Fensch Writing Solutions

Beginnings, Middles and Endings
1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-0-9908264-3-9
Verlag: New Century Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 285 Seiten

This book is ideal for beginning and intermediate writers -- it shows 25 techniques for beginning any writing project, with examples for each; four key structures for writing complete articles and 14 types of effective endings. The book has examples on virtually every page and advisories indicating which technique is effective in which article subject (i.e. -- effective beginnings for sports articles - - or self-help, or personal 'I' form articles and many others . )

Autoren/Hrsg.

Fensch, Thomas

Leseproben

| The Narrative (“Action”) Beginning “People Power reacted with courage ...” This beginning could be called the action beginning or the big play beginning because it shows something happening. This beginning is related to the descriptive beginning because the writer still describes a scene to the reader, but in this beginning, there is motion, movement, action. And this beginning can be simple or complex, according to the writer and to the event. Here is the beginning of Bryan Johnson’s (1987) book The Four Days of Courage: The Untold Story of the People Who Brought Marcos Down. Nothing could have more impact than his beginning. Notice, too, how he places himself in the action subtly, with the four words “the Filipinos around me.” This action technique is just as effective for any other subject, for any other writing project, as it is in Johnson’s book. THEY RAN TOWARDS THE DANGER. When the crunch came, when that first column of Marine tanks smashed through a concrete wall and churned across a vacant field, the Filipinos around me hesitated for just a moment. “Jesus Christ!” yelled a kid in a blue T-shirt, heading instinctively for the machines, “they’re trying to get around us!” The anonymous young man vaulted the six-foot wall and disappeared. Within second, two dozen others had followed. By the time all nine tanks had formed up for the attack, they were engulfed in a human sea. People Power reacted with courage to its first sight of firepower, but it was a courage of trembling lips and of eyes brimming with tears. The thousands of nuns, housewives, school kids, ordinary people, and hard-core activists were brave enough to lay their bodies under the treads of tanks—but most were too terrified to look at them. They fixed their gaze on the scrubgrass, or cast imploring glances to the sky, while the stench of exhaust choked them and coated them with filth. Why did the ground shake so violently? Was it the pulsating roar of the tanks, or was it all of us trembling together? People clasped hands instinctively and inched forward. Nuns clung to their rosaries, thrusting them heavenward, squeezing their eyes shut, reciting the Sorrowful Mysteries too fast for anyone to follow. And all the while, halted by the barricade of lying, sitting, kneeling people, the tanks continued to roar at full throttle. It was an eternity, perhaps five minutes, before one tank hatch popped open with a metallic clank and a Marine looked out. Muffled radio messages could be heard from inside. More hatches opened, and other soldiers clambered out onto their machines in camouflage fatigues, encased in criss-crossed ammunition belts with bullets the size of fountain pens. These were combat soldiers, just arrived from the guerrilla war in Mindanao. They had a reputation as the country’s toughest sons-of-bitches and now they played that role to the hilt. The crowd’s chants of “Co-ry! Co-ry! Co-ry!” were met by stone faces or outright sneers. Those who pressed forward to offer cigarettes and flowers were dissuaded by Armalite assault rifles, pointed without waver towards the human barricade. The Ferdinand Marcos forces in that first confrontation seemed uniformed clones of the President himself: deadly, ruthless, and utterly contemptuous of the average Filipino. They had rolled out of Fort Bonafacio like a conquering army on a routine mopping-up exercise—exuding haughty indifference as they squatted beside 50-caliber machine guns and dandled M-16s on their knees. And why not? The military split that Sunday afternoon was 200,000-to-500 in favor of Marcos. His loyal soldiers had nothing to fear from Juan Ponce Enrile and General Fidel Ramos, much less the unarmed rabble who supported them. (pp. 13—14) This is also a perfect sports story beginning, if the writer can isolate one play that was crucial to a football game or baseball game or basketball game, or other sport. In the following story of the Denver Bronco-Patriots game Sunday, Jan. 4, 1987, Knight-Ridder writer Jerry Greene (1987) begins with a “big play” lead—a quarterback “sack” for a safety late in the game: DENVER—Defensive end Rulon Jones placed Denver in the AFC championship