Report Draft: E

The foundation for personal sharing came from the sharing plan that people created. Mary and Lizzy both said that creating this plan made them sit back and think about who would be able to connect with their message. Justin said “It made me choose carefully who I would open my personal life up to.” Another important preparation for sharing the final form was sharing our drafts with people inside and outside of class. Some people (like Andrew) received critical feedback, while others (like Mandy) received encouragement to go a specific direction. Regardless of the feedback, people felt that sharing their rough drafts helped them strengthen relationships.

Because people had thought about who they wanted to share with in advance, many people sought out the most appropriate content to their circumstances. This meant that often they were sharing other people’s content. For example, Tori and Clark both shared Keegan’s content about his experiences in Africa on his mission. Since people knew who they intended to share with, they made efforts to reach out to and rekindle those connections prior to sharing. Finally, because we produced many versions and formats for our essays we were given the option to share according to our audience. For example, Keegan shared a PDF version and his YouTube video with his grandma because she is not very tech savy with the internet and blogs. Through these forms we shared our essays to different individuals for different reasons. The reactions of our audiences were different, but most found success because of their sharing plans.


Group 4: Keegan Brown, Clark Nielson, Katie Roper

Just Share It!

At first I was dreading sharing my essay with people. So I decided to start slow and share with someone that I was very comfortable with. That ended up being my cousin, Scott. We are pretty close, and the essay I wrote is about our grandpa, so I thought he would like it. And he did! In fact, he asked if it was alright if he shared it with his mom (my aunt). It was really encouraging to hear back positive feedback, and it emboldened me to share more.

I also decided to share Keegan's essay with a recent convert who is considering going on a mission. I had thought of this friend and thought he could appreciate a story about someone's missionary experiences and how it had affected their life. Because of this, I chose to share Keegan's essay and this led to some meaningful discussion. We talked about where he would want to go if he could choose, and I told him about where I had served my mission too.

Because of my success sharing someone else's essay, I decided to share Katie's essay with my little sister. My sister is a sophomore in high school, so I thought she would appreciate this essay because Katie talked about going to dances, which is something that my sister is fascinated with. My sister said the essay was fantastic, and she wanted to read more, so I sent her my essay. After reading it she told me it was "srsly awesome" and she compared me to one of her favorite authors. It was a cool chance to connect with her, even though we are at very different stages in our lives.

Here are some short tips from my experiences about how to best share personal content like this.

-Have a plan, and think about who you will share with and how to share it
-Don't be scared, these people are your friends
-Start with the lowest-pressure sharing, such as a close friend
-From that expand to others that you feel the message could help
-Share in a natural way: feel free to tell them you're doing it for a class, and why you thought of them
-Ask what they thought

I hope this helps others with their sharing!

This Life is a Dream

Recently my Grandpa told me about the last moments that he spent with his wife. Though his memory is starting to wane, he was able to recall it with vivid precision. 

Dare to Share

• I met a friend when I was interning with Dell this past summer, and he recently got engaged. A lot of the personal essays that people shared talked about the importance of their families, and I know that is important to him. I remember he was fascinated when he heard that I was engaged. I actually texted him a bit recently, so I think I could find an essay that talks about families and share it with him.

• My little sister is in high school, and she will be turning 16 pretty soon. One of the essays that I read talked about a couple of girls getting invited to a dance, which I didn’t relate to very much since it’s been a while since I was in high school, and I never got too excited about dances. On the other hand, this is a topic that might interest her. It would be easy to call her up or text her with a link and see what she thinks.

• I have a friend that returned home from her mission because of challenges with depression, and it has been very difficult for her. I didn’t find a perfect essay to share with her, but if anyone has an ideas I think I could send her a link in an email and she would appreciate it.

• My personal essay is about my grandparents, and I think that my cousin Scott might enjoy relating to it. He is in the accounting program with me, so I see him occasionally. I could either tell him about it when I see him next, or just text him sometime about it.

