Publication Venue Assignment

The Kenyon Review is published by Kenyon College, which is a small, private liberal arts college in Ohio. It publishes quarterly, both online and in print. Editor David Lynn said, “What we publish in print in The Kenyon Review, on the one hand, and electronically in KROnline, on the other, will be different in tone and timeliness, and will probably speak to different audiences as well. Nevertheless, it’s our mission to offer a great variety of literature all held to the highest of standards.” The website makes it clear that the online magazine and the printed magazine are quite different, and that it is important for submitters to be familiar with the tone of both – while a submission may not be appropriate for the online form, it may be perfect for the print version, and vice versa. Editor Lynn continued, “Our standards are high. We ask, ‘Does this poem or story or essay offer surprise and delight? Does it seem fresh, necessary, startling? Does the author–young or not so young, someone of established distinction or a talent as yet undiscovered–display a mastery of language, especially as necessary to this particular piece?’”

Through reading Lynn’s blogs and notes throughout the site, it is obvious that The Kenyon Review is a labor of love for all of its “employees” – the graduate students and professors who meticulously read every submission. Because of this, the magazine will only accept high quality works. It takes itself very seriously. In one blog, Lynn mentions that several national literary magazines have closed down recently, and the tone of the essay reflects how utterly important he feels his magazine and others are to our culture. (Admittedly, it reflects a kind of special arrogance and self-importance you can only find and small, private liberal arts colleges, specifically in English departments.)

This magazine is printed for avid readers, for sure. It has a liberal background, but is neither heavily political nor particularly politically correct. It can be a place for serious reflection, candid stories, or humorous tales. Most of the selections I read seemed a bit morose, to be honest, focusing on people who are down on their luck, marginalized, or experiencing discrimination of one kind or another. Several stories focused on the difficulty people of other cultures have becoming part of American society, the concept of “the Other”, and other similar social issues. While not explicitly stated on the submissions page, it seems as though KROnline is interested in stories which discuss social justice issues. Writing about domestic violence, political unrest, Occupy Wall Street, or things along those lines would probably be welcome here.

KROnline does not seem to have a preference for form – some pieces are segmented or experimental, while others follow traditional storytelling techniques. Since they publish many forms of literature, there is no set standard for form. All of the stories have a distinct artistry to them, however. They are descriptive and flowing works, which often leave out explicit details (aka Dr. Chandler’s “aboutness”,) and force the reader to consider their purpose. Some of the pieces are so artistic that I still don’t know what they were about or why they were published (except for that the writing was lovely and visual.) The length of the pieces also varies quite a bit. Some seem to creep up to the very edge of the maximum page count, while others are quite short. For KROnline, the submissions are chosen on quality, not quantity. 

Handout – The Kenyon Review

Compiled by Jen Helmstaedter

Website: http://www.kenyonreview.org/

Reading Dates

·         The reading period begins September 15 and ends January 15. Review of submissions takes up to four months.

·         All work must be submitted through the online submissions system. No mail or email submissions are ever considered.

Manuscript Requirements

·         The Kenyon Review considers short fiction and essays (up to 7,500 words), poetry (up to 6 poems), plays (up to 20 pages), excerpts from larger works (up to 20 pages), and translations of poetry and short prose. Translations must be accompanied by the work in the original language. The translator is responsible for the author’s permission to use his or her material.

·         The Kenyon Review does not consider work that has been previously published, unsolicited reviews, or unsolicited interviews.

Number of essays accepted per publication

·         Writers may submit no more than two pieces per genre per reading period. If writers submit more than two pieces, only the first two will be read. The Kenyon review does consider simultaneous submissions.

·         You may submit your piece to The Kenyon Review and other publications simultaneously, but you must withdraw your piece if it is accepted elsewhere.

Pay

·         Payment for accepted work is made upon publication. Authors retain their copyrights and will receive a contract upon acceptance. The website does not state the amount of any payments.

Other information

·         All submitted work is considered for both The Kenyon Review and KROnline.

