Aydin Reyhan
Collision Magazine (collision.pitt@gmail.com)
This literary magazine is run by students at the University of Pittsburgh.
Analysis: The editors of this journal accept the works of poetry, prose, literary criticism, and visual art/photography. The essays should be a decent length (not too long or short) and catch the reader’s eye. It needs to stand out more than the others. If one has already been published in this magazine, they are encouraged to attempt to do so again.
Prose: No more than 3000 words for this type of work should be sent in. Creative non-fiction prose includes the personal essay, narrative, travel piece, and profile.
My story fits in the prose section of this site. The one I would submit is “The Field,” which is about the soccer game I attended. It is my first “eye” essay. It is a descriptive travel piece, being that I described what was in my sight in Philadelphia at the game. My experiences that I heard with my ears and saw with my own two eyes are all in there. Therefore, the purpose of this piece is intended to be read by an audience that loves sports and traveling. Also, I want the audience to experience the same emotions I did when at the game. The roar of the crowd, the goals, the arguments, and competition between the two nations is what should be understood or thought about. That is all crucially important.
Representatives Essays
Subject Matter: The prose dominates the journal. They are written in a narrative voice. They are all written from a personal perspective of things they see, hear, and touch. There is even a bit of dialogue. None of the writings have anything to do with sports. Therefore, mine would be a unique addition.
Voice/Tone: There is no humor or political commentary, just serious reflection. Writers present their experiences from their lives as if they are telling us in person.
Form: This is mostly written in experimental form. After every sentence, they begin at a new line, even if it is not the beginning of a new paragraph. The grammar seems not to be corrected in some of the pieces so I do not know if it was done on purpose or not. There is one poem where the writing is small and placed on different spots of the page, as opposed to putting it all in one long form line by line.
Artistry: They are all quite literary and narrative. However, they are not too journalistic. None of the pieces seemed to have been taken out of a journal of any sort. Some describe important scenes from their lives with words that fit perfectly within.
Gift for a Fifth Child was written by Lawrence Lenhart of the University of Pittsburgh.
http://collision.honorscollege.pitt.edu/pdf/Collision11.pdf
Page 7
It is a story about an Irish family that has a house with a lot of history behind it. The main character takes the keys of the house after attending the funeral of the owner, John. The description of the inside of the house has a meaning behind it all. The author takes us through each part of the house and gives us a taste of what occurred within. John had promised to give the priest a hat but had to break it since he promised it to the main character. The imagery, voice, and description gives me the vision of the entirety of the story. It’s a quick yet interesting read.
Length: Some of the prose pieces are 3-4 pages while the poetry is no more than 1-2.
Number of Pieces Accepted: 14 per publication (Prose and Poetry)
Pay: 1st Prize-$250
2nd Prize-$135
3rd Prize-$100
Cover-$100
Manuscript requirements: All written work should be sent in a .doc document. The author’s name should not be included within the document of the submitted work. With the attached material, your name, contact info, and school name should be included in the body of the e-mail. One must be an undergraduate in order to submit his/her work.
There are no reading dates.
They are willing to provide feedback for the essays that are submitted by students.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Blog 21-Craft essay
Craft Essay
For the past three months, we have evolved as writers within the creative non-fiction genre. I the beginning, it was just a class to take with the hope of earning an A and learning a bit. However, the realization that there’s much more than that struck almost instantaneously.
At first, my writing was solely regarding the world of sports, soccer to be particular. My goal is to become a soccer writer within the near future after graduating college. Blogging, watching games, analyzing, and thoroughly describing my views and thoughts on the game is what soccer writing is all about. Making the switch to creative non-fiction for the class room was a bit difficult after an entire summer of sports writing. Every story was written from my perspective.
My first creative non-fiction piece was about the time I experienced my first car accident. The goal of that particular work was to tell the story from start to finish. No imagery or philosophy was intended to be written. I explained in chronological order what had happened at the time. The intended audience for that piece would be people who have had similar experiences that could relate to me. The story was written in organized form, moving from one paragraph to the next. It was directly to the point from start to finish which allowed it to develop along as it went.
Next up was the story on the family business. Transition swayed throughout the entire piece as there would be dialogue and description playing off one another. Whether it was having an issue with a customer or not wishing to follow my parents’ orders to make two pizza pies, it was all clear. It wasn’t as organized as the first piece because of the transitioning. Some paragraphs would be longer than others. The idea was to give my ideal audience of people who have worked/owned restaurants the first hand experience of what my family and I go through. However, for this story, I may have not put it in the best order. I could have made it a tad more exciting if I didn’t rush through writing the piece.
My third and fourth pieces were about the inside of a packed stadium at a live soccer match and travelling to Turkey respectively. Both were organized in the same way as the first one. The Field showed my experience at my first ever showdown between Turkey and the USA. I would transition between game play and the dialogue occurring with me and the other fans all around the stadium in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The audiences that I would imagine enjoying the read are fans of international soccer. The language and dialogue within my story are what occurred at the game. It’s an experience I will never wish to forget.
The travel piece on the differences between Turkey and the USA is probably my favorite one of all. I wrote it out straight through for the rough draft. From playing video games in the United States to kicking a rubber round ball in the dirt, the differences of these two nations are certainly there. For the revised draft, I took my time and made a few changes here and there to make it even better than it was. For people who would like to find out what it is like to travel to Turkey, that story is a must read. The imagery, metaphors, and easy description mixed altogether are what defined the piece.
Throughout this semester, I experimented with different types of stories in different ways. I really had to force my way out of my comfort zone in order to do the job right. The language was all straightforward within all four of my works. I wrote the stories and descriptions the way I know them. The ethics of my representations are certainly acceptable. No one was intended to be offended by any of my stories. They were written for the purpose of learning and enjoying the words on the screen.
My process definitely changed and grew throughout this semester in the ways that I learned more about organization, imagery, ethics, craft, and of course the idea of focus. The last one was difficult because I usually like to jump around to write the story as the thoughts pop into my head. However, I learned how to organize my thoughts and write them down as they fit in the best order.
Writing creative non-fiction has been a wonderful journey for me to take part in. From beginning solely as a sports writer, I grew into someone who can write about different, new, and interesting subjects that will not only attract sports fans but people who deal with everyday situations. Owning a restaurant, watching a sporting event, traveling, and experiencing accidental events are all parts of my life that I was finally able to write about. Even if it is just a tiny bit, my writing process certainly did improve throughout the semester as I was finally able to shift from sports writing. The tools I picked up in this class are ones I will never forget. Thank you for reading.
For the past three months, we have evolved as writers within the creative non-fiction genre. I the beginning, it was just a class to take with the hope of earning an A and learning a bit. However, the realization that there’s much more than that struck almost instantaneously.
At first, my writing was solely regarding the world of sports, soccer to be particular. My goal is to become a soccer writer within the near future after graduating college. Blogging, watching games, analyzing, and thoroughly describing my views and thoughts on the game is what soccer writing is all about. Making the switch to creative non-fiction for the class room was a bit difficult after an entire summer of sports writing. Every story was written from my perspective.
My first creative non-fiction piece was about the time I experienced my first car accident. The goal of that particular work was to tell the story from start to finish. No imagery or philosophy was intended to be written. I explained in chronological order what had happened at the time. The intended audience for that piece would be people who have had similar experiences that could relate to me. The story was written in organized form, moving from one paragraph to the next. It was directly to the point from start to finish which allowed it to develop along as it went.
Next up was the story on the family business. Transition swayed throughout the entire piece as there would be dialogue and description playing off one another. Whether it was having an issue with a customer or not wishing to follow my parents’ orders to make two pizza pies, it was all clear. It wasn’t as organized as the first piece because of the transitioning. Some paragraphs would be longer than others. The idea was to give my ideal audience of people who have worked/owned restaurants the first hand experience of what my family and I go through. However, for this story, I may have not put it in the best order. I could have made it a tad more exciting if I didn’t rush through writing the piece.
My third and fourth pieces were about the inside of a packed stadium at a live soccer match and travelling to Turkey respectively. Both were organized in the same way as the first one. The Field showed my experience at my first ever showdown between Turkey and the USA. I would transition between game play and the dialogue occurring with me and the other fans all around the stadium in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. The audiences that I would imagine enjoying the read are fans of international soccer. The language and dialogue within my story are what occurred at the game. It’s an experience I will never wish to forget.
The travel piece on the differences between Turkey and the USA is probably my favorite one of all. I wrote it out straight through for the rough draft. From playing video games in the United States to kicking a rubber round ball in the dirt, the differences of these two nations are certainly there. For the revised draft, I took my time and made a few changes here and there to make it even better than it was. For people who would like to find out what it is like to travel to Turkey, that story is a must read. The imagery, metaphors, and easy description mixed altogether are what defined the piece.
Throughout this semester, I experimented with different types of stories in different ways. I really had to force my way out of my comfort zone in order to do the job right. The language was all straightforward within all four of my works. I wrote the stories and descriptions the way I know them. The ethics of my representations are certainly acceptable. No one was intended to be offended by any of my stories. They were written for the purpose of learning and enjoying the words on the screen.
My process definitely changed and grew throughout this semester in the ways that I learned more about organization, imagery, ethics, craft, and of course the idea of focus. The last one was difficult because I usually like to jump around to write the story as the thoughts pop into my head. However, I learned how to organize my thoughts and write them down as they fit in the best order.
Writing creative non-fiction has been a wonderful journey for me to take part in. From beginning solely as a sports writer, I grew into someone who can write about different, new, and interesting subjects that will not only attract sports fans but people who deal with everyday situations. Owning a restaurant, watching a sporting event, traveling, and experiencing accidental events are all parts of my life that I was finally able to write about. Even if it is just a tiny bit, my writing process certainly did improve throughout the semester as I was finally able to shift from sports writing. The tools I picked up in this class are ones I will never forget. Thank you for reading.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Revised "Eye" Essay
Aydin Reyhan
Creative Non-Fiction
Clashing Cultures
The TV, PC, PS3, heater and AC are the items that I most appreciate in my room. The silver Honda Civic on my driveway is what takes me away from my fortress to travel to palces where I can escape the electronic adventures. The roads are paved to perfection for a smooth drive with stop signs, red lights, yield signs, and speed limits controlling my actions. Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds, Applebee’s, and BP’s are our designated stops on our way throughout our journey. Ladies and gentlemen, this is America, the good old USn’A. We are used to this as most of us were born into this nation of freedom. So when we leave the country, we wonder what lies beyond.
I wake up to a black, metallic stove with a sliding mini-door which protects us from the burning fire wood. It’s the source of heat in the mountainous area of Turkey. No air conditioner, heater, or central air system. It is old fashioned.
A couch with beautiful flowers sewn unto its cushions is my bed. The hard wooden floor is painted brown to add a bit of spice to the all white room. The two big windows split me from the beautiful green grass that leads to a path to the top of the mountains in Rize, Turkey.
My aunt and uncle are sitting on the couch with a tiny table in front of them. Two cups of tea rest on the top while they converse in Turkish about the weather. My uncle is swinging a string holding roughly 33 beads that are tied in a 6 inch circle; prayer beads. It’s a religious custom to swing the beads right after a prayer but he likes to do it throughout the day for good luck.
The TV is on but no one is watching. It’s as if we left it on so there would never be a moment of silence whenever we choose to stay silent.
At home in Jersey, my parents are sitting at the dining room table conversing while watching the TV. It’s as if they are all attempting to speak over one another. My siblings are in their rooms while I am upstairs in my lonesome typing, watching TV, or simply thinking. We all split up as if we are on a group mission. It’s difficult to remember the last time we had a family dinner.
In Rize, we are always together in the kitchen/dining room. We talk, eat, drink, and sit together just to keep each other company. No internet, cell phone, or video games. We only have each other.
As I walk outside, the forty concrete steps descend to a dirt filled ground with rocks to compliment it. There is nothing but brick houses surrounded by a plethora of green trees in the distance. The country side of Turkey is like a prison for a city lover from the United States.