• My MTC mission companion always is excited when he hears from me, and I don’t talk to him much. I ran into him on campus a few days ago, and I’m sure he might be interested to see my essay.

• There is a recent convert that I met in Texas this summer that I played basketball with sometimes. I think he would be receptive, and would enjoy my essay. I will try to reach out to him and catch up and then maybe I’ll share my essay through a text or Facebook message.

• A part member family from my mission whose son got baptized always keeps in touch with me and is interested to hear what is going on in my life. They recently asked for my address so they could send a Christmas card. I think my wife and I might send them a card as well, and maybe after Christmas I will catch up with them and share my essay.  

The Flexibility of Fiction

In a previous post, I questioned to what degree a personal essay has to stay true to the actual events in question. Ultimately I concluded that some embellishment is appropriate for nonfiction works, and even helpful, but the core events must remain rooted in fact. This allows for a personal connection to the author, but can also make it difficult to write a compelling story.  This is in contrast to fiction, which can use almost any compelling story to help draw the reader in and convey a message.

Because of the increased leeway when writing fiction, authors can often forge stronger connections with the reader. Circumstances can be created that are ideal for sharing a given point or capturing interest, in ways that would feel contrived or disingenuous in nonfictional writings. Because the reader is not asked to believe that the circumstances are true, unlikely stories can still be enjoyed. Candor and honesty can still be shown through the use of characters or themes, even as the plot is synthetic.

Doug Thayer uses a gripping plot in Will Wonders Never Cease in which a teenage boy is trapped in a suburban for more than a week. Though a relatively implausible story (he somehow has heat, food, water, and air sources while trapped under an avalanche), this story provides a framework for a coming-of-age introspective narrative that entertains and gives pause for reflection. In essence, the plot is used to draw the reader in and connect with characters. This is in contrast to Nephi Anderson’s Added Upon, in which he uses the plot itself (which follows the life and death of a common farmer) in an attempt to connect with his audience. Unfortunately, the characters were didactic role players in the plot, and it lacked the sense of authenticity of Thayer’s work. Regardless, in both works, the authors used the flexibility available to them through fiction to convey their message in a way they could not have with nonfiction.

Family Themes in the Book of Mormon

I decided to make my video about Tori's essay, partly because I felt weird trying to promote my own essay, and partly because I really did appreciate the scene she conveyed. I hope that I did it justice!

When I did the first take, I was really just trying to figure out if I would be in the frame and how it would look, but I hadn't thought too hard about what I would say. After I watched it though, I kinda liked it. I did do another take, but it felt more scripted, so I went with the first video I recorded.

A Convergence of Inauthentic Authenticity

As I shared my story with my wife, Amy, I realized the amount of artistic license that I had taken with the story. She had been with me in the car with my grandparents while most of the events transpired, so she new the story as well as I did.  I had intentionally shifted the timeline on some things, but others I hadn't even realized that I had changed, so it was interesting to talk to her about the changes that I had made and their effect on the story. Overall the feedback I got was that even though she new the timeline and events were not strictly true, it still came across as authentic. That lead us to an interesting discussion of what it actually means to be 'authentic'. Perhaps we want a sort of achieved authenticity in writing, but if writing were strictly about what actually happened it would likely feel somewhat hollow and scattered.

There were also some ideas that Amy had that could refine the topic and help focus it. She was drawn (and repulsed, she wanted to add) by the imagery of my grandma drinking Vanilla Ensure, and said that I could make it more vivid by being more specific about its color (perhaps describing it as off-white or yellowish-white). I found it interesting that she commented on this, because this had been a point that others had focused on when I had read it to them in class as well. 

She also indicated that the end of the story brought up a new character-my sister-that could probably be addressed less specifically. Finally, my wife felt that the most important part of the story was my Grandpa, and that I could introduce him sooner and more specifically. At the same time, she liked the light-hearted intro and conclusion, using my Step-Grandma to lighten the mood. Overall, it was very interesting to have a perspective from someone outside of the class, and it was good to see that it resonated with someone, biased though she may be. 

