To say that Purpura is a poet really shows in her work, from her beginning with the usage of her anaphora and her startling images—even the way she plays with the lines—the long sentences juxtaposed with a couple short, simple ones—really works well in creating the tone in this piece—very poetic, which I think helps ease the reader into Purpura’s reflection that takes place soon after the setting is described. Lia Purpura has a way of using both logic and questions to guide her reflection, for instance: “The opening was familiar. As if I’d known before, this…what? Language? Like a dialect spoken only in childhood…” She uses these questions under the guise of musing to further push herself into recognizing both meaning and connection. Perhaps some of the strongest, but most minute, strengths in this work are the use of Purpura’s verbs, which are strong, surprising, and precise: soaked, slicked, and dizzying just being a few. In relation to my own work, I struggle most with my verbs—the “to be” verb is my greatest downfall. I suggest that by following Purpura’s example and using stronger verbs, the work will improve drastically—thus, attempt a piece that uses “to be” and all its forms no more than three times.
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Improv:
Because this was something I struggled with in one of my workshop pieces, I decided to rewrite the opening paragraph using better verbs and as few articles as I could. Wish me luck.
Original:
If everyone is human before I pull out the money marker, then they are identical twins after. Each customer is a blip in a sea of distant faces. They all have the same jokes. “Don’t touch it,” they tell me “the ink is still wet,” or “just printed it this morning.” They all chuckle and wait with their hands shoved deep into their pockets, praying for this brief, defenseless moment to pass. I smile and swipe without a word because if money changes people, it makes us all exactly the same. The same jokes. The same impatience. The same moments spent holding our breath. All of us judged saints or thieves by a money marker, and somehow afraid we’re going to fall up short.
Rewrite:
When I pull out the money marker, people twin each other. My customers, once a blip in a sea of faces, joke and chat until they morph, indistinguishable. “Don’t touch it,” they tell me, “the ink is still wet,” and I watch as they chuckle with hands shoved in their pockets, praying for this brief, defenseless moment to pass. We are led to believe that money changes people. Well, if it does, it makes us exactly the same. All of us impatient, holding our breath, waiting to be judged and that’s just how we like it. No one truly lives for the unexpected anymore. We break out, claiming to search for adventure but we all turn back to what we know sometime—the same comforts of technology, the same vacation spots, the same three course meals, all experience. But we all return home. Isn’t the mantra, there’s no place like home, truer now than ever? Don’t we all like to venture out only to return to the expected, the typical—the exact same thing? I’ve learn to appreciate that sameness, because it’s a little easier to deal with each other when I treat you, not like the individual, but generic customer number one, because I know exactly what generic customer wants and exactly what they like me to say: and generic customer number one may I please have your Kroger card thank you and how are you today?
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