Women with scarves covering their hair hold the hands of their children walk on the dirt roads to their neighbor’s so they could have a cup of the famous tea while their children kick a size four rubber ball around. Pick-up trucks rumble as they roam throughout the country side spewing gas and smoke with their shocks battling the olden roads.
It breaks my heart to see all of these people fake smiles while here in the states I complain about the smallest of things. It honestly puts things into perspective.
Bottled water, Gatorade, and even alcohol can be bought at a local Quick Check or Wal-Mart in the states. Out there, it’s a relief just to get to a local convenience/grocery store.
The silver Mitsubishi 4x4 looks like an ordinary American pick-up truck on the outside, but from the inside, it’s a different story. Nothing but dirt roads and trees for a thirty minute drive to the inner city of Rize seems like a life time. Not moving any faster than 40 mph, it’s a bumpy ride. Men and women are on the sides of the dirt track with big bags of green tea leaves on their backs. They are marching like soldiers; staring straight ahead and not letting anyone/anything distract them.
We enter the city. It’s as if we crossed the border from a surrounding country. Buildings, paved roads, restaurants, and convenience stores surround us as we cruise on the main street. There are two grocery stores that within 300 feet of each other. It seems like a miracle.
In certain parts of New Jersey, it takes two minutes to hop onto Route 22. There, the giant buildings full of the goods we crave await our presence. It couldn’t be easier to get to our destination. In Turkey, it’s like a never ending journey to get to the city. Most of the province is country like; trees, mountains, brick houses, and mosques all over. It seems like the perfect fit for someone from Montana but could be unbearable for someone from Manhattan.
One of the sounds I hear as while sitting in the kitchen next to the fire-wood powered stove is a man singing into a megaphone. He does this 5 times a day, signaling that the time has come for prayer. It is three minutes long but absolutely soothing. The sound of his voice magically stops everyone from what they are doing to prepare for their prayer to God. This type of religious action is disallowed in the United States. We call it a free country but it’s only free if we follow the rules.
Standing on a small carpet with a picture of a mosque on it, I stand tall with my eyes staring straight ahead while covering my left hand with my right hand and resting them on my stomach. We all do this while facing the direction of the Kabah; where every single Muslim faithful prays towards to prove their love and loyalty to God. In America, people travel to churches, temples, or synagogues to pray. There is no man singing a prayer into a microphone.
McDonald’s and Burger King have the most famous American foods; the Big Mac and Whopper respectively. Those restaurants could be found almost anywhere. In Turkey, these places do not exist as much because food is a specialty.
As I look into the window, the Gyro is spinning around on its metal pole with the Kebab, rice, and salad being prepared delicately nearby. Chemicals do not exist near this delectable meal. The butter milk is poured into a tall, clear thin glass that is aligned with the fork, spoon, and knife. My mouth begins to water as my eyes and nose are teased with its delectable scent and appearance.
People sit on the streets with ripped clothing while polishing upper classmen’s shoes. Sweat drips from their faces while they stroke the brushes like zombies. “Hey buddy, I’ll give you one dollar to clean my shoes, and make it quick.”
The 12-15 year old child covered in dirt from head to toe nods his head and begins his job without breathing a word. It is absolutely degrading to see something like this. As an American, I can’t imagine this occurring on our streets in the US.
Some women walk about with scarves covering their heads and clothing covering their entire bodies. Here in the US, some women dress freely, covering only half of their bodies up while allowing the other half to be gazed upon by desperate men.
Football, Basketball, Baseball, and Hockey are what dominate the streets, fields, and courts in our nation. Overseas, Soccer is played on the streets, fields, and indoors.
Young children set up two goals made of trash cans and run around, attempting to kick a plastic ball in between the badly scented grayish cans. Mothers gaze down from the windows of their apartments to inform their children that dinner will be ready in five minutes. Even though their homes are thirty feet up, the wind guides the delicious scent my way. Turkish tea, rice, and freshly baked bread fill my nostrils.
The United States is where I was proudly born into. The city, lights, and pollution are part of who I am. However, sometimes even in the city, I smell the burning firewood and I close my eyes. The dirt road, trees, mountains, and brick houses automatically appear in my mind’s eye. It’s not the city, but it truly does feel like home.
Creative Non-Fiction
Clashing Cultures
The TV, PC, PS3, heater and AC are the items that I most appreciate in my room. The silver Honda Civic on my driveway is what takes me away from my fortress to travel to palces where I can escape the electronic adventures. The roads are paved to perfection for a smooth drive with stop signs, red lights, yield signs, and speed limits controlling my actions. Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds, Applebee’s, and BP’s are our designated stops on our way throughout our journey. Ladies and gentlemen, this is America, the good old USn’A. We are used to this as most of us were born into this nation of freedom. So when we leave the country, we wonder what lies beyond.
I wake up to a black, metallic stove with a sliding mini-door which protects us from the burning fire wood. It’s the source of heat in the mountainous area of Turkey. No air conditioner, heater, or central air system. It is old fashioned.
A couch with beautiful flowers sewn unto its cushions is my bed. The hard wooden floor is painted brown to add a bit of spice to the all white room. The two big windows split me from the beautiful green grass that leads to a path to the top of the mountains in Rize, Turkey.
My aunt and uncle are sitting on the couch with a tiny table in front of them. Two cups of tea rest on the top while they converse in Turkish about the weather. My uncle is swinging a string holding roughly 33 beads that are tied in a 6 inch circle; prayer beads. It’s a religious custom to swing the beads right after a prayer but he likes to do it throughout the day for good luck.
The TV is on but no one is watching. It’s as if we left it on so there would never be a moment of silence whenever we choose to stay silent.
At home in Jersey, my parents are sitting at the dining room table conversing while watching the TV. It’s as if they are all attempting to speak over one another. My siblings are in their rooms while I am upstairs in my lonesome typing, watching TV, or simply thinking. We all split up as if we are on a group mission. It’s difficult to remember the last time we had a family dinner.
In Rize, we are always together in the kitchen/dining room. We talk, eat, drink, and sit together just to keep each other company. No internet, cell phone, or video games. We only have each other.
As I walk outside, the forty concrete steps descend to a dirt filled ground with rocks to compliment it. There is nothing but brick houses surrounded by a plethora of green trees in the distance. The country side of Turkey is like a prison for a city lover from the United States.
Women with scarves covering their hair hold the hands of their children walk on the dirt roads to their neighbor’s so they could have a cup of the famous tea while their children kick a size four rubber ball around. Pick-up trucks rumble as they roam throughout the country side spewing gas and smoke with their shocks battling the olden roads.
It breaks my heart to see all of these people fake smiles while here in the states I complain about the smallest of things. It honestly puts things into perspective.
Bottled water, Gatorade, and even alcohol can be bought at a local Quick Check or Wal-Mart in the states. Out there, it’s a relief just to get to a local convenience/grocery store.
The silver Mitsubishi 4x4 looks like an ordinary American pick-up truck on the outside, but from the inside, it’s a different story. Nothing but dirt roads and trees for a thirty minute drive to the inner city of Rize seems like a life time. Not moving any faster than 40 mph, it’s a bumpy ride. Men and women are on the sides of the dirt track with big bags of green tea leaves on their backs. They are marching like soldiers; staring straight ahead and not letting anyone/anything distract them.
We enter the city. It’s as if we crossed the border from a surrounding country. Buildings, paved roads, restaurants, and convenience stores surround us as we cruise on the main street. There are two grocery stores that within 300 feet of each other. It seems like a miracle.
In certain parts of New Jersey, it takes two minutes to hop onto Route 22. There, the giant buildings full of the goods we crave await our presence. It couldn’t be easier to get to our destination. In Turkey, it’s like a never ending journey to get to the city. Most of the province is country like; trees, mountains, brick houses, and mosques all over. It seems like the perfect fit for someone from Montana but could be unbearable for someone from Manhattan.
One of the sounds I hear as while sitting in the kitchen next to the fire-wood powered stove is a man singing into a megaphone. He does this 5 times a day, signaling that the time has come for prayer. It is three minutes long but absolutely soothing. The sound of his voice magically stops everyone from what they are doing to prepare for their prayer to God. This type of religious action is disallowed in the United States. We call it a free country but it’s only free if we follow the rules.
Standing on a small carpet with a picture of a mosque on it, I stand tall with my eyes staring straight ahead while covering my left hand with my right hand and resting them on my stomach. We all do this while facing the direction of the Kabah; where every single Muslim faithful prays towards to prove their love and loyalty to God. In America, people travel to churches, temples, or synagogues to pray. There is no man singing a prayer into a microphone.
McDonald’s and Burger King have the most famous American foods; the Big Mac and Whopper respectively. Those restaurants could be found almost anywhere. In Turkey, these places do not exist as much because food is a specialty.
As I look into the window, the Gyro is spinning around on its metal pole with the Kebab, rice, and salad being prepared delicately nearby. Chemicals do not exist near this delectable meal. The butter milk is poured into a tall, clear thin glass that is aligned with the fork, spoon, and knife. My mouth begins to water as my eyes and nose are teased with its delectable scent and appearance.
People sit on the streets with ripped clothing while polishing upper classmen’s shoes. Sweat drips from their faces while they stroke the brushes like zombies. “Hey buddy, I’ll give you one dollar to clean my shoes, and make it quick.”
The 12-15 year old child covered in dirt from head to toe nods his head and begins his job without breathing a word. It is absolutely degrading to see something like this. As an American, I can’t imagine this occurring on our streets in the US.
Some women walk about with scarves covering their heads and clothing covering their entire bodies. Here in the US, some women dress freely, covering only half of their bodies up while allowing the other half to be gazed upon by desperate men.
Football, Basketball, Baseball, and Hockey are what dominate the streets, fields, and courts in our nation. Overseas, Soccer is played on the streets, fields, and indoors.
Young children set up two goals made of trash cans and run around, attempting to kick a plastic ball in between the badly scented grayish cans. Mothers gaze down from the windows of their apartments to inform their children that dinner will be ready in five minutes. Even though their homes are thirty feet up, the wind guides the delicious scent my way. Turkish tea, rice, and freshly baked bread fill my nostrils.
The United States is where I was proudly born into. The city, lights, and pollution are part of who I am. However, sometimes even in the city, I smell the burning firewood and I close my eyes. The dirt road, trees, mountains, and brick houses automatically appear in my mind’s eye. It’s not the city, but it truly does feel like home.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Like My Work
The journals that will like my work are the ones that are filled with a variety. I have written about sports, countries, and my experiences within each. I could improve a bit in each different occasion, but I think its all a good start. Imagery, emotion, and dialogue are all in different portions of my writing. There is a bit of comedy and drama in my writing. Also, there is plenty of description.
Poetic journals will not have a place for my writing but ones that enjoy creative non-fiction prose. Ones that have 3-4 page essays that take readers into a new, different direction. Ii do not know the names of these journals, but surely they exist.
Poetic journals will not have a place for my writing but ones that enjoy creative non-fiction prose. Ones that have 3-4 page essays that take readers into a new, different direction. Ii do not know the names of these journals, but surely they exist.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Rhetorical Analysis
Aydin Reyhan
Collision Magazine (collision.pitt@gmail.com)
Analysis: The editors of this journal accept the works of poetry, prose, literary criticism, and visual art/photography. The essays should be a decent length (not too long or short) and catch the reader’s eye. It needs to stand out more than the others. If one has already been published in this magazine, they are encouraged to attempt to do so again.
Poetry: One may send up to 5 poems at a time. All styles and forms are accepted. If it is an imitation, the name of the author should be included.
Prose: No more than 3000 words for this type of work should be sent in. Creative non-fiction prose includes the personal essay, narrative, travel piece, and profile.
Literary Criticism: Send a literary critical essay of no more than 3000 words. All essays must consider contemporary literature ("contemporary," in this case, means anything written within the past twenty years); or, if the essay considers older works, authors, or movements, there must be some connection made to the contemporary.
Visual Arts and Photography: Send up to 10 pieces in .jpg or .jpgs format. Visual art may include uploaded versions of photographs, sketches, paintings, or comics.
