Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Things in My Pocket


Directions for how to use colored Polaroid film: My roommate got me Polaroid film for Christmas I thought it would work the same as the sepia I had been using. I shoved the directions in my pocket without reading them. The film in fact doesn't. The first picture has a textured blue border. It looks kind of cool.
A too-large too-flashy sticker for a summer camp: I said I want to work at Rocky Mountain summer camp this summer. They said take a sticker and application anyway. I said I am not really interested in applying. They said well at least take a sticker. I didn't want to be rude.
A quarter: I never pick up change. I drop change. If a purchase ever requires coins to be returned to me I scatter them. I like the idea that it could be almost anyone who has it next but not the randomness of anyone such as handing a dollar to a store clerk and then he or she passes it on to the next costumer, the next owner of the coin owns it with purpose. It is someone who went out of their way only if by a smidgen to pick it up. This quarter was tucked into the crease of my pocket. It is now on the sidewalk outside my house.
A pocketknife: My dad got me a Swiss army knife for Christmas years ago I keep it in my backpack just in case of a Hatchet situation. In Shakespeare and Film class a couple days ago I noticed I had a repulsive amount of split ends. After class I used the tiny serrated scissors on the pocketknife to hack of the ends of my hair. Then I put it in my pocket.
A contact case: I thought there was the possibility we would stay over night afterwards. I hate being the person with contacts who has to bring things along. I want to be more go with the flow than that. Just jump in the van, my body all I need to be ready for anything. But if I did life would be blurry and that doesn't sound ideal either.

Sunday, February 23, 2014

PA to IN and Back Again


To those Lancaster bound,

You know that moment around the 7th hour when you come to the realization that you will be in that car forever and you are slowly forgetting that you have ever been anywhere else? When all of a sudden those 3 to 4 strangers you have been begrudgingly letting to DJ and unhappily offering to share your trail mix with become your universe and you can say anything you want at whatever volume you want and it is okay? There is a bond in that moment that can be felt no where else. Then if an upbeat song comes on you will all sing along and you feel more complete than you do anywhere else because you realize that this specific moment is as good as it can possibly get. You can't grasp this emotion anywhere else because the world is full of possibilities, it's an oyster.  But, after being in a car for 7 hours with 3 plus more to go you realize that you have nothing but hubcaps, too little legroom, and Ipod cords. In this way you experience what might be pure happiness, contentment.

Fall 2012- To Goshen:  I sat in the back surrounded by everything I owned plus some. I memorized "The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock" and thought about how my life was changing.
Thanksgiving Break- To Lancaster: I sat in the middle back seat. On my left was a boy watching Scooby-Doo on his laptop on my right was a boy watching Schindlers list.
Thanksgiving Break- To Goshen: The girls driving and her companion sitting shotgun gossiped the whole time. It was very informative about people I didn't know.
Christmas Break- To Lancaster: A junior boy whipped out his flute and played for the rest of the car. If it was a Christmas carol we all sang along.
Christmas Break- To Goshen: The van door wasn't shut properly so while on the turnpike I had to open and slam it again. I shut it on my hair and it jammed.
Summer Break- To Lancaster: We did the trip in two days. We spent the night at the relatives of the car owners. We slept in a fluffy basement and watched Pitch Perfect.
Fall 2013- To Goshen: One of my car companions mother handed him a plastic bag of things for the car. The contents: three stale rolls, damped paper towels, and a Ziploc bag full of nickels.
Christmas Break- To Lancaster: I drove the entire just under 10 hours. From 6:30pm to 4:15am.
Christmas Break- To Goshen: We crashed. The car was totaled.
Spring Break- To Lancaster: We constantly rotated seats and alternated between listening to episodes of "Wait wait don't tell me" and Coldplay remixes.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Based on "I cannot explain my fear"


Fear of cartoon blood. I saw an episode of the Simpsons with my dad when I was 10 there were killer dolphins, the orange people got satirically mauled and squirted red. Fear of dolphins. Fear of shots. My parents had the doctor come to our house at night and administer a shot to me in my sleep when I was 4 because I wouldn't stop screaming. He was friends with them and it was a third world country so it was legal. I had to get a tetanus shot a week ago, I began silently weeping so the nurse gave me a juice box and animal crackers. Then she made me lay down. Fear of going bald. Fear of being too cold to handle. Fear of hurting people feelings. Fear of being forgotten, because I am as unimportant as everyone else. Fear of hating my career. Fear of being no good at doing what I love. Fear of never knowing I am not good at it. Fear of the future. I think in the now. Fear of breaking other peoples belongings. Fear of appearing ditzy. I love pop culture. I know when Jennifer Aniston’s birthday is. It’s February 11th.  Fear of spending money on things I don’t need. Fear of being trampled to death by horses. Multiple horses. Fear of missing the opportune moment. Fear of myself. I know I have the power to destroy me. 

