Jensen Martin

ENGL 260-01
Prof. Hall
Revision Portfolio
Snowfall
I stare out my bedroom window,
Kneeling on the bedspread, feet tucked under my thighs,
Studying the endless white that has carpeted the ground in a matter of hours.
The sound of passing cars has been lowered from a wet whooshing
To a low hum.
The pale blue and harsh orange hues of streetlights
Glisten on roofs and the tops of trees,
Giving the illusion that we live on the surface
Of the moon.
I know that the pristine surface will be sullied
Tomorrow morning,
By the tracks of rabbits, or of deer.
The salt and tomorrows early-morning traffic
Will reduce the white flakes to brown-and-grey slush.
But for now the view outside
Appears smooth and polished,
And the drifts rising with the wind
Remind me of dunes of sand in the desert.
Suddenly my mother snaps me out of my trance:
Its time for you to go to bed.

I am running through the white powder in my dreams,

My feet glide over the snow and there is no sign that I was ever there.
The air is quiet and still, without another soul to be seen,
And I am feeling just as transfixed as I had been while
Looking out at the same scene
Through the small square window.

Anxiously Depressed
My brain is molasses:
Im reading the same sentence over,
And over, and
Over my head is the dull projection of a snowy
Television screen.
I open my mouth and nothing but static comes out.
It feels as though I am
Stuck
In a thick bog of
Hopes.
Dreams.
Obligations.
Daily life.
All of these things have been suspended,
Held out in front of me,
But I cant bear to look at them.
My subconscious lobbies furiously
For one coherent thought to
Come throughHave you
Eaten yet today?
This phrase is the match that lights the gas:

Havent eaten havent slept havent dressed havent checked the mail havent read the chapter
havent?
What else have I unwittingly abandoned while my mind moved at a snails pace?
My higher brain knows that Im in no real danger
But the thoughts I cant control
Repeat themselves like a broken record:
What else havent I havent I havent
My stomach feels queasy,
My heart beats with the speed of a
Runaway
Train
My brain is now a jack-in-the box, crank turned
Impossibly fast by an invisible hand.
My mouth
Is opening and closing and I cant
Think I cant
Hear I cant
Feel I just
Run and run and run,
A chicken with its head cut off,
A car with no brakes.
And when it ends, I am weary and sluggish
Once againthere is no manic energy to speak of

I am hardly able to keep my eyes open.

Theres seldom an in between, I am either the rabbit
Orthetortoise.

Odelgy
Mom asks if I have any memories of you I want to share at the funeral.
I twist the fabric of the tablecloth in my hands as I think,
And memories flow to the surface of my consciousness.
The first are simple:
Helping you make slice-and-bake cookies and peanut butter pie
Hiding under the dining room table as you sang, Where are you, little star?
Ignoring your demands to get out of the lake, despite my blue lips and goose-pimply arms
Playing cards, watching you deftly shuffle them as I try and fail to do the same
Laughing at the silly rhymes you made up to distract me from the violent summer storms
Watching the same Pixar movies together, over and over and over
Going for walks to the candy store, following the secret path
Sitting around the campfire, making smores, watching fireworks
The next are more specific:
When I caught four fish in an hour and even though you fell in the lake trying to untie the
paddle boat so we could show them to Grandpa you werent angry, just proud.
Riding in the trailer at the back of the lawn mower as you drove it, smelling freshly cut
grass and burning fuel, shielding my ears from the roar of the engine.
Seeing you in the audience at all of my concerts and piano recitals and knowing you
would say, My gosh, you did great! the same way every time and with the same level of
sincerity.

When we were on the train to Chicago and I slept on the top bunk in the sleeper
compartment and as the sun came up you sang, This is the day that the lord has made, let us
rejoice and be glad in it.
The night when the power went out and just as I blew out the candle illuminating the
kitchen the lights came back on and you and Grandpa looked at me with wonder on your faces:
Youre our lucky charm!
Picking up the phone to hear you say, Take a look at the moon, it looks so beautiful!
and even though it was a bit tiring to hear, I would always take at least a quick peek to see that
yes, Grandma, it did look very beautiful.
How can I rank these memories according to importance?
How could I pick just a few?
These are too profound and too simple at once,
An agonising paradox.
Im unsure what I could say, or even if I should say it.
I look at Mom and I can only offer a frustrated shrug.
This is too large a burden for words alone to bear.