My story fits in the prose section of this site. The one I will or would submit is “The Field,” which is about the soccer game I attended. It is my first “eye” essay. It is somewhat a travel piece being that I traveled to Philadelphia to watch the game. My experiences that I heard with my ears and saw with my own two eyes are all in there. Therefore, The purpose of this piece is intended to be read by an audience that loves sports and traveling. Also, I want the audience to feel the same emotions I did when at the game. The roar of the crowd, the goals, the arguments, and competition between the two nations is what should be understood or thought about. That is all crucially important.
Representatives Essays
Subject Matter: The prose and poetry dominate the journal. They are written in a narrative voice. They are all written from a personal perspective of things they see, hear, and touch. There is even a bit of dialogue. None of the writings have anything to do with sports. Therefore, mine would be a unique addition.
Voice/Tone: There is no humor or political commentary, just serious reflection. Writers present their experiences from their lives as if they are telling us in person.
Form: The journal chose to put prose before poetry. After every sentence, they begin at a new line, even if it is not the beginning of a new paragraph. The poetry is short but very descriptive. The grammar seems not to be corrected in some of the pieces so I do not know if it was done on purpose or not. There is one poem where the writing is small and placed on different spots of the page, as opposed to putting it all in one long form line by line.
Artistry: They are all quite literary and narrative. However, they are not too journalistic. None of the pieces seemed to have been taken out of a journal of any sort. Some describe important scenes from their lives with words that fit perfectly within.
Length: Some of the prose pieces are 3-4 pages while the poetry is no more than 1-2.
Number of Pieces Accepted: 14 per publication (Prose and Poetry)
Pay: 1st Prize-$250
2nd Prize-$135
3rd Prize-$100
Cover-$100
Manuscript requirements: All written work should be sent in a .doc document. The author’s name should not be included within the document of the submitted work. With the attached material, your name, contact info, and school name should be included in the body of the e-mail. One must be an undergraduate in order to submit his/her work.
There are no reading dates.
Collision Magazine (collision.pitt@gmail.com)
Analysis: The editors of this journal accept the works of poetry, prose, literary criticism, and visual art/photography. The essays should be a decent length (not too long or short) and catch the reader’s eye. It needs to stand out more than the others. If one has already been published in this magazine, they are encouraged to attempt to do so again.
Poetry: One may send up to 5 poems at a time. All styles and forms are accepted. If it is an imitation, the name of the author should be included.
Prose: No more than 3000 words for this type of work should be sent in. Creative non-fiction prose includes the personal essay, narrative, travel piece, and profile.
Literary Criticism: Send a literary critical essay of no more than 3000 words. All essays must consider contemporary literature ("contemporary," in this case, means anything written within the past twenty years); or, if the essay considers older works, authors, or movements, there must be some connection made to the contemporary.
Visual Arts and Photography: Send up to 10 pieces in .jpg or .jpgs format. Visual art may include uploaded versions of photographs, sketches, paintings, or comics.
My story fits in the prose section of this site. The one I will or would submit is “The Field,” which is about the soccer game I attended. It is my first “eye” essay. It is somewhat a travel piece being that I traveled to Philadelphia to watch the game. My experiences that I heard with my ears and saw with my own two eyes are all in there. Therefore, The purpose of this piece is intended to be read by an audience that loves sports and traveling. Also, I want the audience to feel the same emotions I did when at the game. The roar of the crowd, the goals, the arguments, and competition between the two nations is what should be understood or thought about. That is all crucially important.
Representatives Essays
Subject Matter: The prose and poetry dominate the journal. They are written in a narrative voice. They are all written from a personal perspective of things they see, hear, and touch. There is even a bit of dialogue. None of the writings have anything to do with sports. Therefore, mine would be a unique addition.
Voice/Tone: There is no humor or political commentary, just serious reflection. Writers present their experiences from their lives as if they are telling us in person.
Form: The journal chose to put prose before poetry. After every sentence, they begin at a new line, even if it is not the beginning of a new paragraph. The poetry is short but very descriptive. The grammar seems not to be corrected in some of the pieces so I do not know if it was done on purpose or not. There is one poem where the writing is small and placed on different spots of the page, as opposed to putting it all in one long form line by line.
Artistry: They are all quite literary and narrative. However, they are not too journalistic. None of the pieces seemed to have been taken out of a journal of any sort. Some describe important scenes from their lives with words that fit perfectly within.
Length: Some of the prose pieces are 3-4 pages while the poetry is no more than 1-2.
Number of Pieces Accepted: 14 per publication (Prose and Poetry)
Pay: 1st Prize-$250
2nd Prize-$135
3rd Prize-$100
Cover-$100
Manuscript requirements: All written work should be sent in a .doc document. The author’s name should not be included within the document of the submitted work. With the attached material, your name, contact info, and school name should be included in the body of the e-mail. One must be an undergraduate in order to submit his/her work.
There are no reading dates.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Blog 18- Revision of Essay 2 "The Family Business"
Aydin Reyhan
The Family Business
In 1993, my father purchased what would turn out to be his most successful business ever, Maria’s Restaurant and Pizzeria. He began with the goal of turning an ugly place with an unfavorable style into something that would fit his talent perfectly. It took some time, but after 18 years, it is safe to say that it is truly a beautiful, remarkable, and delectable place to eat.
“Aydin! I need two cheese pies and an order of garlic knots to go, pronto,” my mother ordered.
“What the fuck!? I just got here. I don’t want to make that shit now. I don’t even want to be here,” I whined back.
It was one of those days in mid 2011 when I let everyone around me know--including the observing customers--I simply didn’t want to be there. I know it’s disrespectful to curse when speaking to parents, but sometimes it just slips out, and I chose not control my urge.
“Aydin! Don’t make me tell your father,” she threatened.
“Go ahead! I don’t give a rat’s ass,” I rudely replied.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents more than anything and anyone, but at Maria’s, I tend to lose myself. After a long day at school, going into the store to finish off the second half of my day by doing something I absolutely hate annoys me. The food, personnel, and even most of the customers are a delight, but this beast inside me is begging to escape so it can cause havoc. Battling with it at work slows me down.
My father removed the bar that used to cover the wall in between the waitress station and the pizza oven. He decided he did not want to acquire a liquor license since he doesn’t like dealing with drunkards. The waitress station is where the waitresses have access to everything they need to serve their customers such cheese, pepper, utensils, napkins, and drinking glasses. There is also a phone hanging on the wall so orders may be taken when a customer calls.
My father brought yet another pizza/Italian cuisine talent into the town of Scotch Plains. There are two other pizzeria/restaurants that have been there well before we arrived. However, our business still built up to be the success that it is today. We like to thank God for that.
In 2006, while my mother was away with my siblings in Turkey visiting family for the summer, my father decided that it was time to sell the restaurant. He was fed up with depending on the same customers to come in and allow him to make a living. When most of the regulars stopped coming in, he let go of his most prized possession, Maria’s.
After selling, he took a 7 month break from working. It was refreshing for him yes, but it also drove him crazy not going into work every single day. For me, it was decent at first but then I became scared about not having money in my pocket. Therefore, I was hired at Dunkin Donuts where I have worked on and off for two years.
My father and I worked at two different places he took over in Wyckoff and Rochelle Park up in northern Jersey. The only fun fact about those places was the long, soothing drives we took to get there and back. They were truly awful experiences as we barely had any regulars at either location that spent more than five dollars.
“Excuse me, this is not what I ordered,” a customer complained when he received a chicken parm instead of a chicken francese.
“Oh, terribly sorry sir. Let me fix that ASAP,” I replied while tightening my lips as I walked towards the kitchen.
When customers complain, I get extremely pissed off. Its bad enough I have to be there to serve them, now I have to listen to them bitch and moan? I don’t think so.
“Edgar, eso hombre no quiere chicken parm, quiere francese. Esta rompiendo mis bolas para nada,” I stated to our chef at the time in 2009. Roughly translated, it means: Edgar, this guy doesn’t want a chicken parm, he wants a francese. He’s breaking my balls for nothing. I tended to bitch and moan myself for the smallest things. I simply hated being there at times.
“Here you go boss, enjoy. Sorry about the mix up. Have a good weekend, you fucking prick,” I mumbled under my breath. It is rude to curse off customers to their faces so when I get angry, I talk to myself, a lot.
However, one thing I absolutely love about the restaurant is how many beautiful girls enter the premises. I get to talk with them as well as check them out. Of course I don’t take things too far being that it is a business, but still, it’s a fun part of being there.
In 2009, the man who purchased the place from my father gave him a call. He admitted that he was going nowhere but downhill and that he was wondering if my father would take it back. My mother, who was praying everyday for the past three years, convinced him to do so. My father gladly accepted.
The personnel along with my parents did their best to spruce the place up a bit for the grand re-opening. The date was set for July 7th, 2009, but little did I know that there was a surprise waiting for me the day before.
A friend and I were driving to a soccer game on July 6th and while waiting at a red light, my attention was not on the road but towards something in the back seat. Next thing I knew, I had rear-ended a 2001 Toyota Camry being driven by an Oriental man. It was the first ever fender bender I was in that was completely my fault. It is the day before we open up Maria’s after a 3 year break, and a $500 dollar accident occurs thanks to yours truly. Bad luck anyone?
My father agrees to pay the fee but on opening day, he let me have it.
“How fucking stupid can you get? You need to drive right,” my loving father informed me. “What the fuck did I do to deserve such a shitty son?”
Regardless, I love my father to the fullest. Not just because I live under his roof, but because I am his son. It’s absolutely okay that he got pissed off at me for doing something so pointless and stupid. It was one of those things that shouldn’t happen but does anyways just to teach me a lesson. Well thanks karma, I certainly learned it.
That’s enough with the negativity. It’s time to discuss the good times. No matter how bad it is at the store, working with my parents was fun at times.
“I just called to say...I love you…my darling,” my father happily sang.
“Tomorrow...could be rain...or could be snow...” I happily joined in.
My father and I would sometimes randomly begin singing when we were bored or needed to calm down. We would even make jokes with the customers.
“Boy, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, does it?” a customer chuckled while asking.
“No, I guess not,” I smiled back. It was hard not to since my personality is almost exactly like my father’s. I love him dearly and it sometimes tears me up inside that I hate the place in general. The reason is simple: family. Having a family business is the perfect way to pass time with one another. Since my parents are barely ever home, the chance to work with them there is worth it. However, it’s been long enough.
Every time I get pissed off at the store, I always remember the accident because it made me believe that Maria’s was going to bring us bad luck. It may have put food on our table and clothing on our backs, but it took a lot of energy from us to do so.
One thing I am absolutely grateful for is that at Maria’s, I get to spend quality time with my family. If I didn’t work there, I would barely ever see my parents. While there, I get five hours with them where we work very hard yet find time to bond. It is truly a remarkable experience to run a family business.
It may be awful at times and I may not be as thankful as I should be, but I am finally beginning to realize we are truly blessed. God gave us place to come together and enjoy one another’s company. After writing this piece, I may never complain again. Well, at least not as much.
The Family Business
In 1993, my father purchased what would turn out to be his most successful business ever, Maria’s Restaurant and Pizzeria. He began with the goal of turning an ugly place with an unfavorable style into something that would fit his talent perfectly. It took some time, but after 18 years, it is safe to say that it is truly a beautiful, remarkable, and delectable place to eat.
“Aydin! I need two cheese pies and an order of garlic knots to go, pronto,” my mother ordered.
“What the fuck!? I just got here. I don’t want to make that shit now. I don’t even want to be here,” I whined back.
It was one of those days in mid 2011 when I let everyone around me know--including the observing customers--I simply didn’t want to be there. I know it’s disrespectful to curse when speaking to parents, but sometimes it just slips out, and I chose not control my urge.
“Aydin! Don’t make me tell your father,” she threatened.