Monday, February 17, 2014



Alexandra


Alexandra was never Alex. Once she was Andra Pandra Gloop. Nicky Veronas called her that in the hallway while she was drinking from the water fountain. She reacted in an uncomfortably upset manner, Nicky was used to anger, girls would cockily stamp their feet while batting their eyelashes. Alexandra's eyelashes were better than most because she was using mascara already even though she was 10 but her anger was undiluted by the flippy hair and brace-less teeth of Nicky, so bat she did not. She has been soley Alexandra for 16 years.

Alexandra loved makeup and clothes in a way that caused her to match her toenails with her underwear. She wasn't  ditzy though she managed to make the observer understand that it benefited the feminist movement that she was color coded. She never used the word feminist though. She didn't avoid it but was almost so progressive she was unaware that there was a cause that advocated women as equals. It was assumed in her mind that she was as smart as capable as willful as any other human. and that was why she could match and polish and decorate herself because it meant nothing.

She wanted to be First Lady, she wanted to never have to watch another movie with Christian Bale ever again because he was abusive, she wanted people to think she was funny. She was funny like a sitcom. Her wit was premeditated and punny and catered to frequent viewers.

She had been dancing since she was three. She was a decent dancer but often kept as background because she was big boned. She was all calf muscle and shoulders. None of the wiry male ballet boys could lift her. She was never upset about it because she loved dancing and also knew she had better hair then them. "Their buns are all so small," her mother would say, "you have such a nice large bun. so much thick hair."

The American Man: Age 10
Susan Orlean
The New Kings of NonFiction


The voice of this essay was perfect for the topic. I was continually amazed with the ease Orlean included all her information. She created a childlike vibe to the profile.  She approaches her subject with respect yet curiosity-- "For fun, we would load a slingshot with dog food and shoot it at my butt. we would have a very good life."

The combination of quotes and explanation I felt balanced well. "The girls in Collins class at school are named Cortnerd, Terror, Spacey, Lizard, Maggot, and Diarrhea, 'They do have other names, but that's what we call them,' Colin told me."

Orlean has decent but not over the top imagery which lends itself well to her subject-- "The walls are mostly bare, except for a Spiderman poster and a few ads torn out of magazines he has thumbtacked up."

The ending provided a deeper conclusion than I had expected from such a story-- "That's the point,' he said. 'You could do it with thread, but the fishing line is invisible. Now I have this perfect thing and the only one who knows about it is me." The author hands us this child who is on the edge of innocence and unaware of it. He is content to yet be perfect for no one other than himself.

Questions:

How long did you observe Collin?
How much do you see being observed affecting Collin's behavior?

Sunday, February 16, 2014

My High School Vice Principal


I sit with my knees pressed to the back of the bus seat in front of me. I hate it when the people do that. When I can feel the bump of the knees of the person behind me. Butt today I am not feeling particularly compassionate. The golden rule as taken the day off. I focus on the way the extra flesh around my hips pooches out due to my position instead of the cameras by the gate. I concentrate on the place on my inner thigh where my knock-off jean material is ripping instead of the news vans. I wonder how I managed to tear my pants there. I decide probably trampoline basketball. But the way the soles of my shoes are wearing thin by my heel and instep doesn’t tune out the voices of the other students on the bus.
“I hope they give him the death penalty.” I shift making the greasy rubber seat squeak.
“I heard his wife was in on it. That they took turns.” I wish I wanted to comment. 

“Remember how he would dress as Santa every year. What a sicko.” I feel like I am going to throw up. I drop my head between my knees. I try to calm myself breathing deeply but just gag on the bus taste of sweaty gym clothes and old bologna. 
I have a voice and I have words but not the will to blow them into the ears of these rubber necking middle school students. I feel young and mature. I wish I felt anger or tears or strength instead of this useless emptiness. 

