Monthly Archives: February 2013

“Ultimately the product that any writer has to sell is not the subject being written about, but who he or she is. I often find myself reading with interest about a topic I never thought would interest me—some scientific quest, perhaps. What holds me is the enthusiasm of the writer for his field. How was he drawn into it? What emotional baggage did he bring along? How did it change his life?”(Zinsser 5).

This is great advice for a writer. I think it’s especially important for people who have trouble finding their “voice” and for those who think they have lost it. It’s critical to remember that writing is not about sounding like somebody else. It’s not about keeping up to par with the rest of the world. It’s about you and how you want yourself to be perceived. It’s about how you can tell a story. Writing should be an activity that separates you from others, it should highlight your individuality, not cloud your character. But what is also interesting about this advice is that Zinsser is speaking from a reader’s standpoint. Does Zinsser ever find himself WRITING with interest about a topic he never though would interest him?

Because I think this is possible. As long as you touch up a story (like a science quest, perhaps) with your own voice, creativity and style, you can surprisingly enjoy writing it.

Welcome to Blogs@Baruch!

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Dear reader,
This is the first time I have actually written about my accident. Sure, I’ve told the story hundreds of times because surviving a car accident often comes off as pretty badass. For me, it was quite difficult to tell it on paper, because I wasn’t able to physically demonstrate what actually happened like I usually do, nor was I able to make people touch my weirdly overgrown bone on my leg afterwards. That usually ices the cake on a pretty intense tale. What I found most difficult was describing what I was actually going through at the time, because I often stick to chronological events instead of dramatizing the story with an emotional twist.
After reading Zinsser I have realized that adding an emotional scope is a critical step in the writing process. He claims, “Ultimately the product that any writer has to sell is not the subject being written about, but who he or she is. I often find myself reading with interest about a topic I never thought would interest me—some scientific quest, perhaps. What holds me is the enthusiasm of the writer for his field. How was he drawn into it? What emotional baggage did he bring along? How did it change his life?”(Zinsser 5). Making your content personable is what keeps it interesting. This is most important when telling your own story, because if it does not carry emotional baggage, it can easily be mistaken for somebody else’s story. Experiencing emotions, whether it entails embracing or suffering, is a key factor in our individuality. Emotion builds and breaks our characters. It can alter perceptions and define episodes. I think connecting my story with hurricane Katrina maximized the emotional content, especially within the last few sentences of my essay. Anger is explicitly present, which can easily be the most dangerous emotion. It made the rest of the prior content laughable, and I’m not sure if I wanted to go that route. I may have to revise that in my editing process.

Sincerely,
Kristopher Kesoglides

As a young kid, I naively believed that a paper cut would hurt more than a broken bone. The horrid stinging sensation bestowed onto the webbing of your fingers from an act of amateurish envelope opening, equates to a traumatic torture session. Now before you are quick to judge, let me reiterate my mere naïve childish mentality, which lasted up until I was twelve years old and had just been released from sixth grade, free to roam wild until September once again grounded me with reality.
Summer is supposed to be a time of fun in the sun, relaxation and reckless mischievous adventures, especially for a young twelve-year-old boy. Well, my summer after sixth grade definitely started that way, but ended shortly after it began. An innocent game of one-on-one sidewalk handball quickly went awry after it was accidentally moved into the street.
The myth that your life flashes before your eyes prior to a near-death experience might be true for some people, but not for me. However, I did witness a flash; it was a huge white flash, much like that of a camera, which temporarily blinds you for close to a second. But the metaphorical photograph taken was not a pretty one. The graphic, high-resolution image of bone, skin and blood, laid out on a New York City street, was agonizing. Maybe even more so than the physical pain. For the moment, my leg was the victim of a million torturous paper cuts. Although instead of paper slicing my skin, it was a tire that cut through my bone.
What a nightmarish experience for a physically active young boy. My summer was down the drain, and I was in and out of the hospital week after week for check-ups, cleansing of my 20-pound exterior leg fixation, X-rays, and of course physical therapy. I have never before in my life been so familiarized with hospitals. They were excruciatingly annoying, and depressingly intimidating. Little did I know, I was spoiled. I was taking healthcare for granted. I was a typical twelve-year old brat.
On Tuesday August 30th, 2005, I was in the waiting room before attending my physical therapy. The television located above and diagonal from the water cooler showed non-stop coverage of victims of Hurricane Katrina, and the damage it had caused throughout New Orleans. 80% of the city was flooded, and initially the authorities did not even attempt to release a death toll. Tens of thousands of citizens were shoved into the Superdome to live for weeks with minimal food, water, supplies and surprisingly enough, lack of healthcare. Authorities were so busy in their attempt to clean up the city that crimes were becoming increasingly consistent within the dome. There were reports of looting, rape and numerous deaths.
For a moment, I was mentally incapable of complaining and physically incapable of being in any sort of pain. I was one person, who for over the course of two months had met probably over 20 doctors, physicians, physical therapists and nurses. In New Orleans, there were 20,000 victims who were in need of immediate medical attention. I was spoiled. I had the luxury of sitting in a comfortable wheelchair. I had the luxury of meeting a new doctor every week. I had the luxury of being able to push myself over to the water cooler and sip from my cup while watching the television above. I had the luxury of getting paper cuts. People in New Orleans probably longed for a paper cut, because that would signify returning to a functional society: slicing the webbing of your fingers from an act of amateurish envelope opening.