·         Works submitted to The Kenyon Review follow the Chicago Manual of Style (15th Edition) and Webster’s Eleventh New Collegiate Dictionary. Authors planning to use end notes and/or citations should download the citation style guidelines before submitting manuscripts. The Kenyon Review accepts the following file formats: .DOC (Microsoft Word); .PDF (Adobe Acrobat); .RTF (Rich Text Format); .TXT (Microsoft Wordpad and Notepad, Apple TextEdit).

Craft Draft

Writing about writing is the hardest part, I think, because writing is just something that I do. It’s like writing a how-to about breathing. I don’t remember learning to write and I don’t remember learning to breathe. They’re just things that I’ve always done, and I’ve never given much thought to how they happen. Before this course, I’d simply write whatever was on my mind, and once it was on paper I’d never look at it again. It seemed unnatural to go back and edit it – like when someone makes you conscious of how you’re breathing, and then you keep thinking about it and change your breathing pattern. It’s hard to stop thinking about it, then, because you’re too conscious. You become overwhelmed, oversaturated with yourself. I get that way when I edit, too. The words stop meaning anything because I’ve skimmed over them so many times. With writing, thinking about doing it doesn’t seem like an obvious, step-by-step thing that I do. It’s hard for me to write about my writing; as hard as it is for me to focus when I’m trying to edit or for me to tell you how to breathe.

I kind of liked the draft process, though, because it was different for me. I like getting constructive feedback and working off of that to make a second draft. I think that’s what I was lacking in previous writing projects. My eyes would tire of reading and re-reading the same words, so I’d call it “done” even if I wasn’t completely happy with the piece. I have sent work to friends before to have them read, but perhaps for fear of hurting my feelings, the responses were usually something like, “Great job! I really liked it.” While encouraging, this type of input was never particularly helpful, because I’d be in the same place I’d started in. Can I just take Dr. Chandler and the rest of the CNF class with me wherever I go? In this class, I've done one or more drafts for every essay and have found that it has definitely improved the quality of my writing. In the past, I thought that if I had something to say, it would just come out. Drafting made me realize how many details I forget and how many things I left out because they were so familiar to me, but wouldn't be familiar to the audience.

My focus has also been a bit of an issue in creative nonfiction. I guess I have stories that I want to tell, but find them outwardly boring or directionless. (Not boring to me, of course, but potentially boring to a stranger.) Nobody cares about what I did when I was four, I'd tell myself, while filing the beginning of what could be an excellent story in the back of my brain, in the file called "pointless anecdotes". I've found it interesting to take those stories and expand them in a way that is more approachable and can be worked into something that is meaningful to others. I do struggle with having a point, which seems like an awful thing to say about myself as a writer. Part of that, probably, is having a background in fiction where the point would generally be more obvious. In a basic story, you meet a person, something happens to them, and then the person deals with it. The last paragraph is some kind of moral, which wraps up the story into a neat little package and ties it up with string. If the story changes halfway through, you get to call it a twist and go with it. Such is not the case with nonfiction. If the story isn’t going anywhere, something either had to have happened that you can talk about instead, or you’d have to make something up. It’s wrong to lie, and even if that wasn’t a problem for me as a writer, it would be a huge issue for my readers if they found out the truth. Ethics are annoying like that.

I have a lot to work on as a writer. I want to be less direct in my approach; I am fascinated by writers of creative nonfiction who work through description without ever explicitly explaining themselves. They don’t make it easy for the audience, and I love that. I’m too blunt, too honest…to a fault. I struggle the most with writing in a way that forces the audience to follow along because they are trying to figure out what I’m describing or what I’m talking about. John McPhee is amazing, that way. I want to write better, and I think taking cues from McPhee would help to an extent. Rather than just giving the reader all of the information, he gives enough information that the reader can figure it out for themselves. I need to learn to express ideas without expressing them.

Basically, I need to take more time with my writing. The drafting process, the habit of just saying everything on my mind right away, all of it just shows that I’m in a rush to get the ideas out and not dedicated enough to my work to make it worth reading. I’ll never get published if I don’t slow down.

writing for craft essay

1. How did you experience the tension between telling a story and telling the truth?

The title of my blog was probably the most prophetic and accurate description of my creative nonfiction writing. "Exaggerated Lies," I thought, "and other adventures in nonfiction". I have no way of knowing if my memories are fact. Actually, I'm not sure many of them are. So, we'll go back. Let's call it "Exaggerated Truths..." Ethically, it would be irresponsible for me to knowingly lie. If I call it the truth straight away, it could be the truth as I remember it, and the audience could forgive my willingness to bend the truth for the adventure.