“Go ahead! I don’t give a rat’s ass,” I rudely replied.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents more than anything and anyone, but at Maria’s, I tend to lose myself. After a long day at school, going into the store to finish off the second half of my day by doing something I absolutely hate annoys me. The food, personnel, and even most of the customers are a delight, but this beast inside me is begging to escape so it can cause havoc. Battling with it at work slows me down.
My father removed the bar that used to cover the wall in between the waitress station and the pizza oven. He decided he did not want to acquire a liquor license since he doesn’t like dealing with drunkards. The waitress station is where the waitresses have access to everything they need to serve their customers such cheese, pepper, utensils, napkins, and drinking glasses. There is also a phone hanging on the wall so orders may be taken when a customer calls.
My father brought yet another pizza/Italian cuisine talent into the town of Scotch Plains. There are two other pizzeria/restaurants that have been there well before we arrived. However, our business still built up to be the success that it is today. We like to thank God for that.
In 2006, while my mother was away with my siblings in Turkey visiting family for the summer, my father decided that it was time to sell the restaurant. He was fed up with depending on the same customers to come in and allow him to make a living. When most of the regulars stopped coming in, he let go of his most prized possession, Maria’s.
After selling, he took a 7 month break from working. It was refreshing for him yes, but it also drove him crazy not going into work every single day. For me, it was decent at first but then I became scared about not having money in my pocket. Therefore, I was hired at Dunkin Donuts where I have worked on and off for two years.
My father and I worked at two different places he took over in Wyckoff and Rochelle Park up in northern Jersey. The only fun fact about those places was the long, soothing drives we took to get there and back. They were truly awful experiences as we barely had any regulars at either location that spent more than five dollars.
“Excuse me, this is not what I ordered,” a customer complained when he received a chicken parm instead of a chicken francese.
“Oh, terribly sorry sir. Let me fix that ASAP,” I replied while tightening my lips as I walked towards the kitchen.
When customers complain, I get extremely pissed off. Its bad enough I have to be there to serve them, now I have to listen to them bitch and moan? I don’t think so.
“Edgar, eso hombre no quiere chicken parm, quiere francese. Esta rompiendo mis bolas para nada,” I stated to our chef at the time in 2009. Roughly translated, it means: Edgar, this guy doesn’t want a chicken parm, he wants a francese. He’s breaking my balls for nothing. I tended to bitch and moan myself for the smallest things. I simply hated being there at times.
“Here you go boss, enjoy. Sorry about the mix up. Have a good weekend, you fucking prick,” I mumbled under my breath. It is rude to curse off customers to their faces so when I get angry, I talk to myself, a lot.
However, one thing I absolutely love about the restaurant is how many beautiful girls enter the premises. I get to talk with them as well as check them out. Of course I don’t take things too far being that it is a business, but still, it’s a fun part of being there.
In 2009, the man who purchased the place from my father gave him a call. He admitted that he was going nowhere but downhill and that he was wondering if my father would take it back. My mother, who was praying everyday for the past three years, convinced him to do so. My father gladly accepted.
The personnel along with my parents did their best to spruce the place up a bit for the grand re-opening. The date was set for July 7th, 2009, but little did I know that there was a surprise waiting for me the day before.
A friend and I were driving to a soccer game on July 6th and while waiting at a red light, my attention was not on the road but towards something in the back seat. Next thing I knew, I had rear-ended a 2001 Toyota Camry being driven by an Oriental man. It was the first ever fender bender I was in that was completely my fault. It is the day before we open up Maria’s after a 3 year break, and a $500 dollar accident occurs thanks to yours truly. Bad luck anyone?
My father agrees to pay the fee but on opening day, he let me have it.
“How fucking stupid can you get? You need to drive right,” my loving father informed me. “What the fuck did I do to deserve such a shitty son?”
Regardless, I love my father to the fullest. Not just because I live under his roof, but because I am his son. It’s absolutely okay that he got pissed off at me for doing something so pointless and stupid. It was one of those things that shouldn’t happen but does anyways just to teach me a lesson. Well thanks karma, I certainly learned it.
That’s enough with the negativity. It’s time to discuss the good times. No matter how bad it is at the store, working with my parents was fun at times.
“I just called to say...I love you…my darling,” my father happily sang.
“Tomorrow...could be rain...or could be snow...” I happily joined in.
My father and I would sometimes randomly begin singing when we were bored or needed to calm down. We would even make jokes with the customers.
“Boy, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, does it?” a customer chuckled while asking.
“No, I guess not,” I smiled back. It was hard not to since my personality is almost exactly like my father’s. I love him dearly and it sometimes tears me up inside that I hate the place in general. The reason is simple: family. Having a family business is the perfect way to pass time with one another. Since my parents are barely ever home, the chance to work with them there is worth it. However, it’s been long enough.
Every time I get pissed off at the store, I always remember the accident because it made me believe that Maria’s was going to bring us bad luck. It may have put food on our table and clothing on our backs, but it took a lot of energy from us to do so.
One thing I am absolutely grateful for is that at Maria’s, I get to spend quality time with my family. If I didn’t work there, I would barely ever see my parents. While there, I get five hours with them where we work very hard yet find time to bond. It is truly a remarkable experience to run a family business.
It may be awful at times and I may not be as thankful as I should be, but I am finally beginning to realize we are truly blessed. God gave us place to come together and enjoy one another’s company. After writing this piece, I may never complain again. Well, at least not as much.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Blog 17- Essay 4
Aydin Reyhan
Creative Non-Fiction
Clashing Cultures
The TV, PC, and PS3, heater and AC are the items that I appreciate the most in my room. The silver Honda Civic on my driveway is what allows me to leave my fortress to travel to a place where I can escape the electronic adventure. The roads are paved to perfection for a smooth drive. Stop signs, red lights, yield signs, and speed limits are control us on the road. Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds, Applebee’s, and Bp’s are our designated stops on our way throughout our journey. Ladies and gentlemen, this is America, the good old USA. We are used to this as most of us were born into this nation of freedom. So when we leave the country, what’s it like?
I wake up to a black, metallic stove with a sliding mini-door which protects us from the burning fire wood. It’s the source of heat in the mountainous area of Turkey. No air conditioner, heater, or central air system. It is all-natural.
A couch with beautiful flowers sewn unto its cushions is my sleeping place. The hard wooden floor is painted brown to change the color of the all white room. The two big windows separate me from the beautiful green grass that leads to a path to the top of the mountains in Rize, Turkey.
As I walk outside, the forty concrete steps descend to a dirt filled ground with rocks to add a bit of decoration. There is nothing but brick houses surrounded by a plethora of green trees in the distance. The country side of Turkey is like a prison for a city lover from the United States.
Bottled water, Gatorade, and even alcohol can be bought at a local Quick Check or even Wal-Mart here in the states. Out there, it’s a journey just to get to a local convenience/grocery store.
The silver Mitsubishi 4x4 looks like an ordinary American pick-up on the outside, but once in, it’s a different story.
Nothing but dirt roads and trees for a thirty minute drive to the inner city of Rize seems like a life time. Not driving any fast than 40 mph, it’s a bumpy ride. Men and women are on the sides of the dirt track with big bags of green tea leaves on their backs. They are marching like soldiers; staring straight ahead and not letting anyone/anything distract them.
We enter the city and it’s as if we crossed a border from a different country. Buildings, paved roads, restaurants, and convenience stores surround as we cruise on the main avenue. It seems like a miracle.
In certain parts of New Jersey, it takes two minutes to hop onto Route 22. There, the giant buildings full of the goods we crave await our presence. It couldn’t be easier to drive to one of those stores.
In Turkey, it’s like a never ending journey to get to the city. Most of the province is country like; trees, mountains, brick houses, and mosques all over. It seems like the perfect fit for someone from Montana but could be unbearable for someone from Manhattan.
One of the sounds I hear as I sit in the kitchen next to the fire-wood powered stove is a man singing into a megaphone. He does this 5 times a day; signaling that the time has come for prayer. It is three minutes long but absolutely soothing. The sound of his voice magically stops everyone from what they are doing to prepare for their prayer to God.
Standing on a small carpet with a picture of a mosque on it, I stand tall with my eyes staring straight ahead while covering my left hand with my right hand and resting them on my stomach. We all do this while facing the direction of the Kabah; where every single Muslim faithful prays towards to prove their love and loyalty to God.
In America, people travel to churches temples, or synagogues to pray. There is no man/woman singing into a microphone that reminds the entire city.
McDonald’s and Burger King have the most famous American foods; the Big Mac and Whopper respectively. Those restaurants could be found almost anywhere. In Turkey, these places do not exist as much because food is a specialty.
As I look into the window, the Gyro is spinning around on its metal pole with the Kebab, rice, and salad being prepared delicately nearby. Chemicals do not exist near this delectable meal. The butter milk is poured into a tall, clear thin glass that is aligned with the fork, spoon, and knife. My mouth begins to water as the colorful edible that my eyes are feasted upon teases me with its delectable scent.
People sit on the streets with ripped clothing while polishing upper classmen’s shoes. Sweat drips from their faces while they polish like zombies.
Some women walk about with scarves covering their heads and clothing covering their entire bodies. Here in the US, some women dress freely, covering only half of their bodies while allowing the other half to be gazed upon by desperate men.
Football, Basketball, Baseball, and Hockey are what dominate the streets, fields, and courts in our nation. Overseas, Soccer is played on the streets, fields, and indoors.
Young children set up two goals made of trash cans and run around, attempting to kick a plastic ball in between the badly scented grayish cans. Mothers gaze down from the windows of their apartments to inform their children that dinner will be ready in five minutes. Even though their homes are thirty feet up, the wind guides the delicious scent my way. Turkish tea, rice, and freshly baked bread fill my nostrils.
The United States is what I was proudly born into. The city, lights, and pollution are part of who I am. However, sometimes even in the city, I smell the burning firewood and I close my eyes. I picture the dirt road, trees, mountains, and brick houses. It’s not the city, but it truly feels like home.
Creative Non-Fiction
Clashing Cultures
The TV, PC, and PS3, heater and AC are the items that I appreciate the most in my room. The silver Honda Civic on my driveway is what allows me to leave my fortress to travel to a place where I can escape the electronic adventure. The roads are paved to perfection for a smooth drive. Stop signs, red lights, yield signs, and speed limits are control us on the road. Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds, Applebee’s, and Bp’s are our designated stops on our way throughout our journey. Ladies and gentlemen, this is America, the good old USA. We are used to this as most of us were born into this nation of freedom. So when we leave the country, what’s it like?
I wake up to a black, metallic stove with a sliding mini-door which protects us from the burning fire wood. It’s the source of heat in the mountainous area of Turkey. No air conditioner, heater, or central air system. It is all-natural.
A couch with beautiful flowers sewn unto its cushions is my sleeping place. The hard wooden floor is painted brown to change the color of the all white room. The two big windows separate me from the beautiful green grass that leads to a path to the top of the mountains in Rize, Turkey.
As I walk outside, the forty concrete steps descend to a dirt filled ground with rocks to add a bit of decoration. There is nothing but brick houses surrounded by a plethora of green trees in the distance. The country side of Turkey is like a prison for a city lover from the United States.
Bottled water, Gatorade, and even alcohol can be bought at a local Quick Check or even Wal-Mart here in the states. Out there, it’s a journey just to get to a local convenience/grocery store.
The silver Mitsubishi 4x4 looks like an ordinary American pick-up on the outside, but once in, it’s a different story.
Nothing but dirt roads and trees for a thirty minute drive to the inner city of Rize seems like a life time. Not driving any fast than 40 mph, it’s a bumpy ride. Men and women are on the sides of the dirt track with big bags of green tea leaves on their backs. They are marching like soldiers; staring straight ahead and not letting anyone/anything distract them.
We enter the city and it’s as if we crossed a border from a different country. Buildings, paved roads, restaurants, and convenience stores surround as we cruise on the main avenue. It seems like a miracle.
In certain parts of New Jersey, it takes two minutes to hop onto Route 22. There, the giant buildings full of the goods we crave await our presence. It couldn’t be easier to drive to one of those stores.