Conflict in setting (untitled piece)

Annas legs were on fire and her lungs were heaving, desperate for air. She cradled her injured
arm close to her side, but this did very little to alleviate the jolts of pain that were shooting down
from her left shoulder to the tips of her fingers. She felt as though she had been running for
hours, and she was dizzy with adrenaline. Her eyes scanned the block for a suitable place to hide
and she settled on an alley, which she promptly ducked into. Grimacing, she decided that her
best course of action would be to take refuge behind the dumpster. She gingerly pressed herself
up against the outer wall of the building behind her, which was slimy with condensation and, she
assumed, residual trash. Anna heard the hoarse yelling come closer and her heart sank. She could
see it now; the uniformed officers with their faces red with exertion, pointing their bony fingers
in every direction, giving each other orders to split up and pursue her more efficiently. What
were they going to do with her once they caught her? She was no longer thinking in terms of
escape at this pointthere was very little sense in that. Hiding crouched in an alley was one of
the oldest tricks in the book. It was time to think logically.
Today had begun in a fairly uneventful wayearly to rise, a leisurely breakfast in the
hotel dining room, one last trip to the wishing well in the town square to toss in a coin. She and
Ezra had had a small job planned for today. Well, small by their definition. Theyd needed
only a couple grand to comfortably make it to the west coast, which Ezra had said they could
steal fairly easily. She wished now that he had just listened to her, that theyd just rented a car
under a fake name or hitchhiked the remainder of the way. Ezra had always told her she was too
soft for their way of life, that she wanted to plan too much. You have to get out of your
comfort zone sometime, toots, he said time and time again, normally while she was patching

him up from some injury or another. I told you that when you got mixed up with me, didnt I?
He had.
The police had gotten there more quickly than shed ever seen them respond. Ezra hadnt
even had a chance at the safe yet. The shrill ringing of the burglar alarm made it difficult to
concentrate, difficult to aim. Anna fired a warning shot and out of the corner of her eye she saw
the officers hit the floor. She screamed for Ezra and grabbed the collar of his shirt, but the fabric
slid from her grasp and her hand came away wet and sticky. She looked down and saw blood on
her hands, seeping across the floor, and saw that it was coming from the gaping hole in Ezras
left temple. Her breath hitched in her chest. She ran for the exit as fast as she could. She heard a
gun go off and felt a bullet rip through the muscle in her arm, just below her shoulder. She cried
out but didnt slow her pace. Although the explosion of pain made it a challenge to form any
coherent thoughts, her stomach churned at the memory of Ezras thick frame lying motionless on
the ground. Of all the things she had done since shed left her old life behind, shed never
actually killed anyone. Tortured? Yes. Wounded? Absolutely. But shed never used her gun to
take another human life.
They were going to stop this once they got to California. This was Annas idea, and it had
taken a lot of convincing to get Ezra to go along with it. He finally relented one evening while
they were holed up in an abandoned warehouse, hiding under a stack of wooden pallets.
We cant do this anymore, Anna said in a low voice. Im quitting, and so should you.
Would you shut the hell up? Ezra hissed back at her. You say that every time.
Anna knew that Ezra had no reason to keep her around. It wasnt as though they were
togetherat times, they werent even friends. Ezra had a wife and young son back in Montana