2. What feaetures of the "craft" of CNF were you most interested in as you wrote your drafts?

I guess I have stories that I want to tell, but find them outwardly boring or directionless. (Not boring to me, of course, but potentially boring to a stranger.) Nobody cares about what I did when I was four, I'd tell myself, while filing the beginning of what could be an excellent story in the back of my brain, in the file called "pointless anecdotes". I've found it interesting to take those stories and expand them in a way that is more approachable and can be worked into something that is meaningful to others.

3. Describe any changes in your investment in/use of your writing process as part of your creativity?

I have never been mch of a drafty writer. I'm a "wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am" writer, generally. But lately (due to incessant bullying from Dr. Chandler,) I've done one or more drafts for every essay and have found that it has definitely improved the quality of my writing. I guess I thought that if I had something to say, it would just come out. Drafting made me realize how many details I forget and how many things I left out because they were so familiar to me, but wouldn't be familiar to the audience.

Essay 4 - Cities

Think of London, small city/Dark, dark in the daytime/People sleep, sleep in the daytime/If they want to/if they want to/

I walk down the same old street; I've been down this road a hundred times. The same people say the same lines, the starring role always awarded to the same guys. As the years roll by, the faces change just slightly, but everyone still looks the same. It’s all quiet in the morning, hundreds of people passed out in cars, sleeping bags underneath trucks, and even some napping in lawn chairs, still holding beers from the night before. Some time around noon, the city sparks to life. The same girl with the flower painted on her cheek selling the same old flat-woven blankets, the same dredlocked guy selling the same old hash pipes, one between each finger like a stoner Wolverine. Old Volkswagen vans form the backdrop, with tents popped up in front of them, forming makeshift streets in a one-day city. It's as though they build the city each time, and just the same they take it down, moving from state to state, parking lot to parking lot, to recreate the dreams we all used to have. We're not groupies, not by any means. We're all lost souls who seek freedom and acceptance; the music is secondary. But what it means, to all of us, changes over time.

I'm checkin' 'em out/I'm checkin' 'em out/I've got it figured out/I've got it figured out

                It used to be a lifestyle, my choice in culture since my country doesn’t have its’ own. Most of these people spend their lives this way, or at least most of their 20s. The “Phish Phans” create cities and call them things like “Shakedown Street”, live weeks on end eating grilled cheese sandwiches and trading goods for beer, beer for tickets, tickets for drugs, and drugs for tickets before seeing every show. The first few shows, it’s like walking into a different universe…especially if your normal life takes place in New Jersey.

There's some good points/some bad points/But it all works out/I'm just a little freaked out
                Women walk around carrying their babies and looking for acid tabs, men sit behind their cars in groups drinking beer in public, girls in long skirts and bikini tops walk around selling baskets of “ganja gooballs” or marijuana-laced marshmallow treats. In the lot and in the show, there are few cops and fewer enforced laws, which allows the culture to continue. Although the venues know what to expect, they turn a blind eye to keep the peace. For every hundred laws broken, one summons is handed out, and always for the very same thing. The nitrous tanks hiss in the background, piercing the air despite the Phish and Grateful dead tunes blasting from every car radio. They’re constantly being chased by the few police offers on duty. There are “spotters” – guys who stand lookout usually from two or three sides. If they see a cop, they yell “six up” – kids holding big balloons scurry off in every direction and the nitrous tank gets closed up and moved. Sometimes, the cops get too close and the guys abandon the tank and hide under cars. The tank may be confiscated, but there’s always another one, hissing in the distance and waiting to be chased. It’s a cat and mouse game for the drug referred to as “hippie crack”. The lot’s a veritable drug superstore, which for many is enticing. That’s how I found myself there, and I’m probably not the only one.

Find your city/Find yourself a city to live in/Find your city/Find yourself a city to live in

Although the layout is always a little different, all the lots are always pretty much the same. From Camden, New Jersey to Saratoga Springs, New York to the DCU center in Worcester, Massachusetts, the cars and vans line up, and the misguided, drugged up hippies file out. (need to write more on this...)