In Turkey, it’s like a never ending journey to get to the city. Most of the province is country like; trees, mountains, brick houses, and mosques all over. It seems like the perfect fit for someone from Montana but could be unbearable for someone from Manhattan.
One of the sounds I hear as I sit in the kitchen next to the fire-wood powered stove is a man singing into a megaphone. He does this 5 times a day; signaling that the time has come for prayer. It is three minutes long but absolutely soothing. The sound of his voice magically stops everyone from what they are doing to prepare for their prayer to God.
Standing on a small carpet with a picture of a mosque on it, I stand tall with my eyes staring straight ahead while covering my left hand with my right hand and resting them on my stomach. We all do this while facing the direction of the Kabah; where every single Muslim faithful prays towards to prove their love and loyalty to God.
In America, people travel to churches temples, or synagogues to pray. There is no man/woman singing into a microphone that reminds the entire city.
McDonald’s and Burger King have the most famous American foods; the Big Mac and Whopper respectively. Those restaurants could be found almost anywhere. In Turkey, these places do not exist as much because food is a specialty.
As I look into the window, the Gyro is spinning around on its metal pole with the Kebab, rice, and salad being prepared delicately nearby. Chemicals do not exist near this delectable meal. The butter milk is poured into a tall, clear thin glass that is aligned with the fork, spoon, and knife. My mouth begins to water as the colorful edible that my eyes are feasted upon teases me with its delectable scent.
People sit on the streets with ripped clothing while polishing upper classmen’s shoes. Sweat drips from their faces while they polish like zombies.
Some women walk about with scarves covering their heads and clothing covering their entire bodies. Here in the US, some women dress freely, covering only half of their bodies while allowing the other half to be gazed upon by desperate men.
Football, Basketball, Baseball, and Hockey are what dominate the streets, fields, and courts in our nation. Overseas, Soccer is played on the streets, fields, and indoors.
Young children set up two goals made of trash cans and run around, attempting to kick a plastic ball in between the badly scented grayish cans. Mothers gaze down from the windows of their apartments to inform their children that dinner will be ready in five minutes. Even though their homes are thirty feet up, the wind guides the delicious scent my way. Turkish tea, rice, and freshly baked bread fill my nostrils.
The United States is what I was proudly born into. The city, lights, and pollution are part of who I am. However, sometimes even in the city, I smell the burning firewood and I close my eyes. I picture the dirt road, trees, mountains, and brick houses. It’s not the city, but it truly feels like home.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Blog 16- Essay 3
Aydin Reyhan
Creative Non-Fiction
“Eye” Essay
The field
The crowd was absolutely thunderous when the players arrived on the green grass. Twenty-two men lined up alongside one another as the national anthems were played. The sky was a beautiful baby blue as the sun was bright and center doing its job perfectly; shedding light onto a field that held some of the world’s best talent.
Fifty-five thousand humans were present. They all wore the colors of their respective nations and chanted their name at the top of their lungs. Individually, they sounded obnoxious. Together, they sang in perfect harmony. It was only a friendly soccer match but the importance of national pride was on the line.
The players all put on brave faces prior to the opening whistle. However when it was time for kick-off, their looks all turned sour. Friendly or not, it was a soccer game in front of thousands of people. Both sides desired to win.
“Hey, I want some Turkey for lunch! We are going to have a barbecue before and after this match,” said a fan of the United States national soccer team.
“He buddy, don’t hate because we actually know how to play the sport. Why don’t you just stick to football?” I replied with a smirk.
As I was walking towards the stadium in the overly crowded parking lot, some of the US fans were barking out names.
“Gobble gobble birdy!”
“Haha look at the turkey wobble!”
Instead of responding, I just motioned for them to kiss my rear. I didn’t like what they were doing but I had to accept it because I was on their turf.
Turkey began strongly as they created the best chances. Tuncay Sanli had a golden opportunity when his shot just flashed past the far past from 15 yards out. However, their goal did come a few minutes later.
Arda Turan, the Turkish wonder kid scored the opening goal with two defenders and the goal keeper all around him as he slotted it home with ease. After scoring, he walked up to his fans and lifted his arms with the dimples on his face forming and allowing his teeth to shine in the light of the sun. It was a gorgeous goal and after he scored, the Turkish crowd including myself all roared into song silencing the US supporters and causing them to shake their heads in disbelief. Even as a Turkish-American, it is a moment that I will not soon forget.
“Shut your damn mouth you stupid foreigner!” An outraged American fan screamed.
“I am American just like you with different blood. Show some respect you frikin’ bald gorilla!” The Turkish woman responded.
The woman eventually ceased her arguing as the young man continued to scream with his bearded buddy tapping his head in encouragement. It was the only dialogue that could be heard even with screaming of other fans.
The first half would end 1-0 to the Turks. However in the second half, the US entered the field with a lot more determination.
Only minutes in, Jozy Altidore tapped home the equalizer raising his arms frequently; inviting the fans to chant, scream, and celebrate the goal with him. It was an easy tap in that was created by Landon Donovan who evaded the challenge of a Turkish defender and crossed the bal low straight across the face of goal to a wide open Jozy.
“There we go baby! U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!”
“TURKIYE! TURKIYE! TURKIYE!”
Both sets of fans kept cheering on their nations with the hope that they would be inspired to push for the lead. I looked back at an opposing fan who was screaming “USA!” and I screamed “TURKIYE!” in return while squinting my eyes and flashing my teeth as if I were an animal. All sanity was lost within that moment. After they tied the game, it was a tense battle between the fans in addition to the men representing their countries on the field.
About fifteen to twenty minutes later, the USA would finally take the lead through Clint Dempsey who netted easily yet beautifully past keeper Volkan Demirel; the fans did not make it easy on him at all as very time he took a goal kick, the US fans would scream “You suck asshole!”
It was a tough blow for the Turks as this goal seemed to take the life out of them. From being up 1-0 to going down 2-1, the momentum completely shifted in the game. The US players kept pushing for the third and came dangerously close when a shot rocked the cross-bar.
Turkey would push for an equalizer but the US defense and keeper Tim Howard kept them at bay for the remainder of the game, giving the US a hard earned 2-1 victory in their World Cup send-off match-up. It was the perfect way to prepare for their trip to South Africa 2010.
“Hey Turk, how does it feel to lose to an American?” laughed a US fan while looking at his buddies hoping to impress them.
“Hey my friend, why don’t you come over her and leave your friends out of this. You want to fight me? Come at me you little bitch!” An irritated man with a huge moon and star covering his chest responded.
The American stumbled towards him and the Turk pushed him down. It was pretty quick but it could have gotten out of hand. Over a friendly international, a fight almost broke out. They took this game of soccer and made it into an international battle. It was almost like a mini-war.
“Sorry mama, you lost this game,” one of the fans mentioned to a cute milf that was on her phone.
“Hey look, it’s a fucking Turkey fan’s car,” a teen aged male informed is friend as they walked past my car. It was a tough loss and they just had to rub it in.
As I drove out of the parking lot, some of the US fans were waving flags and informing me of what I already knew; “You lost bro. U-S-A all the way!”
The stadium as well as parking lot was full of people and cars before the game for tail-gating and after for celebrating. The looks on both sets of fans faces were surprisingly similar; absolutely ecstatic. The eyes were wide with joy and teeth were shown proudly.
Even as a fan of the losing team, it’s a day I will never forget since my two countries went at it. I was born in the US but my blood is fully Turkish. I saw red white and blue.
Creative Non-Fiction
“Eye” Essay
The field
The crowd was absolutely thunderous when the players arrived on the green grass. Twenty-two men lined up alongside one another as the national anthems were played. The sky was a beautiful baby blue as the sun was bright and center doing its job perfectly; shedding light onto a field that held some of the world’s best talent.
Fifty-five thousand humans were present. They all wore the colors of their respective nations and chanted their name at the top of their lungs. Individually, they sounded obnoxious. Together, they sang in perfect harmony. It was only a friendly soccer match but the importance of national pride was on the line.
The players all put on brave faces prior to the opening whistle. However when it was time for kick-off, their looks all turned sour. Friendly or not, it was a soccer game in front of thousands of people. Both sides desired to win.
“Hey, I want some Turkey for lunch! We are going to have a barbecue before and after this match,” said a fan of the United States national soccer team.
“He buddy, don’t hate because we actually know how to play the sport. Why don’t you just stick to football?” I replied with a smirk.
As I was walking towards the stadium in the overly crowded parking lot, some of the US fans were barking out names.
“Gobble gobble birdy!”
“Haha look at the turkey wobble!”
Instead of responding, I just motioned for them to kiss my rear. I didn’t like what they were doing but I had to accept it because I was on their turf.
Turkey began strongly as they created the best chances. Tuncay Sanli had a golden opportunity when his shot just flashed past the far past from 15 yards out. However, their goal did come a few minutes later.
Arda Turan, the Turkish wonder kid scored the opening goal with two defenders and the goal keeper all around him as he slotted it home with ease. After scoring, he walked up to his fans and lifted his arms with the dimples on his face forming and allowing his teeth to shine in the light of the sun. It was a gorgeous goal and after he scored, the Turkish crowd including myself all roared into song silencing the US supporters and causing them to shake their heads in disbelief. Even as a Turkish-American, it is a moment that I will not soon forget.
“Shut your damn mouth you stupid foreigner!” An outraged American fan screamed.
“I am American just like you with different blood. Show some respect you frikin’ bald gorilla!” The Turkish woman responded.
The woman eventually ceased her arguing as the young man continued to scream with his bearded buddy tapping his head in encouragement. It was the only dialogue that could be heard even with screaming of other fans.
The first half would end 1-0 to the Turks. However in the second half, the US entered the field with a lot more determination.
Only minutes in, Jozy Altidore tapped home the equalizer raising his arms frequently; inviting the fans to chant, scream, and celebrate the goal with him. It was an easy tap in that was created by Landon Donovan who evaded the challenge of a Turkish defender and crossed the bal low straight across the face of goal to a wide open Jozy.
“There we go baby! U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!”
“TURKIYE! TURKIYE! TURKIYE!”
Both sets of fans kept cheering on their nations with the hope that they would be inspired to push for the lead. I looked back at an opposing fan who was screaming “USA!” and I screamed “TURKIYE!” in return while squinting my eyes and flashing my teeth as if I were an animal. All sanity was lost within that moment. After they tied the game, it was a tense battle between the fans in addition to the men representing their countries on the field.
About fifteen to twenty minutes later, the USA would finally take the lead through Clint Dempsey who netted easily yet beautifully past keeper Volkan Demirel; the fans did not make it easy on him at all as very time he took a goal kick, the US fans would scream “You suck asshole!”
It was a tough blow for the Turks as this goal seemed to take the life out of them. From being up 1-0 to going down 2-1, the momentum completely shifted in the game. The US players kept pushing for the third and came dangerously close when a shot rocked the cross-bar.
Turkey would push for an equalizer but the US defense and keeper Tim Howard kept them at bay for the remainder of the game, giving the US a hard earned 2-1 victory in their World Cup send-off match-up. It was the perfect way to prepare for their trip to South Africa 2010.
“Hey Turk, how does it feel to lose to an American?” laughed a US fan while looking at his buddies hoping to impress them.
“Hey my friend, why don’t you come over her and leave your friends out of this. You want to fight me? Come at me you little bitch!” An irritated man with a huge moon and star covering his chest responded.
The American stumbled towards him and the Turk pushed him down. It was pretty quick but it could have gotten out of hand. Over a friendly international, a fight almost broke out. They took this game of soccer and made it into an international battle. It was almost like a mini-war.
“Sorry mama, you lost this game,” one of the fans mentioned to a cute milf that was on her phone.
“Hey look, it’s a fucking Turkey fan’s car,” a teen aged male informed is friend as they walked past my car. It was a tough loss and they just had to rub it in.
As I drove out of the parking lot, some of the US fans were waving flags and informing me of what I already knew; “You lost bro. U-S-A all the way!”
The stadium as well as parking lot was full of people and cars before the game for tail-gating and after for celebrating. The looks on both sets of fans faces were surprisingly similar; absolutely ecstatic. The eyes were wide with joy and teeth were shown proudly.