The Hostess Diaries: My Year at a Hotspot
Coco Henson Scales
The New Kings of NonFiction


This piece drew me in right away. Initially it was because Ira Glass summarized in it in an extremely effective way-- "It is possibly the greatest New York Times "Styles Section" that will ever be written." I also have an intense fascination with the rich and powerful. The lives of the "haves" bewilders and amazes me. Once I began reading however I was grasped by the narrator. I found her wholly unappealing which, for me makes her appealing. I love honest unlikeable protagonists. The first glimpse the reader is awarded of this women is how she is "patiently waiting for costumers, so that I can turn them away." That is followed by her mocking sincerity "I bite my bottom lip as though I am genuinely concerned for them" and ego trips "I turn away--or even better- pick the group behind them."

The narrator is honest in herself. She is proud of the average of her life and in that way creates an interesting contrast to the celebrities she caters too. Celebrities who are much the same as her but discontent in the symbolence of power they hold. Scales is aware of how mundane life is "with so much time together, we end up repeating the same stories over and over" which makes it interesting how she holds the power against these people who believe that their own lives are so fascinating. When Naomi Campbell wears the same dress to Hue that she had the previous time the owner of the restaurant comments on it in a way that shows a disappointment in Campbell because she would be ashamed of the repetition unlike Scales who owns it.

I also was intrigued by how politicians and super models are reduced to the same personality in Scales stories. You treat someone like a celebrity and they will act like it.

Questions;

Did you in honesty enjoy the people who frequented the restaurant?
Did the focus on appearances empower you or make you fell belittled?

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Then You'll Be Straight
Margret Price
Creative NonFiction Journal

This piece felt incredible topical. It has relevance both in what we have been discussing in class concerning Eula Biss and the ongoing campus discussions on the open letter. Price's voice is straight (pun unintended) and clear. "I feel so queer," she says "I feel so white." She lets the reader experience her insecurities and how she reacts to them herself-- "I feel  like I'm in a badly written television movie about a lesbian professor," "I assure myself it has nothing to do with my mangling of their names on the first day."
I enjoyed the form of the essay. The short topic specific paragraphs made it the piece easy to process. Though all short, they vary somewhat in length, the shortest being four lines long. The theme (I would say the quote "I would say that talking about my race strengthens ethos by increasing the sense of common ground while talking about my sexuality weakens it by decreasing the sense of common ground" sums it up) is stretched out and explained in different ways through the sections.
Within the larger segments Price is quite descriptive, especially of what she herself is experiencing-- "I stood , dry-erase marker poised an inch from the board, while my face, already warm with nervousness, flushed even pinker," "Racism sticks to my skin, glints in my blue eyes, lolls on my tongue."

Questions:
What was the significance of the last story?
The first section of your class you said you never connected with them. What do you mean by this?

Saturday, February 8, 2014

Free Write
A Decision My Parents Made


My parents decided to send me to private school in 7th grade. They thought I was sad. They thought I deserved better than sad. Perhaps I was. Perhaps I did. I didn't know it though, that I was sad.  I was on the red team. The 6th grade program was divided into colors. Red was my existence and learning was what I knew I was good for. I didn't understand how my parents would felt when I talked about what the "other kids" would say and play. I was awkward and uncomfortable and unaware. Lancaster Mennonite was different. I became aware. I cried almost everyday for the first week because everyone was interesting and uninterested. I cried because for the first time I wanted them to be. And then I made friends. And then I moved on. I spoke in class and had birthday parties and pool parties and my peers knew my house was fun. I always say highs and lows are not reliant on each other. My parents moved me from and knowledgeable quiet to a social energy that overruled everything else. John Green says in his book The Fault in Our Stars that "the existence of broccoli does not, in any way, affect the taste of chocolate." So not through comparisons but through a karmic give and take are the two related?
Place- Millrace

I am not a natural runner. My body doesn't move fluidly, gracefully. I stumble and bound and bobble. I love it though or at least like it. My body is the only thing in the world that is completely mine and I enjoy knowing that I can control it. I began running regularly senior year of high school. I woke up half an hour earlier than I needed to and would run for 20 minutes before school. I liked running outside alone in the damp darkness of morning. At Goshen I found a regularity in running that was missing from the entrance into college life. My roommate showed me the Mill Race trail. She runs track and cross country and spoke trail easily. Running there did not mimic running at home. I no longer had the energy to wake early to run and in the afternoon the trail was littered with bicycles, baby strollers, and other joggers. The trail is 2.75 miles long and sticks to a canal that winds through back yards. It claims a serenity that the visitor must create.