A lot of bridges in Birmingham/A lot of ghosts and a lot of houses/Look over there, dry ice factory/Good place to get some thinking done

In a way, though, the hippies are a lot like ghosts. They travel together for the whole summer tour – which typically begins around May and lasts until September, followed by the winter tour, which consists of a Halloween show, some sporadic shows at small venues, and a New Year’s run which is about 4 shows. In between, they follow other bands like Furthur, Umphrey’s McGee, and Ratdog. When they wake up, their eyes are hollow, dark, and vacant. They haven’t much to say. They don’t own houses or have full time jobs, other than selling random ware on the lot. They don’t have savings accounts. They are hardly what modern society would call “normal”. And they are ghosts because they visit a city briefly, for a night or two, before moving on to the next haunt. They don’t have roots in any one place; they don’t have to deal with any problems that they don’t want to. A person on tour isn’t looking for music, necessarily, but an escape. They escape from their lives, from their families, from anything that makes them unhappy. They don’t want to grow or grow up.

I'm checkin' 'em out/I'm checkin' 'em out/I've got it figured out/I'm the one who’s got it figured out

I’ve got it “figured out”, maybe.

There's some good points, a whole lotta bad points

Find your city/Find yourself a city to live in/I will find a city/Find myself a city to live in

Did I forget to mention/Forget to mention Memphis/Home of Elvis and the ancient Greeks/Do I smell…I smell home cooking/It's only the river/it's only the river

I'm checkin' 'em out/I'm checkin' 'em out/I've got it figured out/I’m the one that’s got it figured out

There's some good points, some bad points/But it all works out/I’m just a little freaked out

Find a city/Find yourself a city to live in/I will find a city, find myself a city to live in/Find a city, Find myself a city to live in/Find a city/Find myself a city to live in

Interspersed lyrics (bolded) from the song “Cities”, a phan favorite that’s actually a Talking Heads cover. Each line will be followed by a paragraph. I’m having a really hard time writing this piece. It already isn’t what I wanted it to be; it already feels more journalistic than descriptive. I don’t like where this is going and will likely just scrap the idea.

Here are a couple versions of "Cities" that I've seen:

Essay 4...?

Uninspired.

I have posted both the revisions for Essay 1 and Essay 3, because I felt inspired to write on those subjects. Essay 4...where are you? Eye essays are hard. Is it okay that I'm a little out of order? Or can a revised essay 3 count as number 4? I've been trying to work on this all week and I'm at a loss. I even took today off of work so I could spend time with the essay, and here I am at 1am and a blank page. :(

Essay 3 - Revised

A House is My Memory

                We always called it “Nanny’s house”, even though she and Pop always lived there together. I don’t think that people often consider the meaning of home, at least in the old country definition like “where the heart is”. We didn’t live at Nanny’s house, but it was still my home for many years. If I think back to my childhood, I don’t remember a lot of conversations or events. I don’t remember my day-to-day life. I don’t remember almost anything about school. But, if I think about Nanny’s house, I can remember almost every little detail – every color, every smell, every sound. I remember a house.

The kitchen wasn't just the place to cook chicken paprikash or peach cakes. It wasn't just a place to keep a line of duck-shaped ceramic candy jars filled with sugar-coated gummy mint leaves and Woerther's butterscotch, which I would sneak in and eat when Nanny wasn't looking. The kitchen was where the kitchen table was, of course, and the kitchen table was the center of our family. On the kitchen table, we could peel potatoes together and make silly jokes in preparation for the giant pot of mashed potatoes (with, as my mom will always recall, "a WHOLE STICK of butter!!") or break out the Scrabble board or playing cards or dice because there were only 10 channels and the Yankees game was on a rain delay. My sister and I would do our homework after school on that table, while we waited for Mom and Dad to get out of work and pick us up. Sometimes the whole family would visit the house during the summer, and the adults would sit around the table shooting the shit; I remember sitting on Pop's lap and not understanding their conversation about politics or the economy or whatever-it-was. The kitchen was the first room we'd go to in the house, despite having to pass through the living room and dining room to get there, because it was home even though we didn't live there all the time. My sister and I would run in - dripping wet in the summertime after we jumped through the sprinkler to cool down - to grab some iced tea from the fridge before running outside again in the big back yard. 

