English 101

Dear Readers,

I came into English 101 excited, and ready to expand my writing skills. I am an older student, who after high school, I like to say life got in the way. I wasn’t able to attend college until ten years after my high school graduation. During those ten years, I spent my free time writing. I would write about anything I could think of, situations I observed at work, or thoughts and ramblings about life in general. I had one close friend who I shared these with and she always told me I had a real knack for expressing my voice.

When I could sign up for college and classes, I instantly wanted English 101 my first semester. Finally, not just a place to write ramblings of  my thoughts, but a place I can use direction, criticism and structure. I wanted to be able to connect my mind to my pen and see what my real talents were. Writing the following essays, I believe I gained more confidence as each one went on. I knew I was an alright writer but I was never challenged to do better than just alright. I know I am not the best at sentence structure, and punctuation, and I tend to write more like I am speaking which can be a turn off for some, but I found that I can produce some immaculate details and really bring the reader into my world.

The first essay you will read is my text wrestling essay. I used an additional two sources other than the text I was assigned. I figured I would get this one done first, and out of the way, since the other two are more personal to me. I chose this essay because I feel as though it represents how well organized I can write essays. I was taught the typical 5×5 writing style in school and I believe there is a time and a place for that writing style. A research paper is one of them. I start off with the introduction paragraph that introduces the issue and presents the backup topics. Then, each body paragraph goes into more depth about the backup topics, and finally the conclusion that wraps it all up.

The second essay I chose was my memoir essay. This one was dear to me, as any memoir would be to anyone. I wrote about a trip to my favorite bookstore as a kid. I chose to write in magical realism because as a child that is how I saw the world. I read books about dragons, fairies and magic and I was always looking for it wherever I went. I was trying to capture wonder and curiosity as a seven year old who might see these magical books as a gateway to those far off lands. Even if you don’t like that type of writing, I feel as though I was very good at capturing it.

The last essay was my personal favorite. I wrote about my brother during his fist book signing as an author. I loved all the details I put into it and the individual personal stories, like the little girl Nora, his elementary school teachers, and my grandfather. I feel like I really captured the essence of that night and I am very proud to have been able to do it justice. It was really such a coincidence that his book signing just happened to be before the ethnography essay was due, so I jumped on the oppertunity. The whole night I was watching and observing trying to take as many notes as I could so I could go back and recall them for my essay. It was the easiest one to write, the words just flew out of my fingertips, and I didnt have to do much revising other than those pesky punctuation mistakes.

I hope you enjoy reading my essays, as I had such the pleasure to write them. So much so that I decided to change my major from Psychology to humanities so I can transfer to be an English major. I have always been considered a book worm, books and reading  are my passion. English 101 and these essays confirmed to me that writing goes hand in hand with them and I want to keep growing and expanding my abilities.

You get into your car, and the first thing you do after starting it is find the perfect cruising playlist. You go to the gym, and before you even press start on the treadmill, you press play on an intense workout playlist. Before you leave your desk, you put in your ear buds and search for the right mood of music to listen to on the dreaded walk across campus. Streaming apps like Apple music, Pandora, and especially Spotify are used daily without a second thought, but here’s the thing, what if we did think? What if we started to put a second thought into these apps and what they really consist of, other than the easy, readily accessible playlists.

In “The Problem with Muzak” Liz Pelly unveils the unfair treatment of artists, and the commercialization of the popular music-streaming app Spotify. She discusses the algorithm they use for their playlists and how it is largely based on the brand Muzak, which was created for retail stores. She also goes into depth about how Spotify favors major record labels and big brands over independent ones and how that is affecting the music industry.

Spotify’s main advantage over all the other music-streaming apps is their playlists of which they have a large variety. They have an algorithm that links songs and artists into playlists by their moods. As a result it comes up with all the same, generic music, acceptable for all age types. Which is why Pelly closely relates it to Muzak. “The similarity between the objectives of companies like Muzak and Mood Media, and the proliferation of mood-based playlists on Spotify, is more than just a linguistic coincidence; Spotify playlists work to attract brand and advertisers of all types of platform” (Pelly). Big brands can create playlists and include artists in them without the artist’s acknowledgement, or additional royalties, whether the artists want to be or not. Spotify’s playlists are conforming to these big brands and major labels to create more advertisement. The playlists are “tightly controlled by staff and dictated by the interests of major labels, brands, and other cash-rich businesses” (Pelly).

