Response: "What Really Happened to Phoebe Prince?"

While I’d heard about Phoebe Prince’s suicide on TV, I hadn’t followed the story (in written form) online or in newspapers/magazines. So, I come to Emily Bazelon’s “What Really Happened to Phoebe Prince?” with little knowledge of the body of work on this subject. (Or, for that matter, any idea of what angles might be played out by now.)

Ultimately, I feel like Bazelon’s story offered a broad-but-shallow look at the key issues in Phoebe’s case. A lot of fascinating threads were brought up and left unexplored. The ones that really interested me included:

- Sean, the “strong kid who had looked out for weaker ones.” When Bazelon identified him that way early in the story, I thought for sure that he’d be profiled closely, but that didn’t happen. (Guess she didn’t have the interview access . . . ) I didn’t get a sense of Sean—or few others from South Hadley High—as one who tried to protect Phoebe. And then there’s that interesting moment where a boy shows Phoebe what others are saying about her on Facebook, but instead of reprimanding them himself, he allows her to type a response in his name. It all plays into that issue of bystanders rarely standing up to bullies or reporting them.

- Culture clashes: How the kids considered themselves “true Irish,” while Phoebe was a “poser.” Clearly they thought of themselves as Irish, and yet they always called Phoebe the “Irish” slut, “Irish” bitch, etc. So, what’s the disconnect between being native Irish and American Irish? There was also that passing remark about how Phoebe was “excited that in [the U.S.] you could talk and express yourself in class.” The immigrant experience of being bullied by American peers could have served as an interesting lens for this story.

- The fact that several of the kids involved had either lost or were separated from their fathers. I don’t know if there’s really a story there, but Bazelon made a point to mention this fact when she introduced the characters, so it really stuck with me.

Response: "Lifted"

I have this habit when it comes to books: By the time I get halfway through one, I’ve usually flipped forward to see how the story ends. (Yes, I’m one of those people.) It’s the same deal with movies. I’ll get part way through, pull up Wikipedia on my phone, and read what’s going to happen next. I can't remember the last time I actually made it through a film without doing this.

It’s not that I stop reading/watching right then and there. Rather, there’s something about knowing the ending—or at least, some future plot details—that injects more tension into the story for me. I know where the characters end up… Now, what events and decisions get them there?

As I read “Lifted,” I wondered how the story might be different if it opened with a later scene. To be precise, I’m thinking of Chapter 5, where we finally get a look at the building that the thieves are going to break into. What would the story feel like if that scene was used as a hook?

First, we learn that this building is understaffed and not designed for its present use—in fact, it’s downright vulnerable. By the time the walls begin to shake, we’re pretty sure this is not going to end well. Our suspicions are confirmed as the robbers break in, and we get those interesting clues about their process—for example, their ladder has been measured to fit the building. The opening scene could end with them preparing to overcome the vault.

We don’t know how much money they’re going to get away with—if any. We don’t know if the police are standing on the other side of the door. But we do know that they made it this far, and that they seem to have insider knowledge of the building, and that they are very, very well-prepared.

So, the big question becomes: How did they do it?

Attention Twitter Newbies (Myself Included)

One of my favorite bloggers, CNET writer and former agent Nathan Bransford, has a couple of useful posts on using Twitter:

- How To Use Twitter

- How to Use Twitter @ Reply

Two Awesome Nonfiction Writers

The first CNF writer whose work I really connected with: Jo Ann Beard (see: "The Fourth State of Matter" or The Boys of My Youth)

Predates our present concept of contemporary nonfiction and is better known for his fiction: Jack London (see: People of the Abyss)

Response: "Three Cups of Deceit"

Given that I write just as much fiction as nonfiction, Krakauer’s Three Cups of Deceit made for interesting reading. I’m going to take a cue from Nikki here and split my response up under headings.

Deceit by the numbers

In exploring the scope of Greg Mortenson’s deception, Krakauer frequently references hard figures. He gestures to the diversity of those who donated to the CAI—from President Obama ($100,000), to school kids ($2.5 million, donated in pennies), to himself ($75,000). He cites the lengthy presence of Three Cups of Tea on the NYT bestseller list—four years and two months, as of March 2011—as well as the number of books in print (~5 million). Krakauer’s study of the CAI’s finances adds at least a dozen more figures to his analysis.

On the other hand, he also looks to less quantifiable measures of Mortenson’s deceit, like the experiences of the disillusioned CAI employees and Pakistani villagers. For me, there was a lesson in how Krakauer wove these elements together into one cohesive argument.

The men (and women?) behind the myth

In my first post, I mentioned the breadth of Krakauer’s research. Among those sources: photographs, financial reports, personal letters, articles from popular magazines and academic journals, excerpts from Mortenson’s works, and interviews with individuals like Pakistani scholars and the president of a charity watchdog group.

But a voice that I felt was noticeably absent? That of Mortenson’s co-author and ghostwriters.

Mortenson’s co-author for Three Cups of Tea, David Oliver Relin, appears in the “Dramatis Personae” list but is only mentioned twice in the Krakauer piece. Same goes for Stones into Schools ghostwriter Kevin Fedarko, though he did get an interesting footnote (#8) that confirmed his rather “blindfolded” role: He had to assume Mortenson’s story was true, and he wasn’t responsible for any fact-checking.

I found myself really wanting to know more about these writers, given how important they were to forming Mortenson’s “creation myth,” as Krakauer calls it. Were they all as unwitting as Fedarko? If not, did they have any misgivings about presenting fiction under the guise of fact?

Don’t worry. Enjoy it.

Being into tech of all sorts, I was pretty excited to find out that we’d be focusing on social media in this class. Though I follow many writers and agents on all different platforms—from Blogger to WordPress, and from Tumblr to Twitter—I personally only use Facebook. I’d really like to change that and become more confident in using these platforms to connect with others in the industry.

Before I get into my other hopes for this class, here’s a bit about me and my writing:

I hold two editorial positions at Hot Metal Bridge: Nonfiction Co-Editor and Book Reviews Co-Editor. For the latter position, one of my main duties is the formatting and posting of reviews to the website, so I've learned quite a bit about WordPress through that… and I’ve found that I really have zero preference between it and Blogger. Though I think that WordPress is WAY easier to customize.

I spent this past summer in Boston as a Bedford/St. Martin’s intern. It was such an amazing experience, both personally and professionally, as I really hadn’t wandered too far from SW-PA before then. Though BSM is an educational publisher—not my area, exactly—it was great to sit in on editorial meetings and see what went on behind the scenes.

As for my writing, my most recent long-form piece was a photo essay on demolition and urban decay in Braddock, PA. I have a blog with my first draft of the piece and all of the associated photos. (Because of the photos, I want to keep the blog private; let me know if you’re interested in seeing it and I’ll add you as a reader.)