The dining room was uneventful, usually. The massive table would collect junk - bills, tchotchkes, Pop's projects that he'd "work on next", and any number of things throughout the year. On Thanksgiving Day, though, it would be ceremoniously cleared off to make space for dinner. There would be so much food. Of course there was turkey, but that was probably the least important thing. Nanny would get up early the day before to start preparing - her famous creamed spinach, extra extra EXTRA stuffing, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, gravy, and pies...chocolate, apple, pumpkin, and my favorite, lemon meringue. The dining room table would be so overflowing as we all gathered around it, that some of the food had to be placed on top of the wooden radiator case to make room for our plates, and we'd eat until we were almost sleeping at the table. As mom and nanny packed it all up at the end, they'd make a million containers for us to take home and we'd be eating turkey for weeks. The stuffing was always gone first.

I probably spent half of my childhood in that living room. The walls were wood paneled and crackle painted, making all of my childhood pictures look so typical of the early 80s. Often, my sister and I would beg to sleep over on a Friday night, and since my parents worked all week, it was probably a nice opportunity for them to rest in a quiet house. Nanny always let us stay up late - we'd watch the Yankee game all the way through, even if there were extra innings that lasted 'til after midnight. I can still hear her voice in my head yelling at the tv, "come on, Knobloch!", as if her cries would help him hit the ball out of the park. Pop would pull some old mattresses downstairs and we'd set up camp down there, and Nanny would make snacks. She'd sit on that same spot on that old pink couch that was so worn you could see the outline of her body in it even when she wasn't sitting there. Pop would hold his ground in the old recliner, but he'd always go to bed early and then my sister and I would fight for the privilege to sit there. When I stayed home sick (or "sick") from school, I'd sit in the recliner all day and Nanny would make me soup and we'd watch The Price is Right and laugh at how bad everyone did on the show. There was no air conditioning in the house, so in the summer the windows would be open and the old pull screens would keep the bugs out and the curtains would blow gently with the summer breeze. For Christmas, Nanny would put up their artificial tree in the corner, with the multi-colored electric star topper, and what seemed like millions of gifts would overflow beneath it. The huge, heavy door that lead out to the front porch was so big that when I was a kid, I needed Pop's help to open it. 

Ah, the front porch. Pop had built the big, Southern-style wooden porch for Nanny to sit on way before I was born, but it was still her favorite place when it was warm. There were enough chairs for the whole family to sit on, and when I was really little my brown rocking pony was out there, too. Sometimes Pop would pull out the folding card table and we'd all play rummy together if it wasn't too windy. If we didn't feel like playing, Nanny would play a few games of solitaire to pass the time, all the while smoking cigarettes and what did she drink? Maybe it was coffee or tea, I don't remember, but she'd always have a mug of something out there with her. My sister and I would chase each other around in the front yard, which was a small hill that sometimes we'd roll down, having races to see who could get to the bottom first. There was a tiny tree, it looked like a shrunken Christmas tree, which my father had planted when he was a teenager and had expected to grow into a giant. It never got any bigger. We would jump over it again and again. A stone driveway wound around the side of the house and into the backyard, where at the end stood a ramshackle garage that always smelled like a swamp. You always knew when someone had pulled in, because the stones would crack against each other at the weight of the car. Nanny would hear the steps of the neighbor kids walking through her backyard, even though they knew they weren't supposed to, and she'd run out on the front porch to yell at them. 

From the living room, I could race up and down the stairs – the jagged walkway to the upstairs rooms. There were three stairs, then a landing with a china cabinet built-in into the corner, then 10 more stairs unfolded to their left, then another landing, then 5 more stairs that turned left once again, and then the hallway where the bedrooms were. The china cabinet was a place where Nanny kept her memories - little gifts she’d received from Pop over the years or from my dad and his siblings when they were kids. She collected these ceramic bird music boxes, and I remember sometimes she’d let me play with them. I liked to wind them up and let the tinkling song get gradually slower and slower until it stopped, and I could wind up another bird to do it all over again. The birds looked out the glass panels in the cabinet, which smelled like perfumed dust. Their faces looked frozen in time, unintentionally forlorn but forcefully happy; they were kind of weird, but she loved them, so I did, too. In the bottom of the cabinet, Pop’s Navy lamp and a naughty ashtray with a naked lady on it collected more dust than anything. When I took the lamp out, Pop would tell me stories about the ships and what it was like in Italy in the 1950s. Then I’d go back to playing with the birds.