Our Intrusive World in Steven L. Peck's "The Slaying of the Trickster God"

The primal sound of coyotes in the desert hearkens back to a primeval time long ago. Feelings of respect and awe for an ancient time, combined with a suspicion of modernity, are drawn out by Steven L. Peck in his poem, The Slaying of the Trickster God. He accomplishes this by using form (the poem is divided into 3 segments-), contrast, and imagery to draw out feelings of respect for these primal creatures.

In the prologue of the poem, vivid descriptions of celestial bodies-such as the sun, moon, stars, and universe-are used to introduce a feeling of eternity and scope. This is a common theme in LDS theology, and is an underlying current in this work. The ancient world of the “Trickster Gods”, or coyotes, is portrayed as being encroached upon in the first section of the poem:

“The other (universe) however folds in on itself, slowly, a topological twisting, until it engulfs itself and is gone…the intrusion. The invasion. But who’s to blame?”

Peck’s use of alliteration helps illustrate the imposition of the reader, and all of humanity, on this ancient world.

The following sections contrast two separate encounters of coyotes with vehicles, with the end result the same in each-a predictably mangled coyote. In both situations it is clear that the people involved would clearly willingly have killed the coyote. However, the tone of the poem conveys that the people in the first incident had a respect for the coyote, while those in the second didn’t.

The first incident includes vivid imagery of the landscape that is home to the coyote, and the final killing of the coyote is merciful, as it had merely been injured by the car. This is in clear contrast to the second, irreverent killing, in which a large truck intentionally squelches the creature’s life. After crushing the coyote, the occupants, John and Mark, celebrated rambunctiously. Lest the allusion to the New Testament go unnoticed, Peck quips that the John and Mark in the story were “authors of no gospel.”

Reading this poem brought me in my minds eye to the desert on a clear summer night, cool with the warm sand, and the Milky Way glistening in the dark sky. It created a solemn, reverent mood for me, and a frustration with our society’s focus on lights and the big city.  

(388 Words)

Don't Eat the Doughnuts

Revision plan: After my first draft, it seemed that people appreciated the honest approach that I took. This is something that I wanted to try to keep. However, there were some things that I wanted to alter. After looking at many other people's posts and talking to Professor Burton, I realized that where I was writing was a very commonly used niche, that of a child's first encounter with death, specifically of a grandparent. To find a different angle, I wanted to focus more on the characterization of my Grandfather. To keep things somewhat lighthearted, I felt a contrast with my Grandpa's current wife would help provide some humor. Finally, in relating my essay to the Book of Mormon, I wanted to move away from citing specific doctrines, and instead find themes from the Book of Mormon to relate to.

“We will be taking off from Fort Lauderdale for four days, and then we will be going to visit my daughter and to meet my new son-in-law.” Donna glibly blabbed, going on to say “Her husband has a large ranch, and they travel a lot, in fact I think she has found herself a ‘Howard’, if you know what I mean!” The ‘Howard’ she alluded to was my Grandpa, and if I hadn’t already become accustomed to my step-Grandma’s idiosyncrasies I would have been shocked to hear any Grandma talk about herself as a gold digger so openly.  I never have known what to call her, as she sticks out like a bit of a sore thumb in our family and isn’t actually my Grandma. So I go back and forth between calling her Donna and Grandma, at times even referring to her as “Don-ma” behind her back to siblings or cousins. I don’t think of her as a gold digger, and she surely had a heart of gold, but if ever there were a couple that is unequally yoked it is them.

In a way my Grandpa probably has enough education for both of them. He has four university degrees, including a PHD from Stanford, while Donna only managed to squeak through high school. Donna is shamelessly extroverted, while my Grandfather is calm and measured. When he talks it is often slow and quiet, especially in recent years, as he just turned 90. In a way, Don-ma is his perfect foil, as she has energy to spare and keeps him busy. They spend their time alternately traveling the world, playing bingo at the senior center, and unloading stale food (that they win playing bingo) on their family. Today they were proffering up a dozen doughnuts that had expired several months earlier, which we were assured had been frozen and were still edible, and perhaps even tolerable. I had my doubts, as I had heard that story before.

