Comments on: Buried

By: Jennifer (another one)

Jennifer (another one) — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 17:51:48 +0000

Oh, I’m sorry. I do know the writer. We had talked about doing this before. It’s nothing I wouldn’t appreciate. All a part of being a better writer, listening to other writers…and editors. And I was a good one, once. It’s hard to put yourself out there, I know. But if you want to be better, having many people pat you on the back will not get you there.
As a writer, the very best thing anyone ever did for me was take my work and shred it in front of my face. Because what I’d done was okay, but it wasn’t great. And I can do great. So can Jennifer. If she couldn’t, there wouldn’t be a point, would there?

And as comments are approved on this blog, I simply assumed it would remain private if privacy was so desired.
But good looking out for your friend. I’m no naysayer, nor am I merely a yaysayer. I can always be counted on to say exactly what I think.

By: Dana

Dana — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 00:37:37 +0000

Pampas grass. It’s pampass grass.

By: bschooled

bschooled — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 19:30:06 +0000

Wow.

You never fail to amaze me, BKT.

By: Tweets that mention Buried | Barely Knit Together -- Topsy.com

Tweets that mention Buried | Barely Knit Together -- Topsy.com — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 02:32:15 +0000

[...] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Jennifer L. Monroe, CaveatCalcei and marie antoinette, Muliercula. Muliercula said: RT @Gabfran: "A confusion of blood, like a flock of birds…" @BarelyKnit on Rituals of death, remembered from childhood. http://tinyurl.com/yeckxw2 [...]

By: delicate flower

delicate flower — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 20:54:28 +0000

wow.. beautifully written, and haunting.
My father died when I was 17, my sister was 2 and 1/2. I remember bathing her one day; she was playing with a little toy boat. She was talking to her imaginary friend “Namie” and our father. The woman who helped out had told her daddy had gone away; we lived on the water and had a boat and I guess she thought that was the natural way for him to have ‘gone away’. Too young to comprehend what was going on around her- and unfortunately for all of us, my mother was unable or unwilling to talk about it in any way that could help any of us.

By: Melodie

Melodie — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 05:33:56 +0000

Wow. That was a very powerful piece of prose. Gets me thinking about some of my own murky childhood memories that were too big for my britches back then.

By: Melissa

Melissa — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 14:06:53 +0000

Other J, you might consider a) asking someone if they want your critique or b) sending it privately. I mean that kindy. I just know how I’d feel if someone left a lengthy and unsolicited post such as yours on my blog: slightly embarrassed and defensive. Just a thought for future reference. Peace.

By: Bearman

Bearman — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 23:15:46 +0000

But was Disney fun???

By: Jennifer (another one)

Jennifer (another one) — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 21:50:45 +0000

The editor in my finds myself confused by this piece. For a couple of reasons. And I say this kindly, so please read it that way.
You say you had no context for death at 7, but clearly you did as you buried the other child’s doll OR you did not have a context, as you say, but left the situation having gained one. Either way, I think for your piece to be as truly evocative as you wish…and also to exist as a fully-defined fragment of your self, you need to expand on whatever direction this encounter took you re: death. Did you fail to comprehend the death of a parent and all of that entailed?
To me, that passage raises all kinds of questions that I cannot answer. Not questions that will lead me to a deeper understanding of myself or life after I puzzle them out for myself, but questions like “Wait, what direction is this going?” without really providing an answer.
Also, how did you pass close to this place a year ago? Physically, like you were near the site of this encounter? Or figuratively, like you almost died yourself. As a reader, I am not sure what you mean..and that is not the kind of ambiguity you want in your writing.
So, there you go. Lit Crit. More than you never asked for.

By: Pamela Villars

Pamela Villars — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 18:47:24 +0000

Thank you for this. It’s a poignant picture of the blurriness of childhood and how we try to make of sense of the world ceaselessly.