Sometimes, we'd get to play in Nanny's bedroom. If it was bingo night, she'd be getting ready - setting her hair, putting on makeup, checking for runs in her stockings. It was a special occasion for me, too, because I got to play with her perfumes. She had a mirrored tray on her dresser with so many different perfumes in pretty little bottles that I'd spray all over myself. It felt like I was a grownup or a princess or something because I was playing with fine things instead of my baby toys. I have a few of them now, and when I come across them, I can't help but test them, even though I wind up smelling like floral rubbing alcohol (it turns out, of course, that the perfumes were not nearly as “fine” as I remember them). There was a crawl space behind Pop's dresser where they stored decorations and old things and I always wanted to go in but Nanny always said it was dangerous or that we didn't have time for it. Their bed was old and worn, a dinky metal frame that looked out of place. It was the only thing that really looked poor, even if they always really were.

There was a huge, clawfoot tub in the bathroom, where I'd take bubble baths when I'd sleep over. They never had a shower head installed, because Pop never "got around to it" in the 30 years they lived in the house. Nanny would always have different scents of Calgon to "take her away", like the old ad went. At night, Pop's dentures would sit in a cup next to the sink in some blueish-greenish liquid. My sister and I would look at them and giggle, half wanting to play with them and half being too grossed out to touch them. Uncle Tom used to fall asleep in the bathtub, and we could hear him snoring from all the way in the basement. Nanny would bang on the door to get him to wake up, and we could hear him jerk in surprise, splashing water all over the floor (and inevitably leaving it there for her to clean up). That's what teenagers were like, she'd say, a complete pain in the ass.

Across from the bathroom was Uncle Tom's room. Uncle Tom still lived with my Nanny and Pop when I was a kid because he wasn't much older than us. (He's 12 years older than me, and 17 years younger than his older brother, my father.) His room was always messy - blankets and pillows strewn about, video games and wires all over the floor, empty Pringles cans and nudie magazines stuffed lazily under the bed. When my sister and I got bored of our toys and there was nothing on tv, we'd sneak up to Tommy's room and play his Super Nintendo. She always cheated at MarioKart. Eventually Nanny would figure out what we were up to and yell for us to come back downstairs so she could watch us and so that Tommy wouldn't get mad that we were in his room without asking. 

There was a basement in the house, too. It was packed full of boxes and old furniture on one side, and the giant hot water heater that always made spooky noises at night. The other side was Pop’s work bench – baby food jars and coffee cans filled with every size and shape of nut and bolt you could ever use for anything. He’d stick a piece of masking tape on each jar, and use his old fashioned penmanship to neatly describe the contents. On rows and rows of shelves, the jars and cans were all lined up orderly, so even if nobody else could make sense of it, Pop could find whatever he wanted down there in a matter of seconds. If something needed fixing, Pop was your man. The anal retentive neatness probably came from his time in the Navy, but his handiness came from years of roofing, construction, and plain hard work. Most of the furniture in the house had been fixed by Pop at one time or another, so if you looked closely, you’d find the knob he’d rigged out of some weird metal piece or the wooden shim he’d shoved underneath the cupboard to keep it even. Nothing was ever really new because back in his day, Pop would say, you learned how to take care of what you already had.

When Nanny and Pop decided that they'd sell the house and move into an apartment, it was devastating. The apartment wasn't the same - it didn't have my kitchen, my dining room, my memories. There was no clawfoot tub or big backyard; they left behind the big pink couch and would never have space for the big Thanksgiving. A couple years later, Nanny was gone, too. I check the real estate papers from time to time for Piscataway, hoping that whoever owns the place now has put it up for sale. I'd give anything to live there.