Thursday, February 6, 2014

Free Write

Broom


A broom hangs on the wall in the backroom, the sun room, of my house. It is a strange small broom. An orphan girl would use it to sweep the floor in the movie adaptation of a Charles Dickens novel. It isn't exactly my families interior decorating taste. It fits with nothing else hanging in my house. It isn't from India or Bangladesh or crafted by my brother or I. It is a broom purchased for my Halloween costume in 2nd grade. I was a witch because I was creative. I bought a tall stiff black hat, a silky black cape that was meant for Dracula and that rigid little broom. I didn't even carry it around. I handed it off to my parent chaperon after a block and focused my spindly arms on the pumpkin  full of dense nutty chocolates. My neighbors were good at Halloween.

Black News
Eula Biss
Notes From No Man's Land


"It is a place where the cities imagination of itself resides." Biss in the essay uses her specific experiences with a African American Community newspaper to make a larger point on the reality that society accepts. The brunt of the essay is made up of news stories  on the racist tendencies of Child Protection Services in particularly a Ms. Johnson who was repeatedly denied custody of her Grandchildren.

Biss subtly draws you into the injustice and anger she feels. The story is framed within larger news stories that show system collapse and societal unrest. Because the news ignores the small issues of injustice the big issues create feelings of unreliability. By placing the issues of a small section of America that she was a part of inside issues of more agreed upon significance she links the ideas together.

She ends most paragraphs in a short strong statements-- "But that was not something I could report," They were not brought to McDonald's, and CPS did not return her calls,"But she didn't have the children." She ends the story in much the same vain. A curt punchy statement "This doesn't seem like America,' they kept seeing, 'this just doesn't seem possible in America." These concluding sentences echoes the feel of the topic she is covering.  Both the journalist techniques of saying it like it is and the finality of families having their children taken from them.

Questions:
What happened in the Ms. Johnson case?
What else can I find about how this "nurture" aspect is destroying "black culture"?

No Man's Land
Eula Biss
 Note From No Man's Land


The title essay is divided into 6 sections each one designating a place ( On the Border, In the Water, In the Prairie.) It is an extreme version of the place essay we are working on. She uses place as a motif to ground the essay while she explores the theme of fear. The essay is primarily her experience. She quotes other people and The Little House on the Prairie books but they are in relation to her experience with them.

A found that the statement her cousin made to her "I realized this is what white people do to each other- they cultivate each others fears. Its very violent." Biss writes fear as a branch of racism. When she first moved to Chicago she didn't know what she was supposed to be afraid of and therefore she wasn't. Ignorance--innocence-- is bliss. She said once she learned what she was supposed to avoid she no longer felt compelled to because she knew better.

Biss creates a wholesome image of the park near her home during the summer-- "Spanish-speaking families make picnics on the grass and Indian families have games of cricket and father dip their babies in the lake and black teenagers sit ont eh benches and young men play volleyball in great cloud of dust till dusk." She contrasts what her landlord says about how the summer "brings out the riffraff." Biss uses description to leT the reader draw their own conclusion about whether or not these people should be feared.

Questions:
What is the area like today? was it completely gentrified?
When your husband comments about how he likes the area you live how it is were you in agreement with him or making some larger point about romanticizing an area?

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Place- Reality


I am afraid I am ruining reality for myself. I am pursuing a career in the imaginary. Working towards a Film Studies and English Writing double major causes me to reshape events immediately after they happen I am constantly creating a reality worth sharing. Emotional truth had overpowered the factual. The statements the caricatured me would have said are actually spoken.
Last year I bumped, physically into a friend as she was going to print a paper. She printed his paper than sat and talked with me sitting on the floor. We talked about the shit people talk about at night- time travel, how you see yourself, how others see you, different layers of perception. Ghostly yellow lights caused her skin to look like she had scurvy. She said "If I had known this was going to happen I would have already thought through all this conversation. I am glad I didn't know so this is the first time I am having it."
We live through the same moments so many times that the real one becomes inconsequential. In 7th grade a boy sat next to me on the bus on the way to the science museum. I told my friends afterwards that he had sat with his leg pressed against mine the whole time. I think this was a lie but I don't know I told the story so many times it no longer matters if it happened or not because I have lived my life and they have lived there lives like it had. I can make myself feel the pressure of his khaki clad leg.
Napoleon Bonaparte is quoted saying "History is a set of lies agreed upon." What does that say about reality? If we shape the present based on the past, we are building a house without a foundation. I would argue that this isn't a bad thing though people die for what they believe the past is. They are willing to sacrifice themselves for their reality.