that hed had to leave behind for their own safety. He owed too many dangerous people too
much money to stay in one place for any length of time.
Ezra, please hear me out, Anna implored him. She felt her voice rise another octave
and took a deep breath to calm herself. If she panicked too much, theyd be caught for sure. We
could go somewhere neither of us are wanted. What aboutCalifornia?
God damn it, Anna, weve been through this, Ezra whispered harshly. You cant go
backing out every time things get hairy.
Anna knew this wasnt the time for this conversation, but if she tried talking about it
later, Ezra could be riding out the high of pulling off yet another successful heist, and who knew
when he would be willing to listen to her?
We might not make it out of here any other way but in handcuffs, Anna pointed out.
This life isnt good for either one of us.
Ezra glared at her but remained silent. She looked back at him, lying stiff and prone just a
few inches away from her. A muscle jumped in his jaw, but he hadnt shut her up yet, so she
exhaled and chose her next words carefully.
What if you never see your son again?
It was a tremendously low blow, Anna knew. Ezra never spoke about his family or his
old life, and shed only ever found out about his past by accident one night when hed had too
much whiskey to drink. Ezra continued to stay quiet. Anna didnt even so much as look at him.
After they heard the sounds of sirens and yelling die off, the two of them cautiously emerged
from the stack of pallets as a frightened turtle might poke its head from its shell. When Anna
quickly glanced at Ezra, he suddenly looked much older.

When they returned to their shabby hotel room, Ezra went to the closet without missing a
beat and withdrew his battered suitcase, neatly folding his clothes and placing them in.
What are you doing? asked Anna.
Packing. You should, too.
Why? We arent supposed to ship out till the day after tomorrow. Where are we even
going to go?
California.
Anna stiffened when she heard the police officers voices come within spitting distance,
and as they slowly began to fade away she nearly fainted with relief. She closed her eyes and
rested her head on the cool brick wall behind her. She was safe for now, but there were more
pressing matters to attend to. She had to get this bullet out of her arm, and there was a very slim
chance she would be able to leave her hiding place without being recognised. Annas eyes
momentarily welled up with tears as she tried to think of what Ezra would do in this situation.
Hed always known what to do, no matter how tight of a jam they were stuck in.
Anna tried once again to think realistically. It didnt matter what Ezra would have done.
He was dead. She had to get to a hospital, preferably before she got to Californiabut she had a
thought that stopped this plan in its tracks. She had to tell Ezras family what had happened.
She didnt have to do it, but she knew that if she didnt it would weigh heavily on her
conscience. How long had it been since hed seen them, or even tried to contact them? She didnt
even know exactly where they lived, and Montana was a very big place. She wondered if Ezra
would have done the same for her family if shed been the one to bite it, and then she decided
that didnt matter, either. She was going to do what she felt was right, not what she felt was
deserved.

Jensen Martin
Prof. Hall
Self-Assessment Essay
Over the course of this semester, I have learned more about what I think good poetry and
prose should do and what techniques authors can employ to make sure the pieces that they write
are of good quality. From reading works by published authors and my peers, and from re-reading
and revising what I have written this semester, I have gotten more skilled at picking out what a
particular piece does well and why. I feel that I have a better understanding of how I can
implement such viewpoints in the revision of my own work despite never having done such
drastic revision prior to this assignment.
When I think of the elements of creative writing that I value most, some fairly standard
terms come to mind. I appreciate an engaging first line, for one, but thats an incredibly vague
statement. More specifically, I appreciate a first line that sets the scene, introduces a humorous or
intense tone, or simply catches my attention and prepares me for a type of creative piece that I
may have never read before. Another aspect of creative writing that I value is the authors ability
to use concise exposition interspersed with input from the thoughts and dialogue of a character.
The balance between showing and telling is absolutely crucial where holding the attention of the
audience is concerned. I enjoy reading a story that assumes that I am not a sheep to be led by
explicit depictions of what is going on, but also cuts down on unnecessary description to stay on
topic. Speaking of description, poetic language that is descriptive without laying it on too thick,
whether this is in poetry or prose, is the high point of any creative piece. To use excessive
description without a purpose makes a weak plot, in my opinion. The last element of creative
writing that I value highly is line break that conveys the energy of the piece or the importance of
the line itself. For example, when a poet uses enjambment to emphasise the language or message