One of Donma's dubious doughnuts

My parents were the likely victims of the questionable doughnuts, and we continued talking as we drove to visit them. The topic turned to my actual Grandma, as my niece Julia had recently been named after her. My Grandpa often stumbled on his words as he spoke, his once clear mind clouded with cobwebs. But when he began to recall my grandmother, his beloved companion of more than half a century, he was able to express himself with precision.

He told of the last moments he had with his wife, something I had never heard him speak about before. It was the day after Thanksgiving, and they had just finished a dinner of mac-and-cheese. I could see them eating in my minds eye. Surely my Grandma only ate a bite or two, and the rest of her meal would have been made up of a half a cup or so of Ensure, or as much as my Grandpa could coax her into drinking. The last years of her life she always was slurping at Ensure, with the beads of yellow liquid dried to her cracked lips.

My Grandma had been in a wheelchair for several years, and so after dinner he wheeled her to the living room to watch the evening news. After a few minutes, Julia said that there was nothing else she was interested in seeing and she wasn’t feeling well, so she wanted to go to bed. My Grandpa told her that was fine, and he would put her to bed, but that there was a ball game that he wanted to see the score of before he went to bed.  Those were the final words that he would speak to her in this life. He gently lifted her from her wheelchair, even though he was close go eighty years old himself, and carried her to their bedroom. After getting her into bed, he went back to watching the news. The next morning, my Grandma was comatose and unresponsive, though still breathing, and my Grandpa took her to the hospital.

“Did you know that was going to be the end?” I asked my Grandpa, curious at what point he had known. He indicated that the doctors told him there was still a chance, but he had been worried. He looked at me as he spoke, and his wistful steely blue eyes looked through me into what now seemed a not-so-distant past.

As my grandfather talked, I reflected on another elderly man, who lived centuries earlier, in ancient America. His name was Jacob, a prophet from the Book of Mormon, and as he grew old, he expressed that his life had passed away as if it were a dream, as his people became lonesome and solemn and they mourned out their days. Many years latter, a Book of Mormon missionary, Ammon, blessed the name of God for having been mindful of him when he was a wanderer in a strange land. I mused on this theme from the Book of Mormon, and how we truly are travelers that pass through this brief existence.

“I should have known to cancel Aunt Noreen’s family dinner.” I was abruptly brought back to the conversation as my Grandpa remembered his train of thought. After my Grandma was admitted to the hospital, he went back and forth between her bedside and preparing for a family dinner where he would have the opportunity to be with many of his grandchildren. At around four in the afternoon, he got a phone call from my Uncle, who merely said, “Come quickly.” By the time he arrived his dear companion had already breathed her last breath.

My Grandpa began trailing off, and I noticed that Donna had been uncharacteristically quiet for the past several minutes. I wondered if she would launch into a story about how her husband had died, as she was a widow before they had gotten married. I seemed to remember having heard it before, and it involved a car accident. As I recalled, she told it in a very gruesome and straightforward fashion, and especially considering I didn’t have any connection to him, I wasn’t particularly interested in hearing it again.

So I was happy to hear her start along another vein of thought entirely “Now, Clark, what is your sister doing with her life? Is she just living at home with your parents, and not in college? I just want to know so I don’t say anything wrong.” I chuckled to myself about how ironic her statement was. That was the Donna I knew and loved, so brash and improper, yet genuinely loving. I started to explain that my sister had moved back home after two years at USU, and she was going to take some classes at the community college. As I explained, my mind mulled over the lesson I had just learned about the brevity of our lives, and I treasured the lesson my Grandpa had just taught me, whether intentional or not.