Essay 1 - Revised

Don't Worry About Me

I'm not sure I remember the first time I got sick. Actually, I don't remember ever not being sick. Some of my earliest memories come from doctor visits: the neurologist, the cardiologist, the gastroenterologist. At four years old, when my mother said the names of those doctors, matter-of-factly, telling me I'd be missing school again that day for an appointment and testing, I remember being a little scared because they sounded big and scientific and important. The tests would never find anything, anyway. All these years later, I still don't know what's wrong.

One night, I ate dinner over Genny and Jerry's house, my grandma's neighbors who I'd often visit while staying at her home. I was playing with their kids, Vicky and Eric, then around 4 and 2 years old respectively, which means I was no more than 10. We had brussels sprouts, which I remember pretending to enjoy to be polite. At the dinner table I began to feel faint, so I went into the living room to lay on the couch.

Lights flashed, completely surrounding me, colors moved over everything as far as I could see. I'm all alone. Where am I? I try to yell, but my mouth won't move - do I have a mouth? Have I ever spoken? What are those sounds? Everything is slow and stretched apart, it sounds like a record being played at half speed, backwards. After what feels like hours, I start to hear what might be voices in the distance. As they get closer, the lights start to stretch apart, like a prism of melting plastic. Jen...Jen...Jen...

Five minutes later, I woke on the floor of Genny's living room. My mother was crouching over me, saying my name over and over again. Genny is standing over her, looking intense and worried. My grandmother...my nanny was there, standing further away or maybe getting water. Why is everyone fussing over me? What’s going on? Leave me alone. I don't remember the rest of that day.

I've probably been to every specialist in the book. I know that the issue isn't psychosomatic. Who makes up an issue that feels like an acid trip gone horribly wrong? Nobody. That's horseshit. Probably ten neurologists have told me I'm not epileptic, as many cardiologists have told me my heart's in good shape. No matter what test they put me through, there are never any answers. Nothing is ever wrong. So everything's perfect. That's why I'm randomly unconscious. That makes sense.

Of course, I can’t honestly say that being sick has always been a burden. Sometimes, when I was a kid and I didn’t feel like going to school, I’d tell my mom I had a stomach ache and she’d automatically keep me home, for fear that I might have a seizure. I spent many leisurely days of the 5th grade at home with my grandmother, watching awful daytime tv and eating junk food because I didn’t want to do group work. It got to a point where I became very aware of what I would feel before I passed out, how my body would react, how I would subsequently react to the way my body was acting. And if I felt more like napping than taking a science test, it got to the point where I could emulate those behaviors and my mom would be turning the car around and dropping me off at Grandma’s instead of school. Since there were no physical/tangible indicators of my illness, she had no way of knowing if I was telling the truth. Having a permanent excuse to get out of doing things I didn’t want to didn’t make me feel much better about the situation, but at least the cloud had a silver lining, right?

Being sick has effected every major life decision I've ever made, and often many of the minor ones. I can't live alone for fear that I might fall on the floor and choke on my own vomit like a rock star, but without the booze. I can't go to college out of state, because then my family would be too far away. I can't do the drugs that I used to do because now the increase or decrease in my heart rate will set me off - something that wasn't always an issue. That's probably a good thing, but I assure you that the realization of this fact did not come to me easily.

Jazz and I snorted a couple of Oxys in the high school bathroom during study hall before heading over to smoke a blunt with Sue. It was just like every day that week, and probably like every day for the past who knows how many months, but who keeps track? So we get to Sue's and we're hanging out, listening to music and shooting the shit before her mom gets home. We spark the blunt and pass it around a few times. I take a hit and cough, and I keep coughing hard. I start to get really light-headed.

I'm surrounded by a pulse, an all-encompassing nothingness and darkness. I'm alone but it's only scary because I don't know who I am. I'm embarrassed, but I don't know why I'm embarrassed because I'm all alone and I don't remember having ever done anything. The heartbeat of space explodes in sunbursts surrounding each eyeball, tiny rays of light I'm emitting from my own suns in my personal darkness. I hear something in the background, but the noises are so muffled and slow, I feel I might be inside my own heart. Woosh...woosh...woosh...

I wake and see Jazz's face right in front of mine. So startled to return to life, I jump and smack her in the face with my own face. She laughs, rubbing her forehead, and strokes my hair. "Jenny," she says with concern, "are you okay sweetie?" I groan and ask for water. Sue is freaking out. Jazz looks like a worried mother. I just want to go home, but I don't remember how I got there.