of a line, I can appreciate this much more than when line break is used just for the sake of ending
a line to avoid using full sentences, without a real purpose.
Something interesting that I noticed in the revision process was how much more I could
initially think to alter in my prose than in my poetry. I dont write poetry that often on my own
time, and prose has always come much more easily to me, so when writing poetry I spent more
time outlining the subject matter and the verses. I felt that my decisions when writing poetry
were far more deliberate than when I was writing prose, something Ive been doing since I was
younger. Since I made such deliberate choices, I found it difficult to change certain lines because
Id already spent so much time on them. In prose, it was easy for me to change or strike several
lines in favour of some higher quality material. Radically revising my poetry was especially
difficult because of my own narcissismfor example, in my sonnet midterm assignment (which
I did not include here specifically because I felt I had done significant revision on it already) I
ended up doing away with the lines Legitimate suffering minimised, and Affirming
displeasure with existence despite the fact that at the time I thought they were pretty genius.
When I finally did away with them, it gave me more of an opportunity to experiment with lines
that did more work in establishing stakes, making the legitimate suffering more specific, etc.
By accepting that these lines werent as visionary as Id originally thought, I was able to come up
with some better ones. Another issue that my own pride created in this process was seeing the
value in some of the peer commentary I received. For instance, when one of my peers suggested
that I utilise more sensory detail in Odelgy, I was fairly hesitant to take that into consideration
because I couldnt personally see why an audience would be interested in reading something like
that. This outlook was a combination of my own faith in what Id already written and a lack of
trust for my audience, because this was my story, not theirs. In hindsight, now I know that I

didnt have to take every revision suggestion that was given to me, but I also know that I
couldnt ignore every single one of them, either, and this realisation helped me to actually begin
the constructive revision process..
Two of my favourite pieces that we read in class this semester were Having a Coke with
You by Frank OHara and A Clean, Well-Lighted Place by Ernest Hemingway. The former
was unlike any other poem I had read before, and reading it was the first experience I had with a
poem that was written in paragraph form that was similar to a piece of prose. What really drew
my attention to this poem was the fact that at face value it didnt seem poetic in the traditional
sense, but lines like partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
and and the portrait show that seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint clearly convey
deeper meanings and are poetic in nature. Most of the lines are endstopped, and while these lines
may appear to be complete thoughts, the poem has a very high level of energy and delivers a
strong message of excitement. I used this sort of rushed tone as inspiration for my Anxiously
Depressed poem in order to set the tone of rampant and uncontrollable emotion. A Clean, WellLighted Place, however, was very low energy in comparison with OHaras poem. There are
very serious themes (suicide, alcoholism, the true meaning of happiness, etc.) being discussed in
this short story in a very calm and matter-of-fact way between two outside parties. Some of the
most significant lines in my opinion were Im sleepy now. I never get into bed before three
oclock. He should have killed himself last week. and And what do you lack? Everything but
work. This intense conversation is held in a manner that is relatively devoid of any appropriate
emotions that one would associate with unhappiness or old men trying to take their own lives. I
used this method of monotone as inspiration for the revision of my elegy. Rather than include
strong emotion that could make the poem too raw and painful, I elected to keep the tone

relatively passive while still revealing personal memories as a reflection of my own personal
grieving process.
In terms of the comments I received from peers over the course of this semester, the
comments I had the strongest response to were the ones I got from Ashley Macy. She
consistently gave me interesting and constructive feedback that made me look at whatever I had
written from a different standpoint. Her commentary showed me that I had done good things
with my work that other people could definitely appreciate, and that I could make some
adjustments to appeal more to the audience without taking away from the original purpose of my
creative piece. Some of her most consistent comments were to use sensory imagery to show
more of what was going on in any of my written scenarios, and to provide more backstory for
characters and events, especially in my Conflict in Setting piece included in this portfolio and
the untitled 5-8 page piece I submitted for my final. These suggestions were immensely helpful
both for the individual pieces that she gave me feedback for and in my revision process as a
whole, and these are two big ideas that I will always keep at the forefront when editing my work.
Putting this revision portfolio together has given me the opportunity to see how my
writing capabilities have evolved, as well as my personal idea of The Draft. All through public
school, I was told I was a good writer, and often my essays were good enough that they required
little, if any, revision by my teachers standards. As a result of this, I grew to see revision as a
tedious process that was somehow beneath me, but now I see that this idea simply isnt true.
Drawing inspiration fromand having my writing measured up againstmy peers has helped
me to accept criticism where it is due and make changes wherever they are necessary. I feel as
though I have grown significantly as a writer, not only in my knowledge, but also in my ability to
receive constructive criticism from others and incorporate this into future drafts of my work.