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Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Cook&Write.

I recently "applied" for a spot in a selective English course offered at my college called "Narrative NonFiction." I say applied in quotation marks because there actually was no formal application process. All I had to do was send the teacher a piece of my writing and an explanation for my interest in the course in the hopes of gaining her permission to take the class. There are only fifteen spots. She had mentioned that she has more or less closed the class list. I haven't gotten a response. It has been 5 days. My chances are not looking good. 


The thing is, I have to take this course. The course description reads:

Intensive writing course emphasizing use of narrative techniques in nonfiction writing.  Relationship of fiction and nonfiction, integration of storytelling with essay-writing and reporting.  Focus on the development of individual style. 

But it might as well read "Kate, this class was made for you."

When I was first learning to read and write, I struggled quite a bit. In my mind, first grade is a blur of frustration and embarrassment. My family is a bunch of readers. My mom has a stack of books next to her bed at all times, and my Dad is constantly reading and quoting his favorite authors (usually Proust). Struggling to learn something that seemed so natural to them made me feel like an outsider in my own family. So I did anything I could to make sure people knew I was a part of the Campbell Clan. That meant being loud. 

Everyone in my family has a booming voice and a dry wit. I latched on to this fact. If I couldn't be a strong reader, I was going to compensate and be outgoing, stubborn, and loud individual.


Before I knew it, I was finally excelling at something: narrating.   

I may not have been able to write down my stories or read the stories of others, but I could talk and make people smile. I could use my spoken words to made people cry with laughter. I loved that about myself. 

Eventually, I caught up with the rest of my class and became just a strong a reader or writer as anyone else, including my family members. I avidly read fiction and nonfiction. Anything I could get my hands on I was reading. But in all that reading, I never lost my ability to speak, to narrate. 

My junior year of high school, I was what is called a Proctor for the freshman corridor (someone who looks out for the students on corridor, enforces the rules, and is there 24/7 as someone to bandage a cut and shoulder a good cry). I grew very close to those girls, they taught me a lot about myself. I wanted to make sure that they had just a great a time at that school as I had, so I told them stories. I told them about the incredibly weird, small town I grew up in, about the strange holiday traditions in my family, about the teachers that bugged me and the ones I loved. Every night, I made sure to make them laugh. I told them anything and everything so that when they were at their very lowest, a smile could bring them back up. They were the ones who encouraged me to give a chapel talk. 

Chapel was a 40 minute period that only happened once a week. All 200 students and the entire faculty squeezed into our tiny Chapel to listen to a speaker talk about something. Sometimes it was something serious, like a very dark discussion of capitol punishment. Other times it was something funny, like a story from one of our teachers. Occasionally students would talk. I became one of those students. 

Of all the stories I told my freshmen and my friends, my family's wacky Thanksgiving traditions make them laugh the hardest. So with Thanksgiving break quickly approaching, my freshmen talked to our Chaplin (who is also one of my favorite English teachers) about letting me speak. The next thing I know I had written a 20 minute speech about my Thanksgivings. 

Never had I been so nervous. Making a small group of my friends laugh was easy, but talking to the entire school - I was terrified. But I got up, spoke, nearly collapsed from shaking so hard, and sat down to the sounds of a standing ovation. Only twice has a standing ovation occurred in Chapel (a time of quiet contemplation let me remind you), once after my Thanksgiving talk my Junior year, and a year later after I spoke once more. 

Of everything I learned from speaking in Chapel, realizing the great power of combining narration and writing was most important. I was hooked. I wanted to learn and get better. I wanted to write more of my stories. I wanted to tell more about my life.


And for that reason, I applied for the narrative nonfiction class. I hope I get in, because it is exactly what I want to do. Narrate. Story-tell. Write.


During my senior year and over the summer, with my newfound love for narrative non-fiction in mind, I began reading more memoir for inspiration. Eudora Welty, Paula Dean, and most importantly Molly Wisenberg. 


The author of My Homemade Life and the popular blog Orangette not only changed my summer, but also inspired me to start this blog and apply to take the Narrative Nonfiction course. She did more than make me laugh and cry (although her work did that frequently), she took memoir one amazing step further. She combined writing, narration, and my first love, cookingHow had I never thought of that? Writing about food and how it shapes me, how it has shaped me. That is brilliant. 


Turns out, it is not just Molly out there with a food blog (I should know as I am now addicted to over 20 different ones). But luckily, she got me thinking. I love food. I love narrative nonfiction. I am addicted to food blogs and recipe reading. I find myself trying to create interesting meals out of cafeteria food. Why am I not writing about this? Why am I not blogging about this?


To answer the question, I finally started this blog. Because it is exactly what I want to do. Narrate. Story-tell. Cook&Write. 


Cross you fingers for me! I hope it all works out...
-Kate

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