It took years of these types of situations for me to realize that not only did I have a drug problem, but that the drug problem was only exacerbating my whatever-it-is. I guess I should explain that, the whatever. Ever since I was a kid, it's been pretty much the same. I get a stomach ache, for whatever reason, and the nausea overcomes me. I start to feel dizzy and weak. Every movement makes it worse, and I can tell when it's coming. The flashes start coming into my eyes, and I feel like I'm going to throw up. And then, it happens. But, what is it?

I remember when I finally realized what I was doing to myself. I mean, I knew for years that I had to watch my diet. I couldn't eat spicy food on an empty stomach, couldn't eat this or that because I know that getting a stomach ache can lead to bigger issues. For years, I'd drink to excess, eat pills to excess, do whatever I wanted to excess because why not? For a long time, I was fine. I'd deal with sporadic illness, but the increase wasn't marked enough for me to consider it anything other than the norm. I think that I was about 24 when it really started getting to me. I'd drink all night with friends, do whatever drugs where on the table, get fucked up 'til the sun came up. That's just how it was. But so many mornings, I started to have problems because of the hangovers. I'd have slept over a friend's house the night before and wake up in the morning only to pass out on their floor. They'd freak out and worry, and then I'd have to explain the whole thing, tell them not to worry, tell them not to call an ambulance and could they just drive me home? I'd be fine tomorrow.

Every part of my body feels like it's sleeping. That uncomfortable, "pins and needles" kind of feeling, especially in my hands, feet, and legs. I can open my eyes just a crack, but everything is so blurry and it's all spinning. "Ugh, it happened again," I think to myself, "and where the fuck am I, again?" I try to get comfortable, no matter how I turn I feel worse. It smells like stale beer, cigarettes, and dirt. My mouth tastes about the same. As I begin to be able to open my eyes a little more, the sun shining through the basement window feels like I'm being maced. I pick up my phone and call Brian, this is his basement, I know he can save me. He answers, barely, and I mumble something about needing help and he needs to come down to the couch.

Brian runs down the stairs. He's not wearing a shirt and his hair sticks out at every angle.  He mumbles something about feeling like shit, but notices that I'm on the floor and rushes over to me. He's asking me what's wrong. I'm too weak to really talk. He keeps asking what he can do, and all I can muster is, "water...water..."

He drove me home and didn’t ask a lot of questions. I didn’t want anyone to worry about me, but then when they didn’t, it felt like they should.

The thing is that I wasn’t fine the next day, or sometimes the next after that. A seizure generally lasts less than a minute for me, but afterwards I could be sick for several days – generally feeling weak and achy, having stomach pain, and sometimes bruising or cuts from falling. Many times I’ve had trouble talking the day after because I grind my teeth and wind up grinding my tongue so hard that it swells up. But, I still don’t want anyone to worry. I’ve been dealing with the same illness since I was 4 – I know what to do, and I’m not gonna die, so just let me deal with it. The stress of someone else freaking out doesn’t help me feel better – in fact, it can sometimes exacerbate the issue because it makes my stress level rise, too.

I no longer think that I’m going to be cured. I’ve given up hope. I’ve been at my wit’s end, I’ve been suicidal, I’ve been sad and upset because I just want to be normal. I realize now that all of those worries were unnecessary, because in the end my disease is my cure. If it wasn’t for my seizures getting worse, I’d likely have continued to drink and drug myself to death. I had to stop doing those things that I considered fun because they were making me pass out almost every time, by the end, when in the beginning it happened so infrequently. My body gave up; my system didn’t want to deal with my shit anymore. Being fucked up saved me from being fucked up; passing out all the time made me realize that I was actually more normal when I was laid up on the couch than when I was doing lines of coke in some dirty bathroom at a club. So, I’m clean and truth be told it’s not very fun, but I feel a hell of a lot better. I’ll probably never know what’s wrong, but I guess I don’t need to because I learned to deal with it on my own terms. My sickness doesn’t define me, and it helped me learn that I shouldn’t let my vices define me, either. We are all dying; and we all need to learn to make the best of whatever we have. Don't worry about me.