Writing for Publication Final Project Proposal Letter

Writing for Publication Final Project Proposal Letter         

The proposal letter is due: April 1

The proposal letter must be typed and be written in the form of a letter.

Dear Mr. Cook:

First paragraph: Describe your project.

• What genre? Short stories? Micro-fiction? Poems? A poetic journal? A sonnet cycle? A novella? A TV, film, or play script? A Memoir? A series of non-fiction feature articles? A graphic novel? Something else?
• What length? How many stories? How many poems? How many pages?
• What unifying idea? Will the stories be linked by character or setting? Will the script or novella include a particular plot arc? Will the poems be linked by topic, theme, or type? (The writing can be unified by form or content or both?)

Second paragraph: Describe your plan for the remaining weeks.

3/30 planning & writing week (proposal letter due April 1)

4/6 writing week (first progress check April 10)

4/13 workshop week

April Vacation

4/27 writing week (second progress check May 1) 

5/4 workshop week

5/11  writing week (third progress check May 15)

5/18 workshop week

5/26 writing week (fourth progress check May 29)

[Senior due date and coffeehouse reading* TBA]

6/1 workshop week

6/8 writing week (fifth progress check June 12)

6/15 workshop, editing, formatting, writing (?) week

[Grades 9-11 due dates and coffeehouse reading* TBA]

*At the final you will turn in your completed manuscript and will read a five minute piece of it. (Practice beforehand to make sure it’s five minutes and to make sure you can read it fluidly.) You will also eat treats and drink hot beverages.

 Third  paragraph: Describe what you will read as you complete your project

• Choose a published work (or works) to read. (Be as specific as you can be.) (For example if you are planning to write a fictionalized memoir you might read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. Or, if you are planning to write a screenplay you might read the screenplay to your favorite movie.)
• Explain how what you plan to read will help you with the project.

Sincerely,

Your Name

An Introduction to Writing Screenplays

An Introduction to Writing Screenplays
Due by the end of class Friday, March 27

Creative Nonfiction Out Loud: This American Life & The Moth

Creating Your Own Creative Nonfiction

Your task is to create a five to ten minutes story in the style of This American Life or The Moth.

Moth-style stories will be performed in class starting Wednesday, March 18.

This American Life-style stories will be shared in class starting Monday, March 23.

Option 1: This American Life

“This American Life is a weekly public radio show broadcast on more than 500 stations to about 2.1 million listeners. There's a theme to each episode, and a variety of stories on that theme. It's mostly true stories of everyday people, though not always. There's lots more to the show, but it's sort of hard to describe.” [text from thisamericanlife.org]

• If you choose this option you will create a five to ten minutes nonfiction story on a topic of your choice.
• This story will be told in first person but will need to include at least two speakers other than yourself.
• The story should follow the advice that Ira Glass gives in his lecture on making radio better. Click here for Ira Glass's advice about This American Life-style creative nonfiction.
• The story can be submitted in the form of an audio file or script. (An example script is attached. If you choose a script you have to read it to the class.) Click here to see the format of a This American Life script. Click here for a resource to help create a This American Life style audio file.
• You may work with a partner (or two) on this story.

Option 2: The Moth

The Moth is an acclaimed not-for-profit organization dedicated to the art and craft of storytelling. It is a celebration of both the raconteur, who breathes fire into true tales of ordinary life, and the storytelling novice, who has lived through something extraordinary and yearns to share it. At the center of each performance is, of course, the story – and The Moth’s directors work with each storyteller to find, shape and present it. [text from themoth.org]

• If you choose this option you will create a five to ten minute nonfiction story on a topic of your choice.
• This story will be told in first person.
• This story should follow the storytelling tips on The Moth website. (The tips are here.)
• The story will be crafted, revised, and practiced ahead of time but delivered live in class. There a lots of examples at themoth.org.

Slant Poetry Exercise #4: The Snow Man ("a mind of winter")

Click here for recording of the poem

The Snow Man
by Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter

To regard the frost and the boughs

Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time

To behold the junipers shagged with ice,

The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think

Of any misery in the sound of the wind,

In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land

Full of the same wind

That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,

And, nothing himself, beholds

Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

 

 

 

Wallace Stevens, "The Snow Man" from The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens. Copyright © 1954 by Wallace Stevens and renewed 1982 by Holly Stevens. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved.