Writing Literary Criticism


I don't write from an outline-- research papers being the exception. I also seldom brainstorm. I have a small journal in my backpack where I write ideas that hit me with unnatural precision, pieces of conversation I hear and notes I take during movies but it I don't often resort to that. I write from the moment I am in. I write from one thought that tumbles into two than three. I began writing about listening to my father read. I didn't know where I was going with it but I knew it was an image I wanted to create. From there I wanted to explain the difference in reading to yourself. I wrote about "The Giver" and the trouble I had processing the book on my own. I found that both these segments paralleled the particular stages of life I was in at the time. I continued on, searching through my memory of books and finding which ones I associated with a particular stage of life, like a smell can bring a memory back so can the written word.
I worked at changing tone as my voice developed through maturing. I gradual increased the amount of information I gave but hope that even in the shorter sections the experience of being that age comes through. I began with a straightforward segment on my parents giving a glimpse into how books came into my life, which I later cut for lack of space. I decided to focus on my own memories of the books rather than those pressed onto me. The final section  is more stylized as I come into my own.
The ending is conveying the fact that I am still unsure of reality mimics the thoughts I had during The Giver section and interpretive of the young adult stage of life. Nothing is for sure or permanent and I am lost between fiction and fantasy. The only concrete I have after college graduation are stories both my own and other peoples. I don't yet know enough to claim the theme of my own story, my own life but I am confident that some day it will make sense. That even that moment too will one day be nothing more than words on a page.
During the writing workshop I received feedback on pinpointing my voice by using conjunctions. I also made the substantial switch from past to present tense which was well received.

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Place- Linway Cinema


I think I am supposed to like Art House Movie Theaters. No one has ever told me this but I like documentaries, I like bands with "and the" in the name-- Edward Sharp and The Magnetic Zeros, Florence and the Machine, Fitz and the Tantrums,-- I like Polaroid cameras. I own a Polaroid camera with which I took a photo of my roommate standing in the snow with no shirt on. Her thick blond hair keeps the image G rated. It looks like a Free People ad. I feel shame when I look at it. But yet, I am ambivalent towards Indie movie theaters. I genuinely want to fall into the active support section of the spectrum but I am at most a passive support, more honestly neutral.

I like large and impersonal when it comes to my movie theaters. I like Linway Cinema in Goshen, Indiana. I bike there not on the adorable and quaint alley ways that one would take to the local art house theater (called in fact Art House) but on a main street where cars whip by me mercilessly spitting water and ice in my boots and down the back of my coat. The bikes I borrow sputter and jerk through potholes and slush. I am too warm on top and too cold on bottom. My thighs burn where the sprayed water freezes. I am pleased with the discomfort. It makes me feel both focused and free.

The theater doesn't like me. The ticket takers don't greet me by name. I have to lock my bike several stores down because Linway does not cater to the green movement. There are too many ways to enter. The doors confuse themselves "Enter Here?" They question their motive. There are two windows were you can buy your ticket. There are three locations where you can purchase snacks. Linway is proud of their market enterprise. I am charmed by the in your face consumerism. At these concession stands every size is refillable- popcorn and soda. This is fairly unorthodox. This is the complexity of Linway Cinema. They are so blatantly trying to make money they almost forget how.

Linway taught me how to be in a “together”. I held my first sweaty boy hand during James Bond, swirled in with strangers. Everyone saw, no one noticed. The power of being a sheep. Linway also taught me how to be in an “alone”.  I am bad at alone. I shuffle uneasily through my own mind when left in the company of solely me. I saw my first alone movie at Linway. I felt judged. I felt swallowed by florescents and nobby carpet and theaters too half full. Alone in an empty theater would have been so lame it would have passed into acceptable and alone in a full theater, surrounded by those experiencing “together”,  would have made me inconsequential. But I was just enough alone and everyone else was just enough together.