Even as a fan of the losing team, it’s a day I will never forget since my two countries went at it. I was born in the US but my blood is fully Turkish. I saw red white and blue.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Blog 15- descriptive scene
The breathing is heavy as everyone awaits. The twp big rectangular objects are cloaked with stings attached to one another. The sky was swarmed with clouds defending their darkness form the yellow beam of light. A man wearing a yellow shirt and black shorts had an object in his hand that everyone else feasted their eyes upon. The people on the sides were clapping their hands together while praying/singing at the top of their lungs. Birds were chirping, dogs were barking, and men were screaming. The women were flashing their bright white teeth while their feet constantly lifted off the ground. The green grass added a much needed color to the gloomy atmosphere. 22 men stood in their respective positions while some were jogging in place. They closed their eyes and tilted their heads backwards. The long white line split the men in half. The man with the yello/black outfit put is mouth onto the objet and blew. Two men in the center began to move their feet swiftly while trying not to lose a circular object that one tried to hit into one of the two rectangle shaped objects. The people on the sides were screaming while others were covering their mouths with their hands. It was simply intense.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Blog 14
When I finish writing this essay, I hope that anyone who reads it will give me an honest opinion. If it sucks, it sucks, but tell me what sucks about it. If its good, thanks. Good looks, I appreciate it, blah blah blah. Anyways, I know what this "eye" essay is going to be like thanks to our class discussion we held on Tuesday. It is going to turn out hopefully even better than my other two essays did. That is, if I take my time on it.
It will be interesting to see how it turns out when it is finished being that my opinion or point of view will not be included. It will be what is seen and or said around me. Whether it is the restaurant, soccer field, arena, park, or a busy street, it should turn out to be interesting. I hope you all think so.
It will be interesting to see how it turns out when it is finished being that my opinion or point of view will not be included. It will be what is seen and or said around me. Whether it is the restaurant, soccer field, arena, park, or a busy street, it should turn out to be interesting. I hope you all think so.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Blog 13
For the "eye" essay, my first choice was to write about about my family business form different points of view. Not mine, but from others perspectives. I could also write about a soccer game, world news, or something along those lines. I want to write an essay on something that is important and that will grab the reader's attention. I finally understand that besides me, there are probably one or two readers that enjoy sports as much. Therefore, writing about some type of scenery where people go to see and explore could be interesting. These are just ideas and when the time comes to write the essay, the right topic will be chosen.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Blog 10- Project 2 Topics
For the next project/Essay, I may write about the family business again, but not from m,y perspective. This time around, it will be about what occurs in the business in every aspect. How the people interact, react, the food, the busy/not busy days, and other things along those lines.
Another idea is writing about the scenery in one of the places that I have been to, but once again, not from my perspective. It will be about what I see and here but not think. It is going to be tough to switch from an "I" to an "Eye" essay but it will be done, hopefully.
Another idea is writing about the scenery in one of the places that I have been to, but once again, not from my perspective. It will be about what I see and here but not think. It is going to be tough to switch from an "I" to an "Eye" essay but it will be done, hopefully.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Blog 10
Hopefully the read wasn't as much of a bore as you thought it would be. Please tell me what could be changed to make it better whether it be format, detail, length, and something else along those lines. Thanks again
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Blog 9
Aydin Reyhan
The Family Business
In 1993, my father purchased what would turn out to be his most successful business ever; Maria’s Restaurant and Pizzeria. He began with the goal of turning an ugly place with an unfavorable style into something that would fit his talent perfectly. It took some time, but after 18 years, it is safe to say it is truly a beautiful, remarkable, and delectable place to eat.
“Aydin! I need two cheese pies and an order of garlic knots to go, pronto,” my mother ordered.
“What the fuck!? I just got here. I don’t want to make that shit now. I don’t even want to be here,” I whined back.
It was one of those days in mid 2011 when I simply let everyone around me know, including the observing customers that I simply didn’t want to be there. I know it’s disrespectful to curse when speaking to parents, but sometimes it just slips out, and I chose not control my desire.
“Aydin! Don’t make me tell your father,” she threatened.
“Go ahead! I don’t give a rat’s ass,” I rudely replied.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents more than anything and anyone, but when at Maria’s, I tend to lose myself. After a long day at school, going into the store to finish off the second half of my day by doing something I hate absolutely annoys me. The food, personnel, and even most of the customers are a delight, but this beast inside me is begging to escape so it can cause havoc. Battling with it at work is what slows me down.
My father removed the bar that used to cover the wall in between the waitress station and the pizza oven. He decided he did not want to acquire a liquor license since he doesn’t like dealing with drunkards. The waitress station is where the waitresses have access to everything they need to serve their customers such cheese, pepper, utensils, napkins, and drinking glasses. There is also a phone hanging on the wall so orders may be taken when a customer calls.
My father brought yet another pizza- making, Italian cuisine chef talent into the town of Scotch Plains. There are two other pizzeria/restaurants that have been there well before we arrived. However, our business still built up to be the success that it is today. We like to thank God for that.
In 2006, while my mother was away with my siblings in Turkey visiting family for the summer, my father decided that it was time to sell the restaurant. He was fed up with depending on the same customers to come in and allow him to make a living. When most of the regulars stopped coming in, he let go of his most prized possession, Maria’s.
After selling, he took a 7 month break from working. It was refreshing for him yes, but it also drove him crazy not going into work every single day. For me, it was decent at first but then I became scared about not having money in my pocket. Therefore, I was hired at Dunkin Donuts where I have worked on and off for two years.
My father and I worked at two different places he took over in Wyckoff and Rochelle Park up in northern Jersey. The only fun fact about those places was the long, soothing drives we took to get there and back. They were truly awful experiences as we barely had any regulars at either location that spent more than five dollars.
“Excuse, this is not what I ordered,” a customer complained when he received a chicken parm instead of a chicken francese.
“Oh, terribly sorry sir. Let me fix that asap,” I replied while tightening my lips as I walked towards the kitchen.
When customers complain, I get extremely pissed off. Its bad enough I have to be there to serve them, now I have to listen to them bitch and moan? I don’t think so.
“Edgar, eso hombre no quiere chicken parm, quiere francese. Esta rompiendo mis bolas para nada,” I stated to our chef at the time in 2009. Roughly translated, it means: Edgar, this guy doesn’t want a chicken parm, he wants a francese. He’s breaking my balls for nothing. I tended to bitch and moan myself for the smallest things. I simply hated being there at times.
“Here you go boss, enjoy. Sorry about the mix up. Have a good weekend, you fucking prick,” I mumbled under my breath. It is rude to curse off customers to their faces so when I get angry, I talk to myself, a lot.
In 2009, the man who purchased the place from my father gave him a call. He admitted that he was going nowhere but downhill and that he was wondering if my father would take it back. My mother, who was praying everyday for the past three years, convinced him to do so. My father gladly accepted.
The personnel along with my parents did their best to spruce the place up a bit for the grand re-opening. The date was set for July 7th, 2009, but little did I know that there was a surprise waiting for me the day before.
A friend and I were driving to a soccer game on July 6th and while waiting at a red light, my attention was not on the road but towards something in the back seat. Next thing I knew, I had rear-ended a 2001 Toyota Camry being driven by an Oriental man. It was the first ever fender bender I was in that was completely my fault. It is the day before we open up Maria’s after a 3 year break, and a $500 dollar accident occurs thanks to yours truly. Bad luck anyone?
My father agrees to pay the fee but on opening day, he let me have it.
“How fucking stupid can you get? You need to drive like a man,” my loving father informed me. “What the fuck did I do to deserve such a shitty son?”
Regardless, I love my father to the fullest because I still live under his roof. It’s absolutely okay that he got pissed off at me for doing something so pointless and stupid. It was one of those things that shouldn’t happen but does anyways just to teach me a lesson. Well thanks karma, I certainly learned it.
The point is simple, every time I get pissed off at the store, I always remember that incident because it made me believe that Maria’s was going to bring us bad luck. It may have put food on our table and clothing on our backs, but it took a lot of energy from us to do so.
One thing I am absolutely grateful for is that at Maria’s, I get to spend quality time with my family. If I didn’t work there, I would barely ever see my parents. While there, I get five hours with them where we work very hard yet find time to bond. It is truly a remarkable experience to work as a family running a business.
It may be awful at times and I may not be as thankful as I should be, but I am finally beginning to realize we are truly blessed. God gave us place to come together and enjoy one another’s company. After writing this piece, I may never complain again. Well, at least not as much.
The Family Business
In 1993, my father purchased what would turn out to be his most successful business ever; Maria’s Restaurant and Pizzeria. He began with the goal of turning an ugly place with an unfavorable style into something that would fit his talent perfectly. It took some time, but after 18 years, it is safe to say it is truly a beautiful, remarkable, and delectable place to eat.
“Aydin! I need two cheese pies and an order of garlic knots to go, pronto,” my mother ordered.
“What the fuck!? I just got here. I don’t want to make that shit now. I don’t even want to be here,” I whined back.
It was one of those days in mid 2011 when I simply let everyone around me know, including the observing customers that I simply didn’t want to be there. I know it’s disrespectful to curse when speaking to parents, but sometimes it just slips out, and I chose not control my desire.
“Aydin! Don’t make me tell your father,” she threatened.
“Go ahead! I don’t give a rat’s ass,” I rudely replied.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents more than anything and anyone, but when at Maria’s, I tend to lose myself. After a long day at school, going into the store to finish off the second half of my day by doing something I hate absolutely annoys me. The food, personnel, and even most of the customers are a delight, but this beast inside me is begging to escape so it can cause havoc. Battling with it at work is what slows me down.
My father removed the bar that used to cover the wall in between the waitress station and the pizza oven. He decided he did not want to acquire a liquor license since he doesn’t like dealing with drunkards. The waitress station is where the waitresses have access to everything they need to serve their customers such cheese, pepper, utensils, napkins, and drinking glasses. There is also a phone hanging on the wall so orders may be taken when a customer calls.
My father brought yet another pizza- making, Italian cuisine chef talent into the town of Scotch Plains. There are two other pizzeria/restaurants that have been there well before we arrived. However, our business still built up to be the success that it is today. We like to thank God for that.
In 2006, while my mother was away with my siblings in Turkey visiting family for the summer, my father decided that it was time to sell the restaurant. He was fed up with depending on the same customers to come in and allow him to make a living. When most of the regulars stopped coming in, he let go of his most prized possession, Maria’s.
After selling, he took a 7 month break from working. It was refreshing for him yes, but it also drove him crazy not going into work every single day. For me, it was decent at first but then I became scared about not having money in my pocket. Therefore, I was hired at Dunkin Donuts where I have worked on and off for two years.
My father and I worked at two different places he took over in Wyckoff and Rochelle Park up in northern Jersey. The only fun fact about those places was the long, soothing drives we took to get there and back. They were truly awful experiences as we barely had any regulars at either location that spent more than five dollars.
“Excuse, this is not what I ordered,” a customer complained when he received a chicken parm instead of a chicken francese.
“Oh, terribly sorry sir. Let me fix that asap,” I replied while tightening my lips as I walked towards the kitchen.
When customers complain, I get extremely pissed off. Its bad enough I have to be there to serve them, now I have to listen to them bitch and moan? I don’t think so.
“Edgar, eso hombre no quiere chicken parm, quiere francese. Esta rompiendo mis bolas para nada,” I stated to our chef at the time in 2009. Roughly translated, it means: Edgar, this guy doesn’t want a chicken parm, he wants a francese. He’s breaking my balls for nothing. I tended to bitch and moan myself for the smallest things. I simply hated being there at times.
“Here you go boss, enjoy. Sorry about the mix up. Have a good weekend, you fucking prick,” I mumbled under my breath. It is rude to curse off customers to their faces so when I get angry, I talk to myself, a lot.
In 2009, the man who purchased the place from my father gave him a call. He admitted that he was going nowhere but downhill and that he was wondering if my father would take it back. My mother, who was praying everyday for the past three years, convinced him to do so. My father gladly accepted.