Source: Poetry magazine (1921)

Slant Poetry Exercise #3: Unusual but True Love Poem

Valentine for Ernest Mann
by Naomi Shihab Nye

You can't order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll take two"
and expect it to be handed back to you
on a shiny plate.
Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, "Here's my address,
write me a poem," deserves something in reply.
So I'll tell you a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.
Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two skunks for a valentine.
He couldn't understand why she was crying.
"I thought they had such beautiful eyes."
And he was serious. He was a serious man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.
Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.

THE FLEA.
by John Donne

MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;
    Yet this enjoys before it woo,
    And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;
    And this, alas ! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
    Though use make you apt to kill me,
    Let not to that self-murder added be,
    And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

 
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130)
by William Shakespeare
 

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
     And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
     As any she belied with false compare.

 "My love is building a building"

by E.E. Cummings 

[For precise formatting of the poem click the link.]

my love is building a building
around you, a frail slippery
house, a strong fragile house
(beginning at the singular beginning

 of your smile) a skilful uncouth
 prison, a precise clumsy
 prison(building thatandthis into Thus,
 Around the reckless magic of your mouth) 

 my love is building a magic, a discrete
 tower of magic and(as i guess)
 
 when Farmer Death (whom fairies hate) shall

 crumble the mouth-flower fleet
 He'll not my tower,
 laborious, casual
 
 where the surrounded smile
 hangs
 breathless 

Slant Poetry Exercise #2: Self-Portrait At 28

Self-Portrait At 28

David Berman

I know it's a bad title but I'm giving it to myself as a gift on a day nearly canceled by sunlight when the entire hill is approaching the ideal of Virginia brochured with goldenrod and loblolly and I think "at least I have not woken up with a bloody knife in my hand" by then having absently wandered one hundred yards from the house while still seated in this chair with my eyes closed. It is a certain hill the one I imagine when I hear the word "hill" and if the apocalypse turns out to be a world-wide nervous breakdown if our five billion minds collapse at once well I'd call that a surprise ending and this hill would still be beautiful a place I wouldn't mind dying alone or with you. I am trying to get at something and I want to talk very plainly to you so that we are both comforted by the honesty. You see there is a window by my desk I stare out when I am stuck though the outdoors has rarely inspired me to write and I don't know why I keep staring at it. My childhood hasn't made good material either mostly being a mulch of white minutes with a few stand out moments, popping tar bubbles on the driveway in the summer a certain amount of pride at school everytime they called it "our sun" and playing football when the only play was "go out long" are what stand out now. If squeezed for more information I can remember old clock radios with flipping metal numbers and an entree called Surf and Turf. As a way of getting in touch with my origins every night I set the alarm clock for the time I was born so that waking up becomes a historical reenactment and the first thing I do is take a reading of the day and try to flow with it like when you're riding a mechanical bull and you strain to learn the pattern quickly so you don't inadverantly resist it. II two I can't remember being born and no one else can remember it either even the doctor who I met years later at a cocktail party. It's one of the little disappointments that makes you think about getting away going to Holly Springs or Coral Gables and taking a room on the square with a landlady whose hands are scored by disinfectant, telling the people you meet that you are from Alaska, and listen to what they have to say about Alaska until you have learned much more about Alaska than you ever will about Holly Springs or Coral Gables. Sometimes I am buying a newspaper in a strange city and think "I am about to learn what it's like to live here." Oftentimes there is a news item about the complaints of homeowners who live beside the airport and I realize that I read an article on this subject nearly once a year and always receive the same image. I am in bed late at night in my house near the airport listening to the jets fly overhead a strange wife sleeping beside me. In my mind, the bedroom is an amalgamation of various cold medicine commercial sets (there is always a box of tissue on the nightstand). I know these recurring news articles are clues, flaws in the design though I haven't figured out how to string them together yet, but I've begun to notice that the same people are dying over and over again, for instance Minnie Pearl who died this year for the fourth time in four