As for the artists, they are the ones who are stuck between a rock and a hard place. Without Spotify, and the association with their playlists and major brands, artists would struggle with being discovered and their careers would take major blows. With Spotify, they make a hundredth of a penny for each song, “about $0.006 to $0.0084” (Sehgal) and get no additional compensation or notice when their music is being used on playlists created by brands like Nike. Artists are paid a percentage of the total pool of royalties relative to how their stream count stacks up in the entire pool of streams, meaning the tiniest of payouts for most independent artists. In other words, the more streams an artist gets, the more money they get. If an artist isn’t associated with a big brand and is just overlooked by consumers, they get little to nothing of a payout.

Spotify often favors major record label companies over independent ones just by the way each are treated in the deliberation processes. Major record labels have liaisons that interact with liaisons from the label face to face and have constant communication, independent ones, however, have no interaction with anyone. Their song gets thrown into the algorithm and if it does well on one playlist, the algorithm will put it on another, and another, depending how successful it is. Independent labels get swept under the rug like they don’t even matter.

In my own life, I do not use Spotify. I don’t see the purpose of paying $9.99 a month for someone to tell me what to listen to. I agreed with every aspect of this article and believe in much of the same things Pelly was trying to unmask about the music industry. I remember when I was in high school, my friends and I used to scour music stores like FYE and Newbury Comics until we found a new artist that we liked and we would buy the CD and listen to it on repeat until we found the next. Where has that gone? Now those stores are all going out of business and in their place are these apps that take all of the nostalgia out of looking for good quality music.

I feel as though literature has many of the same problems as the music industry. Authors are struggling to keep up in a fast-paced Internet based society. Why buy a book anymore when you can find it for free online, or download it to your electronic device for half the price? I’m sure author’s deal with many of the same issues as musicians do with not being paid fairly and worrying about exposure and recognition. If a book is available for half the price to download onto a Kindle, is the author still getting the same royalty as if it was a hardcover being sold in a bookstore? According to an article I read, “Half of Net Proceeds is the Fair Royalty Rate for E-Books”, authors do lose royalties on e-books and downloads; they loose a whopping 48% of it to be exact.

It begs the question, is it really worth it? We are all so caught up in having things now, right this second, downloading music and books because we have lost the nostalgia of looking for CD’s and feeling the paper between our fingers, that we are jeopardizing our cultures once most lucrative industries. So the next time you press download on a song, or a book, put more than a thought behind it; entire industries are changing because of you, is it worth it?

Works Cited

“Half of Net Proceeds Is the Fair Royalty Rate for E-Books.” The Authors Guild, 18       June 2018, http://www.authorsguild.org/industry-advocacy/half-of-net-proceeds-       is-the-fair-royalty-rate-for-e-books/.

Pelly, Liz. “The Problem with Muzak | Liz Pelly.” The Baffler, 7 Dec. 2017,         thebaffler.com/salvos/the-problem-with-muzak-pelly?src=longreads.

Sehgal, Kabir. “Spotify and Apple Music Should Become Record Labels so Musicians             Can Make a Fair Living.” CNBC, CNBC, 26 Jan. 2018,             http://www.cnbc.com/2018/01/26/how-spotify-apple-music-can-pay-musicians-   more-commentary.html.

As I sit here at my desk, my little corner of the world, I just take a minute to look around. The rain outside is pounding against the windowpane like little memories begging to be let in. The walls are lined with bookcases filled with photographs of a much simpler time and books that hold as much meaning. It is the time-line of my life, starting from picture books that grew as I did. I take a deep breath and think about how inside all these spines are bits and pieces of my soul. They were my teachers when I sought to learn and more importantly my friends when I was lonely. Since I could remember, books have guided me through life, each with their own light that shone through the fog. Leaning back in my chair I look over at my copy of Charlotte’s Web and suddenly I’m submerged in a mist and I am 7 years old again.

Shy and quiet, with thick frizzy hair and baggy clothes from being underweight, I close the car door and walk up to the only place in the world I feel like I belong. The big white building with dark cedar peaks is as familiar as home and brings as much comfort. The words, BAKER BOOKS, are painted like typewriter text on the big bay window, accompanied by another single word, READ. The second the door opens, the smell of coffee grinds fills my nostrils. I look over to the cafe section and middle-aged women are gathered intimately around little bistro tables. All with their books in their hands and coffee on their lips, speaking quietly about their fictional characters and other realities away from housework. Glancing at my brother, just a few years older than I, I realize we share the same excitement. We split up, navigating the tall shelves filled with different colors, and sizes of books. Neither of us needs to even glance at the genre signs to know where we’re going. All I see is a blur as he disappears behind the Fantasy section. I, on the other hand, head straight for the children’s room.