The personnel along with my parents did their best to spruce the place up a bit for the grand re-opening. The date was set for July 7th, 2009, but little did I know that there was a surprise waiting for me the day before.
A friend and I were driving to a soccer game on July 6th and while waiting at a red light, my attention was not on the road but towards something in the back seat. Next thing I knew, I had rear-ended a 2001 Toyota Camry being driven by an Oriental man. It was the first ever fender bender I was in that was completely my fault. It is the day before we open up Maria’s after a 3 year break, and a $500 dollar accident occurs thanks to yours truly. Bad luck anyone?
My father agrees to pay the fee but on opening day, he let me have it.
“How fucking stupid can you get? You need to drive like a man,” my loving father informed me. “What the fuck did I do to deserve such a shitty son?”
Regardless, I love my father to the fullest because I still live under his roof. It’s absolutely okay that he got pissed off at me for doing something so pointless and stupid. It was one of those things that shouldn’t happen but does anyways just to teach me a lesson. Well thanks karma, I certainly learned it.
The point is simple, every time I get pissed off at the store, I always remember that incident because it made me believe that Maria’s was going to bring us bad luck. It may have put food on our table and clothing on our backs, but it took a lot of energy from us to do so.
One thing I am absolutely grateful for is that at Maria’s, I get to spend quality time with my family. If I didn’t work there, I would barely ever see my parents. While there, I get five hours with them where we work very hard yet find time to bond. It is truly a remarkable experience to work as a family running a business.
It may be awful at times and I may not be as thankful as I should be, but I am finally beginning to realize we are truly blessed. God gave us place to come together and enjoy one another’s company. After writing this piece, I may never complain again. Well, at least not as much.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Blog 8
My first essay went very well in my opinion. The story that I wrote flowed very well from my brain onto the screen as I typed. A bit of revision wouldn't hurt if I spent more time on it. I liked the way it turned out for a first draft. If I had to change things, I would make it a bit clearer between segments and clearly describe or "show" the stories rather than tell them. For my next essay, I wrote about my family business, the restaurant. It turned out pretty well and hopefully it will be that way for everyone else who reads it. It may have a few flaws here and there, but I will work hard to edit the piece. I look forward to writing/editing the final first/second piece to see how it turns out.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Blog 6
Aydin Reyhan
Back and Forth
My life has had its ups and downs over the years and I am actually thankful for both. If the bad and good things did not occur, I would not be who I am today. God has been there to spare me and give me an inexplicable amount of joy. This story is not being written for the hell of it. It’s supposed to have meaning.
It’s July 11, 2001. My best friend Ish was riding his bike alongside me near Valley National Bank which was a 1 minute ride from my house. As we were crossing the street, he sped up just a bit. Being the daring child that I was, I began to pedal at a much quicker pace.
I rode extremely quickly towards two parked cars and then squeezed in between them. However, I did not realize that there was a Land Rover traveling at 25 mph as I was riding near the giant vehicle? Next thing I knew, my bike was underneath the front ties, and my body was on top of the car. My knee also cracked the front left head light.
After about twenty seconds, I looked around and saw many people coming to my aid. I was shocked, confused, and still somewhat dazed after what had just happened. Ish was shocked and right by my side as another young man our age escaped from the passenger side of the SUV that just ruined my day. He was a class mate of mine and the driver of the vehicle was his mother. It was shock, fear, agony, and coincidence all in one.
It’s May 22, 2010. I arrived at the stadium, with goose bumps all over my body, not allowing me to relax. The stadium was full of spectators and the excitement amongst everyone was obvious. It was the first time I ever had the chance to see my beloved Turkey play an international soccer match. It was truly an honor to be attending this event.
Four of my friends made the trip with me to the match. Only four of us are Turkish, with the other being Guatemalan. He agreed to attend the match since I invited him. Everyone enjoyed the match, as it was truly exciting.
I was screaming in fear and pain as the people around me repeatedly asked me like parrots if I was alright. Finally, Ish ran to my house to inform my mother. After hearing the news, she sprinted down the driveway and across the street, not even caring about any cars that could have potentially injured her. Once hearing about that, my fear and pain became even worse.
She arrived at the scene discussing what had happened with the driver and checked to see if I was alright. The lady and my mother were both crying as none could believe what had just happened. At first, I was extremely angry at myself at what just occurred because I should have though twice before doing so. However, I did learn a valuable lesson.
The fans began chanting the beautiful songs of both sides. The Czech Republic was our opponent on the day and they played very well. The most exciting moment of the match arrived when Turkish wonder kid Arda Turan began opened the scoring with a slick shot past the opposing goal keeper. This brought about a beautiful roar.
Fans to my left and right jumped out of their seats screaming at the top of their lungs, but none were as loud as I was. My favorite player had just scored a goal and Turkey led 1-0. It was a beautiful moment.
Stunningly, since I was afraid of going to the hospital, I stood up and began limping towards my house. The ambulance along with every other spectator was shocked that I was actually able to walk. At that moment, God was the one to thank for that blessing.
After a bit of treatment at a chiropractor, the swelling in my knee went down drastically so it wasn’t as bad any more. Two days after the accident, on July 13, my family, friends, and I all celebrated my 13th birthday. Two days after that on July 15, my parents sent me to Turkey to learn more about my religion, Islam.
Three events, each two days apart, made my summer a whirlwind of an adventure. There was happiness, fear, and excitement all throughout. Those are three dates I will never, ever forget.
At half-time, Edgar (one of my friends) and I went to buy some food and drinks for the second half. The line was a bit long so the game did already begin while we were waiting.
All of a sudden, I heard a bunch of screaming from inside the stadium. Turkey’s Nihat Kahveci had increased our lead to 2-0 and immediately I began jumping for joy and hugged Edgar. It was a fairy tale unfolding in front of my eyes.
The game would end 2-1 to the Turks. My friends all looked at me and smiled as it was truly a remarkable experience. This event marked one of the happiest moments of my entire life.
The accident made me thankful to God for sparing my life. The Turkish victory made me thankful to God for allowing us to win in my first ever attendance. Both events made me who I am today.
Back and Forth
My life has had its ups and downs over the years and I am actually thankful for both. If the bad and good things did not occur, I would not be who I am today. God has been there to spare me and give me an inexplicable amount of joy. This story is not being written for the hell of it. It’s supposed to have meaning.
It’s July 11, 2001. My best friend Ish was riding his bike alongside me near Valley National Bank which was a 1 minute ride from my house. As we were crossing the street, he sped up just a bit. Being the daring child that I was, I began to pedal at a much quicker pace.
I rode extremely quickly towards two parked cars and then squeezed in between them. However, I did not realize that there was a Land Rover traveling at 25 mph as I was riding near the giant vehicle? Next thing I knew, my bike was underneath the front ties, and my body was on top of the car. My knee also cracked the front left head light.
After about twenty seconds, I looked around and saw many people coming to my aid. I was shocked, confused, and still somewhat dazed after what had just happened. Ish was shocked and right by my side as another young man our age escaped from the passenger side of the SUV that just ruined my day. He was a class mate of mine and the driver of the vehicle was his mother. It was shock, fear, agony, and coincidence all in one.
It’s May 22, 2010. I arrived at the stadium, with goose bumps all over my body, not allowing me to relax. The stadium was full of spectators and the excitement amongst everyone was obvious. It was the first time I ever had the chance to see my beloved Turkey play an international soccer match. It was truly an honor to be attending this event.
Four of my friends made the trip with me to the match. Only four of us are Turkish, with the other being Guatemalan. He agreed to attend the match since I invited him. Everyone enjoyed the match, as it was truly exciting.
I was screaming in fear and pain as the people around me repeatedly asked me like parrots if I was alright. Finally, Ish ran to my house to inform my mother. After hearing the news, she sprinted down the driveway and across the street, not even caring about any cars that could have potentially injured her. Once hearing about that, my fear and pain became even worse.
She arrived at the scene discussing what had happened with the driver and checked to see if I was alright. The lady and my mother were both crying as none could believe what had just happened. At first, I was extremely angry at myself at what just occurred because I should have though twice before doing so. However, I did learn a valuable lesson.
The fans began chanting the beautiful songs of both sides. The Czech Republic was our opponent on the day and they played very well. The most exciting moment of the match arrived when Turkish wonder kid Arda Turan began opened the scoring with a slick shot past the opposing goal keeper. This brought about a beautiful roar.
Fans to my left and right jumped out of their seats screaming at the top of their lungs, but none were as loud as I was. My favorite player had just scored a goal and Turkey led 1-0. It was a beautiful moment.
Stunningly, since I was afraid of going to the hospital, I stood up and began limping towards my house. The ambulance along with every other spectator was shocked that I was actually able to walk. At that moment, God was the one to thank for that blessing.
After a bit of treatment at a chiropractor, the swelling in my knee went down drastically so it wasn’t as bad any more. Two days after the accident, on July 13, my family, friends, and I all celebrated my 13th birthday. Two days after that on July 15, my parents sent me to Turkey to learn more about my religion, Islam.
Three events, each two days apart, made my summer a whirlwind of an adventure. There was happiness, fear, and excitement all throughout. Those are three dates I will never, ever forget.
At half-time, Edgar (one of my friends) and I went to buy some food and drinks for the second half. The line was a bit long so the game did already begin while we were waiting.
All of a sudden, I heard a bunch of screaming from inside the stadium. Turkey’s Nihat Kahveci had increased our lead to 2-0 and immediately I began jumping for joy and hugged Edgar. It was a fairy tale unfolding in front of my eyes.
The game would end 2-1 to the Turks. My friends all looked at me and smiled as it was truly a remarkable experience. This event marked one of the happiest moments of my entire life.
The accident made me thankful to God for sparing my life. The Turkish victory made me thankful to God for allowing us to win in my first ever attendance. Both events made me who I am today.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Blog 6
After speaking with my group members, I found out what my story will really be about. I am going to mix segments about me being at a soccer game and the story regarding my accident. I am going to connect it in a way that sends the reader back and forth and finally, in the end, they realize its all about me from my prospective.
This story is going to very special to me as its going to be driven in a direction that I have never gone before. When I write stories, I just write about one subject. There are many parts of it, but its all about that one thing. For this story, we have to do segments. Therefore, I will write about two very important events in my life where in one of them I was sad and in the other I felt at home. One was one of my saddest places while the other was one of my happiest.
To write about it here in this blog would not do it justice. Therefore, I want to leave it at that and hope that everyone who reads my story truly enjoys the content.
This story is going to very special to me as its going to be driven in a direction that I have never gone before. When I write stories, I just write about one subject. There are many parts of it, but its all about that one thing. For this story, we have to do segments. Therefore, I will write about two very important events in my life where in one of them I was sad and in the other I felt at home. One was one of my saddest places while the other was one of my happiest.
To write about it here in this blog would not do it justice. Therefore, I want to leave it at that and hope that everyone who reads my story truly enjoys the content.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Blog 5
The first story will be very important for me as a writer. I will attempt to connect love and soccer into one story. The goal is to write a story about my favorite past times in life. It will be a non-fictional story involving soccer, love, and life.
The focus will be how I connect soccer with love. Not just love for the sport, but trying to balance out friendships, relationships, school, and work as well. To fit it all into 4 pages, I will have to be truly creative and honestly, I am okay with that.
I will have to sit down and think about where to start and where to place each different scene/part. This is going to be the first piece we write for this class, so it has to be good. Being able to write about something that I love leaves me with no excuses but to write the best piece possible.
I would like to write about a soccer game that I witnessed or took part in. The scenery, atmosphere, good plays, and everything that went on will all be in this piece of writing. That is the sports segment of the story.
The love segment will involve love for everything and everyone else. It is supposed to be a story connecting everything together. It is hard to describe it in this blog. I hope to make sense of it all in the piece itself.
The focus will be how I connect soccer with love. Not just love for the sport, but trying to balance out friendships, relationships, school, and work as well. To fit it all into 4 pages, I will have to be truly creative and honestly, I am okay with that.