years. III three Today is the first day of Lent and once again I'm not really sure what it is. How many more years will I let pass before I take the trouble to ask someone? It reminds of this morning when you were getting ready for work. I was sitting by the space heater numbly watching you dress and when you asked why I never wear a robe I had so many good reasons I didn't know where to begin. If you were cool in high school you didn't ask too many questions. You could tell who'd been to last night's big metal concert by the new t-shirts in the hallway. You didn't have to ask and that's what cool was: the ability to deduct to know without asking. And the pressure to simulate coolness means not asking when you don't know, which is why kids grow ever more stupid. A yearbook's endpages, filled with promises to stay in touch, stand as proof of the uselessness of a teenager's promise. Not like I'm dying for a letter from the class stoner ten years on but... Do you remember the way the girls would call out "love you!" conveniently leaving out the "I" as if they didn't want to commit to their own declarations. I agree that the "I" is a pretty heavy concept and hope you won't get uncomfortable if I should go into some deeper stuff here. IV four There are things I've given up on like recording funny answering machine messages. It's part of growing older and the human race as a group has matured along the same lines. It seems our comedy dates the quickest. If you laugh out loud at Shakespeare's jokes I hope you won't be insulted if I say you're trying too hard. Even sketches from the original Saturday Night Live seem slow-witted and obvious now. It's just that our advances are irrepressible. Nowadays little kids can't even set up lemonade stands. It makes people too self-conscious about the past, though try explaining that to a kid. I'm not saying it should be this way. All this new technology will eventually give us new feelings that will never completely displace the old ones leaving everyone feeling quite nervous and split in two. We will travel to Mars even as folks on Earth are still ripping open potato chip bags with their teeth. Why? I don't have the time or intelligence to make all the connections like my friend Gordon (this is a true story) who grew up in Braintree Massachusetts and had never pictured a brain snagged in a tree until I brought it up. He'd never broken the name down to its parts. By then it was too late. He had moved to Coral Gables. V five The hill out my window is still looking beautiful suffused in a kind of gold national park light and it seems to say, I'm sorry the world could not possibly use another poem about Orpheus but I'm available if you're not working on a self-portrait or anything. I'm watching my dog have nightmares, twitching and whining on the office floor and I try to imagine what beast has cornered him in the meadow where his dreams are set. I'm just letting the day be what it is: a place for a large number of things to gather and interact -- not even a place but an occasion a reality for real things. Friends warned me not to get too psychedelic or religious with this piece: "They won't accept it if it's too psychedelic or religious," but these are valid topics and I'm the one with the dog twitching on the floor possibly dreaming of me that part of me that would beat a dog for no good reason no reason that a dog could see. I am trying to get at something so simple that I have to talk plainly so the words don't disfigure it and if it turns out that what I say is untrue then at least let it be harmless like a leaky boat in the reeds that is bothering no one. VI six I can't trust the accuracy of my own memories, many of them having blended with sentimental telephone and margarine commercials plainly ruined by Madison Avenue though no one seems to call the advertising world "Madison Avenue" anymore. Have they moved? Let's get an update on this. But first I have some business to take care of. I walked out to the hill behind our house which looks positively Alaskan today and it would be easier to explain this if I had a picture to show you but I was with our young dog and he was running through the tall grass like running through the tall grass is all of life together until a bird calls or he finds a beer can and that thing fills all the space in his head. You see, his mind can only hold one thought at a time and when he finally hears me call his name he looks up and cocks his head and for a single moment my voice is everything: Self-portrait at 28.

Self Portrait at 28 Prompt

• Your title might be “Self Portrait at [your age]”.
• Write a self portrait using plain, conversational language in a stream of consciousness manner; in other words, let your words follow your mind’s work.
• What should your mind work on? Reflect on the past. Reflect on reflecting on the past. Reflect on the past in relation to the present. These are things Berman does in his poem.
• Berman also includes descriptions of what he can see from where he is when he is writing the poem. What do you see now? Mix that together with your reflections on the past and the past’s relationship to the present.
• Break the lines where ever it feels right or sounds right to you. Push yourself to write more than a page.