Come Quickly

It was late November, and winter had come early. I had spent the first part of the day on the ski-slopes with my brothers, because it was the first day of the ski season, and also our first day of Thanksgiving break. We had gone to visit my grandparents, and I was weary and sore. I strained to listen to my grandma’s feeble voice as my cousins raucously played in the basement. I struggled to remain alert as her speech was hardly audible, and I was drowsy. She had been in a wheelchair for years, and was always shaking with Parkinson’s. Her mind was still there, but it took an eternity for her to express anything. Between sentences she would occasionally pause to gently slurp Ensure-her primary form of sustenance-through a straw. The liquid was dried in yellowish beads on her cracked lips and I couldn’t keep my mind on what she was muttering. So I excused myself quickly, assuming she would be in better shape the next time I saw her, and I could talk to her then.

The day after Thanksgiving my Grandma had a stroke. At 11, I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but it sounded bad. I tried to brush off the thoughts that started coming to my mind. I hadn’t ever known anyone that had died, so that was just a morbid thought to have, right? The next day we got a phone call, and my Mom answered the phone. When I saw the look on her face I knew something was wrong. I rushed to the caller ID and discovered that it was my Grandpa Nielson. When my Mom hung up she turned and started speaking. As the words spilled from her mouth I felt empty inside. The words blurred in my ears, and try as I might to unhear them I knew their meaning instantly. But it wasn’t until I reflected on the last time I had spent with my Grandma that the full wave of emotion hit me. I was filled to the brim with regret. I surely should have shared more than a few cursory seconds with her a few days previously, but how could I have known? The only solace I found was in my belief that I could meet her again after this life, and over the years, I let it go.

Recently (now that more than a decade has passed) my wife and I were driving with my Grandpa to visit my parents. My niece, Julia, had just been born, and was named after my Grandmother. Consequently, we began to talk about her. My Grandpa stammered off intermittently while we talked to him, his once sharp mind clouded with cobwebs. Yet he recalled with precision the last days of his beloved wife’s life, though it has now been many years. His eyes looked wistfully through mine, into a seemingly not-so distant past, and I could feel that his life had passed away as if it were a dream.

He spoke of the last night they had spent together. It was uneventful, and they were watching the news. She told him she wanted to go to bed, but he wanted to stay up to see the score from a basketball game. So he carried her to the bedroom and went back to watching the news. That was the last time he heard her voice. The next morning she was lethargic and comatose, and my Grandpa called the ambulance.

They had a family dinner planned the next day with my aunt, and my Grandpa was back and forth between the hospital and helping set up for my aunt’s dinner. Then around four in the afternoon my Grandpa got a call from my uncle who was at the hospital, and he merely said “come quickly.” Before my Grandpa could arrive she had already slipped beyond his reach. As my Grandpa reflected on it, he groaned, feeling that he should have known to cancel the dinner so he could have been there in his wife’s passing moments.

My Grandpa started his next sentence, “Julia always…” and then stuttered off. I had barely noticed, but he hadn’t struggled for words at all as he reflected on his beloved companion. We drove on, and soon the topic had passed, but his difficulty expressing himself brought back the memories of my Grandmother so many years earlier. The importance of each moment was deeply impressed on me, and I resolved to make the moments that I had with my family count. But as I pondered further, I realized that even my Grandfather, one of my greatest role models, had been unable to give a final farewell as he wished. Although it is our accumulation of many moments with family and friends that matter, for some reason the final moments-no matter how trivial- always weigh the heaviest on our minds.

Perhaps that reason is that we remain uncertain of our ability to resolve the meaninglessness of those parting moments. As much as my Grandfather believes (and I believe) the words of the Book of Mormon prophet Alma that ‘there is a time appointed that all shall come forth from the dead’ and Paul’s that ‘as in Adam all die, so in Christ shall all be made alive’, these words provide only hope and not complete assurance. In this life we still walk by faith, not by sight, as faith has never been a perfect knowledge. And so, part of our human experience is being separated from those we love, looking forward with hope to our reunification, with an incomplete yet resolute faith.