I will have to sit down and think about where to start and where to place each different scene/part. This is going to be the first piece we write for this class, so it has to be good. Being able to write about something that I love leaves me with no excuses but to write the best piece possible.
I would like to write about a soccer game that I witnessed or took part in. The scenery, atmosphere, good plays, and everything that went on will all be in this piece of writing. That is the sports segment of the story.
The love segment will involve love for everything and everyone else. It is supposed to be a story connecting everything together. It is hard to describe it in this blog. I hope to make sense of it all in the piece itself.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Blog 4
In Silent Dancing, Cofer brillianty used segments by transitioning from one part of her story to another. The first one that caught my eye was when she was explaining how ehr father told someone that he was Puerto Rican, but according to her, she could have passed for European. Then all of a sudden, she begins to describe how her family is sitting in the living room, and does it by writing "The movie opens."
The next one was how she explained that her father's greatest wish was to move way from the barrio, but it was her mother's fear. Then she transitions into the next segment by explaining what happened next in her home movie. By doing this twice already, I was hooked onto the story. I wanted to keep on reading in order to find out what had happened next. Also, I learned something very valuable about writing creative non-fiction.
When writing CNF, it is tough to keep the reader interested, if the writer keeps writing about one general topic. Of course, it is understandable to me that it is the point of writing CNF; to write about something in particular that the story is built around. However, segments in a story keeps the reader thinking about two things at once. With Cufer's story, I was thinking about how the father and mother both want different things and then I had to put that in the back of my mind, because she then went on to explain the home video in the next paragraph. Maybe a reason she did it was that she didn't want us to focus on just one general thing. She wanted us to think back and forth about different points that all added up to complete her piece.
This story was the best for me when thinking of segments. The other stories had them as well, but this one stood out for me. Cufer may have unintentionally did it, but I did learn about how to place segments throughout my stories.
The next one was how she explained that her father's greatest wish was to move way from the barrio, but it was her mother's fear. Then she transitions into the next segment by explaining what happened next in her home movie. By doing this twice already, I was hooked onto the story. I wanted to keep on reading in order to find out what had happened next. Also, I learned something very valuable about writing creative non-fiction.
When writing CNF, it is tough to keep the reader interested, if the writer keeps writing about one general topic. Of course, it is understandable to me that it is the point of writing CNF; to write about something in particular that the story is built around. However, segments in a story keeps the reader thinking about two things at once. With Cufer's story, I was thinking about how the father and mother both want different things and then I had to put that in the back of my mind, because she then went on to explain the home video in the next paragraph. Maybe a reason she did it was that she didn't want us to focus on just one general thing. She wanted us to think back and forth about different points that all added up to complete her piece.
This story was the best for me when thinking of segments. The other stories had them as well, but this one stood out for me. Cufer may have unintentionally did it, but I did learn about how to place segments throughout my stories.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Blog 3
Kidder believes that non-fiction writers tend to write in the first person. This allows them to become characters in their own stories. Lopate believes the word "I" is absolutely necessary when writing a non-fiction piece. They both agree that the one writing the piece should be able to comfortably write the piece in first person. It is CNF which means they can be as creative as they wish, as long as they keep it non-fiction.
Lott's definition of CNF is slightly different. He believes people like to use it as a way to keep record of the moments they'd like to remember throughout their lives; such as diaries. It is about writing about one self in relation to the subject at hand.
Their definitions are similar to mine in the sense that I tend to write CNF in the first person as well. The difference is that I think it can be written in any person as long as it sticks to being non-fiction. For example, an author can write about a real-life event that occurred to someone he/she knows but not include himself/herself in it. As long as it sticks to the truth, no fiction whatsoever, it can be considered as CNF.
All three authors had a good sense of what CNF is, and of course, their definitions are more wide re-known than mine is so therefore, I like their definitions as well.
Lott's definition of CNF is slightly different. He believes people like to use it as a way to keep record of the moments they'd like to remember throughout their lives; such as diaries. It is about writing about one self in relation to the subject at hand.
Their definitions are similar to mine in the sense that I tend to write CNF in the first person as well. The difference is that I think it can be written in any person as long as it sticks to being non-fiction. For example, an author can write about a real-life event that occurred to someone he/she knows but not include himself/herself in it. As long as it sticks to the truth, no fiction whatsoever, it can be considered as CNF.
All three authors had a good sense of what CNF is, and of course, their definitions are more wide re-known than mine is so therefore, I like their definitions as well.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Blog 2- Lowry, Vowell, Bellow adding to CNF
These essays turned a somewhat boring subject into something decently fun to read. Abraham Lincoln was a hero and what he said is simply what he said. I her essay, Vowell elected to favor him in every possible way. She hung on his words and made it absolutely obvious she really loved the guy. She even compared him to other presidents--George Washington and Thomas Jefferson by claiming " The Teachers taught us to like Washington and to respect Jefferson. But Lincoln-him they taught us to love." That is by far my favorite sentence in her essay because it really made me think.
Lowry, in one essay, described the marriage between an inmate and a regular citizen and how much they truly loved one another. Her descriptions forced me (in a good way) to picture how they sat in chairs opposite one another with Plexiglas keeping them apart. That right there is creative non-fiction; taking something normal and transforming it into something beautiful.
Bellow described a few things here and there and simply added spice to them with her words. I wasn't as intrigued with her essay but there certainly was creativity in it throughout.
All three essays take different paths that head to the same place, creativity. It is truly a good tactic in writing. When someone wants to explain something in words on paper or on a computer, they shouldn't just write it as it is. They have to choose words that will get the readers excited by grabbing their attention and forcing them tow ant to read on. When someone explains something with his/her mouth, the excitement is there with the tone of voice, facial expressions, and movement of the arms and head. It is harder and slightly a bit more work on paper but it is truly worth it in the end.
Lowry, in one essay, described the marriage between an inmate and a regular citizen and how much they truly loved one another. Her descriptions forced me (in a good way) to picture how they sat in chairs opposite one another with Plexiglas keeping them apart. That right there is creative non-fiction; taking something normal and transforming it into something beautiful.
Bellow described a few things here and there and simply added spice to them with her words. I wasn't as intrigued with her essay but there certainly was creativity in it throughout.
All three essays take different paths that head to the same place, creativity. It is truly a good tactic in writing. When someone wants to explain something in words on paper or on a computer, they shouldn't just write it as it is. They have to choose words that will get the readers excited by grabbing their attention and forcing them tow ant to read on. When someone explains something with his/her mouth, the excitement is there with the tone of voice, facial expressions, and movement of the arms and head. It is harder and slightly a bit more work on paper but it is truly worth it in the end.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Creative Non-Fiction?
Creative non-fiction is adding spice, creativity, angle, flavor, and juice to something that is simply true.
If someone were to write an article about a soccer game and began with: " Real Madrid scores five in good win," the reader would be bored out of his/her mind.
If it began like this :"Real Madrid rip five past sorry opponent in pure domination," the read would be jumping in joy. It's about how a writer puts the words together to make the sentence flow like a river in front of a reader's eyes to grab their interest by the throat.
People enjoy fiction because it is made up. It could be a dream, fantasy, or a simple piece of magic someone comes up with by using a pen, paper, or computer. It is really not that difficult to do, if one has the heart and passion to do so.
To write non-fiction is simply writing the truth. It could be something that happened, will happen, or is happening. To make real life exciting, one needs to liven it up.
Creative non-fiction is good for writers who want to tell a story, any story, that is nothing but the truth. It can not be fictional, at all.
If I were to go to a soccer game, I would describe the action with as much electricity as possible. If I want my readers to sleep, I would simply write: " The team in black scored a goal from inside the area in the final minute to win the game." Yes that is very cool but the way it is written does not even come close to how exciting the moment really was; magical, unbelievable, heart pounding, and simply amazing.
" The game has been a back and forth battle from goal to goal and finally, in the 90th and final minute, the captain of the home side strikes the ball from close range into the top corner passed the outstretched arm of the helpless goal keeper to win it." That is how a moment such as this one should be described on paper.
This type of writing is what makes non-fictional writers shine among others. J.K. Rowling used creative fiction to capture the minds and hearts of people all around the world. By using that technique, she produced an absolute masterpiece. Creativity is the missing ingredient that all non-fiction writers should add to their beautiful recipes to make it taste perfect.
If someone were to write an article about a soccer game and began with: " Real Madrid scores five in good win," the reader would be bored out of his/her mind.
If it began like this :"Real Madrid rip five past sorry opponent in pure domination," the read would be jumping in joy. It's about how a writer puts the words together to make the sentence flow like a river in front of a reader's eyes to grab their interest by the throat.
People enjoy fiction because it is made up. It could be a dream, fantasy, or a simple piece of magic someone comes up with by using a pen, paper, or computer. It is really not that difficult to do, if one has the heart and passion to do so.
To write non-fiction is simply writing the truth. It could be something that happened, will happen, or is happening. To make real life exciting, one needs to liven it up.
Creative non-fiction is good for writers who want to tell a story, any story, that is nothing but the truth. It can not be fictional, at all.
If I were to go to a soccer game, I would describe the action with as much electricity as possible. If I want my readers to sleep, I would simply write: " The team in black scored a goal from inside the area in the final minute to win the game." Yes that is very cool but the way it is written does not even come close to how exciting the moment really was; magical, unbelievable, heart pounding, and simply amazing.
" The game has been a back and forth battle from goal to goal and finally, in the 90th and final minute, the captain of the home side strikes the ball from close range into the top corner passed the outstretched arm of the helpless goal keeper to win it." That is how a moment such as this one should be described on paper.
This type of writing is what makes non-fictional writers shine among others. J.K. Rowling used creative fiction to capture the minds and hearts of people all around the world. By using that technique, she produced an absolute masterpiece. Creativity is the missing ingredient that all non-fiction writers should add to their beautiful recipes to make it taste perfect.
Grealy, beautiful on the inside
Her story is heart wrenching due to the fact that it is hard for me to imagine living her life the way she did. Going through operations, living through the pain, and having people stare at you negatively seems simply awful.
Operations, comments, pain, and suffering is what she felt throughout her life, especially in the early stages. She beat cancer, and then had to deal with the way she looked. Her point is simple: "normal people" complain about every day things such as traffic jams and expensive clothing. For her, these are such small issues that they don't affect her in the same way. Her stories with the operations, cancer, pain, and nasty comments just prove that her situation is way worse than the people who complain over meaningless things. This is a woman who went through "hell" just to attempt to get a better looking face, and unfortunately, to no avail.
Even though she didn't enjoy her looks, she would look into the mirror to think about everything she was going through. Since the operations weren't working, she wanted to look into the mirror until she finally believed with her heart that she was truly beautiful in a unique way. By looking into the mirror, she was able to conquer her worst enemy; herself.
The ending is remarkable as she was sitting in a cafe after a year away from the mirror, meaning she is finally accepting how she looks to be a part of who she truly is. It was a touching piece written by a brave woman.
Operations, comments, pain, and suffering is what she felt throughout her life, especially in the early stages. She beat cancer, and then had to deal with the way she looked. Her point is simple: "normal people" complain about every day things such as traffic jams and expensive clothing. For her, these are such small issues that they don't affect her in the same way. Her stories with the operations, cancer, pain, and nasty comments just prove that her situation is way worse than the people who complain over meaningless things. This is a woman who went through "hell" just to attempt to get a better looking face, and unfortunately, to no avail.
Even though she didn't enjoy her looks, she would look into the mirror to think about everything she was going through. Since the operations weren't working, she wanted to look into the mirror until she finally believed with her heart that she was truly beautiful in a unique way. By looking into the mirror, she was able to conquer her worst enemy; herself.
The ending is remarkable as she was sitting in a cafe after a year away from the mirror, meaning she is finally accepting how she looks to be a part of who she truly is. It was a touching piece written by a brave woman.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
English 4017
Creative Non-fiction covers many areas of writing. Being that my main area of focus and interest is sports writing, look out for many pieces on that.
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