful, and set some of this stuff (twitter, maybe?) aside. And at least I'll know how to use those tools (if they're still relevant) if I decide to pick them up again.
Looking forward to it! Thanks for being Pitt's virtual classroom pioneer.
Cheers,
Amanda
I don't like to be looked at when I don't feel like I have something really kick-ass to show.
Yet, knowing that a bunch (or just a few; or just one, even) of people are "following" me, "liking" me, linking to me, etc. is a great way to light a fire under the old arse and produce something worthy of sharing. So, I suppose I'm taking this course to transcend from the private and quiet writing life to the public and connected writing life. Being connected via social media--the simple act of starting a blog, acquiring these accounts as we will be doing throughout the semester--is akin to going from "I like to write" to "I am a writer." It's stepping away from thinking about something to just doing it.
I'm mostly just mulling over this for myself, trying to locate what this all means for me. Paige, I think your question that you asked of us on the first day of class is a good one: What is my role in all this? Where is my place in the digital world? What do I want to do with my writing and which of these various outlets will be for me, won't be for me?
Now that I've gotten the metaphysical reasons for taking this course out of the way, let me give some more concrete reasons for taking this class:
1.Publication opportunities.There are some blogs and online-only publications that I love, that I think produce (or find and reprint) fantastic writing. I'm hoping to learn about many more during this course, and, while enjoying some recommended reading, also finding more publication opportunities.
2.Self-presentation. Am I an environmental writer? Am I a generalist? Am I more of a journalist, or am I more of a philosopher? Does my writing tend to go inwards or outwards? Online media gives so many opportunities for creating an image that it becomes really overwhelming to pin down exactly what it is I do. (Which also forces me to pull away from defining myself at all.) I'm hoping within this course to shape an identity, or identities, that incorporate the various types of writing I like to do and aspire to do.
3. Nexus. Half of the reason I don't have a twitter account, don't maintain a blog regularly, or have a social media site is because of the commitment. I think about doing these things, but then an idea for a post goes by, two days, three days. Then it just doesn't seem relevant any more. I am a very slow person. I tend to do things only when it feels very important. Can I really have twitter followers if I only re-tweet things once every three weeks? In order to be part of the network, I have to move at a faster pace, and to move at a faster pace implies, to me, a loss of quality. There's just so much shit out there. Do we really need to be pointing out every little thing that interests us? Yet, I could make the commitment. I think part of this course will be about discipline for me. Doing the daily, or weekly, post. Linking to something I like. Tweeting. This course, I hope, will boost me up to speed.
4. Technology. I'm a pretty quick study. I'll pick this up quickly. The trick is picking it up.
5. Not about me at all. I also see this course as a grand look at what it means to be living in a digital world. What do all these various outlets for writing mean not just for me personally, but what do they mean at all?
5. Personal enrichment. I'm not being snarky here. This course will simply make me more aware. I will read books, articles, blogs, etc. that I wouldn't have. I will be introduced to writers, writing styles, and opportunities.
I'm especially looking forward to the reading list. Great books! Great articles! But I'm also looking forward to being pushed out of my comfort zone a little bit. The first day of class I mentioned that having an online presence can make a person feel vulnerable. I still believe that. But I also think it's worth giving it a shot, even if I think I might look a little stupid. This course will give me the opportunity to try out tools of the trade. When it's over, I can go back and recalibrate, incorporate what was useful, and set some of this stuff (twitter, maybe?) aside. And at least I'll know how to use those tools (if they're still relevant) if I decide to pick them up again.
Looking forward to it! Thanks for being Pitt's virtual classroom pioneer.
Cheers,
Amanda
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