game by sacking New England quarterback Tony Eason for a safety that clinched the Broncos’ 22—17 victory Sunday at Mile High Stadium. Bronco fans—a record sellout of 76,105—were higher than their stadium when Jones sacked Eason with 1:37 remaining, ending New England’s hopes of returning to the Super Bowl. Denver (12—5) will travel to Cleveland (13—4) to play the Browns for the AFC title Sunday. It’s a rare treat for the Broncos and their fans as Denver’s last playoff victory was in 1977. They had lost four consecutive playoff games since then. “I’ve been thinking for six years about how it would feel to win a playoff game,” Denver Coach Dan Reeves said. “Now I can’t describe the feeling because it’s more than I ever imagined. The biggest feeling is pride for this team. “And the biggest play was Rulon’s sack. You have to count on your great players in games like this and Rulon came through when we had to have it.” The sack by Jones, who led the Broncos with a club-record 131/2 sacks this season, climaxed an erratic but thrilling game in which the lead changed hands five times and neither team led by more than four until the end. This six-paragraph beginning is appropriate for newspapers, yet the action beginning can be far, far longer, with just as much impact and just as much interest. Armen Keteyian (1982) used a long action beginning in his article, “How Julie Moss Found Ecstasy After Losing to Agony,” which appeared in The San Diego Union: All you could think was “Oh God, she’s going to fall again. She’s 15 feet from the finish line. 15 lousy feet from all the glory she deserves, and she’s going to fall again. Dammit, she’s not going to make it.” For nearly 12 hours, she had given everything the human spirit can ask of the human body. The race, this 140.6-mile torture test called the triathlon, had been hers since five miles into the marathon. She had passed the previous tests—the 2.4 mile swim in the Pacific, the 112-mile bike ride. Now, with 15 feet to go in the 26.2-mile run, her world was falling apart. The finish line was almost close enough to touch, but she looked as if she couldn’t possibly get there. Her legs, so rubbery they looked like jelly, shook and then surrendered. She had fallen the first time 440 yards from the finish and sat there, dazed and staring at the street, unable to rise for nearly three minutes. Finally, she struggled to her feet and forged on. With less than 100 yards left and her nearest competitor closing fast, she collapsed again. And got up. With less than 50 feet left, her legs gave way once more. Some race officials tried to help her to her feet so she could finish. Somehow she picked herself up again. Now, for the fourth time, she was down—a frail, crumpled heap on the ground, 15 pathetic feet from a dream. The streets of Kona, on the Big Island of Hawaii, had been packed with partiers—”It looked like the Rose Parade,” she would say later—but they had fallen silent. No celebration now. The surrealistic side of sport had taken over. The revelers could do nothing more than bear witness. A courageous Raggedy Ann look-alike seemed to be struggling for her life at dusk. This happened February 6. Thirteen days later, in living rooms across America, millions of people watching ABC’s “Wide World of Sports” saw the tapes of this utterly compelling spectacle and sat stunned, collectively thinking the only possible thought: “If anything is fair in this world, let Julie Moss get up right now. Let her walk, stagger or crawl those last 15 feet. Let her finish. Let her be the women’s winner in the World Ironman Championships. Please.” In the background, a haunting, beautiful instrumental tune played on. Commentators Diana Nyad and Jim Lampley said nothing. Minutes earlier, after the second fall, Nyad had delicately explained a substance on Moss’ shorts, saying, “In situations of extreme stress, you sometimes lose control over bodily functions.” There was nothing left to say now. It was only Moss and that mysterious music. All the crowd could do was hope. “I couldn’t see their faces,” Moss said recently, drawing lines in the sand at Cardiff Beach near her home in Carlsbad as she thought back to the scenes that gripped a national television audience. “All I could feel was arms actually trying to lift me and carry me along. The energy was unbelievable. “Then I looked up and saw Kathleen cross the finish line.” The race was over. Kathleen McCartney of Costa Mesa had won. Moss could have quit. Instead, she started to crawl. Slowly, agonizingly—red head down, one thin arm in front of the other—she crawled. No one can describe the sight of such an athlete as this, beyond the limits of exhaustion, crawling to a finish line. Nobody tried. Only the music played on. One minute later, the odyssey ended. Julie Moss wobbled and fell once more. When she did, her left hand felt the finish line. No matter...