The next movie I saw by myself was at an art house theater in Lancaster, PA, Zoetropolis. When I showed up alone everyone assumed I was on the tip of trendy. I looked single and proud and like I was probably going to take notes or something during the movie. I am not looking for affirmation at the theaters. I have my go to places for self confidence boosts and when at the theater I want to matter significantly less than the characters projected.

I typically go to see movies with Sam, my friend with an infatuation for foreign films that he attempts to satiate with critically acclaimed dramas. He holds a delighted disdain for Linway. As we sit in the theater attempting to be witty about the commercials that preview the previews he comments "The only movie goers are middle school students or middle aged couples who no longer have anything in common so they go to movies." Linway does indeed cater to this market. I make a furious attempt every year to see all the Oscar best picture nominees before the big night and Linway makes that very difficult. They are not carrying 12 Years a Slave one of the most nominated movies. They just don't have the audience for a film on history, a film on race.

Linway can be well summarized by my experience trying to contact them. I thought I should add a factual elements to this essay—“when was it built?” “How many renovations have been done (‘I like movie theaters with very large seats,’ Sam said ‘after many renovations Linway has left the seats causing the whole theater to be a mismatched progression of time.’)?” After listening to a recorded list of the many numerals I could press. I was told in order to contact them I needed to call a number not advertised on their website. I call said number and after listening to the phone ring and ring I am subjected to a shrieking scratching buzz the likes of which should only be used in torture or those experiments to see how old you are by how high you can hear. In conclusion no one picked up the phone. Linway is much too self assured for customer feedback.


The word about town is that the movie theater is a dying breed. This is false. In fact the amount of money spent on movie tickets  (10.8 billion according to CNNMoney) in 2012, was higher the year before, the first time in three years that had happened. So obviously soulless theaters are doing something right besides wooing me. 

Sunday, February 2, 2014

Strange Fact- Woman in Film

Women directors have been nominated for an Oscar 4 times in the past 85 years. Since there are less women directors the bar ends up being raised. A man creates a film that flops that okay there are other men. A women creates a film that leaks money it is a grievance on all Women as creative directors because the pool is smaller. According to an article published by Huffington Post in October women make up only 18% of all key behind the scenes roles in Hollywood. How can in expect to create movies that fairly represent women if these movies are shot and written by men? Well we can't. In 2013 64% of the top grossing movies starred male leads, 14% female leads, and 22% ensemble casts (Huffington Post).  I want to work in film. I dream, I strive, I aspire to work in film.  I have a job currently, a production assistant at a small film production company- FiveCore Media. My first couple months working there I was one of two female employees. There were  3 male employees excluding our male boss. I was lucky to be part of a nearly evenly split, unorthodox in the industry, work space. Yet I still felt the need to prove myself. Was it because I entered the work environment conscious of my sex's dismal sample? It had to have been. I would have no other reason for feeling that I had to work harder and take on more shifts than my male counterparts. I was especially aware of this during strike (tearing down a shoot). Film equipment can be heavy and I was prone to attempting to carry the most not out of an inner call of discipleship but because if I didn't I feared it would be assumed I couldn't. In an industry where there are very few women film decisions are not critiqued  as artistic choices but as capabilities.
A book I read within the last year had an essay on the competitiveness of women. It said that while women were competitive with each other and would contend for the highest position in the work force that spirit of competition did not often extend to the men they worked with. It is hard for me to accept that I am still being judged on a criteria separate from that of men. A criteria that questions capability.
Goodbye to All That
Eula Biss
Notes From No Man's Land

I read this version of  "Goodbye To All That" after Didions. I think this essay is the one I have connected with the most out of Biss's so far. I think this essay offers the clearest picture of her. The opening statement after the initial story-- "That is not how it really happened. That is how I learned to tell the story of my life in New York"--sums up all creative nonfiction for me. As authors we learn to mold our experiences in a way that will appeal to those not present in our mind.That is what story telling is, shaping the internal for the external. I think Biss's ability to break that down and keep the reader engaged was testament to her power as a writer.
I was also able to connect with her statements on being young. She understands and is able to articulate the desire to be part of reality. Several quotes that express this are " and I learned every detail of the story just as I discovered its falsehood," and " I didn't just want to live there I wanted to be made real myself." Biss in this piece shows her capacity to explain the understandings and premonitions that society and individuals hold.

Why did you choose to live in New York?
Would your general statements have external validity? Are your points able to be extended to all large romanticized cities?