As I approach the giant archway, painted red bricks curve around the magical entryway. I step through and it’s as if I am in a whole different world. A plastic castle toy house in the corner turns into a massive fortress of concrete and stone with a giant wooden drawbridge. The stuffed dragon perched in the corner of a bookshelf leaps to life, flying above my head, spewing a friendly fire to say hello. Laughing in return, I then turn my attention to the shelves themselves. With each spine glowing and radiating with magic, I look in wonder and ask myself which one should I choose?

I glance through all the different colors and sizes, and a green binding with shiny gold lettering catches my eye. ”Charlotte’s Web” it read. “Hmm” I thought to myself as I ran my fingers over the letters. I pulled the enchanting book out of its slot and let the pages fall open. A tiny black spider with a friendly face appeared before me.

“Salutations!” she exclaimed in a voice so soft I had to think twice about what I had just heard. “I said, salutations!” she tried again, this time loud enough for me to process it.

“Oh! Hello! I’m sorry, did I disturb you?” I asked hastily. Disheveled, not wanting to disrupt the spider’s home, I started to close the book.

“No, no, no! Wait! My name is Charlotte and I live not only in these pages but in the text and illustrations too. This, my dear, is my story.” She bowed her little head and waved two of her eight arms out in a sense of pride. “If you read this book I can show you my home, and you can meet my friend Wilbur! Oh, you would just love Wilbur! Just flip to the beginning and let me begin.”

Intrigued, and also delighted with the new friend I just made, I flipped back to the beginning. Big, thick, black text covered the first page, along with bright, detailed watercolor illustrations. There she was, Charlotte, painted across the page. She was just as dainty and delicate as the web she sat on.

I knew this was the book I would be bringing home today and right on cue, my brother rounded the corner to come and get me. “Time’s up! Mom’s waiting.” His arms full of his own treasures he found.

A ping from my laptop brings me back from the past. I blink, disoriented, and look around. Back in my room with my life all around me, I glance at the hand that grabbed me back to reality. The screen shows a link to a newspaper article sent to me from my brother. As the page loads an image appears of a building I would know anywhere with a bold headline, “OLD BOOKSTORE TO BECOME NEW PARKING FOR FAVORITE RESTAURANT.” My heart sinks to the pit of my chest and just like that my childhood is gone. Slamming the device shut I walk to my bookshelves and place a hand on Charlottes Web. Warn and faded, it is no longer the bright book with eye-catching gold lettering. Much like myself it has succumbed to Father Time.

“At least I will always have you, Charlotte.” I whisper as I let the pages flow through my fingertips. The image of a wise, fragile spider flickered by and it happened so fast that to anyone else, her winking face would have just been a trick of the eye but to me it was an old friend saying hello.

There are a thousand different ways to describe a person’s smile. Beaming, joyful, gleaming, just to name a few. What I saw in my brothers smile the night of his book tour of his first children’s book was more than those words. His smile held heartfelt emotions like gratitude, reflection, and a hint of pride.

The second I walked into the local bookstore I could feel the excitement in the air. My brother, Gregg, was behind a little square table setting up stacks of his book, Maggie Dewdrop and the Feather of Flight. You could see Maggie’s dainty mouse face peering out at the crowd with as much enthusiasm as her creator.

The Feather of Flight is the first of many in my brother’s series. All of the adventures will revolve around a petite, magical mouse named Maggie. He has been working on this dream for more than seven years, and to finally see it come true was inspiring. Maggie started as a sketch that grew bigger than anyone ever imagined. Gregg pushed through rejection and criticism over and over to finally find the right publishing company that adored his story and illustration talents.

This was his last stop of his book tour, and the most meaningful, this was his hometown store. The whole place was buzzing with an electrifying atmosphere. Whispers of, “I’m so proud of him” and “I can’t wait for him to sign my copy” were heard between the rows of books. Children hung on to their parents arms, dancing in place with impatience as the crowd grew bigger, which meant a longer wait for them. Family, friends, teachers, coworkers, it seemed as though everyone who ever had a conversation with my brother was packed into this one bookstore for the same reason.

When it was finally time to get started the store manager introduced him quickly so not to waste anymore time, and politely directed the mob into a neat, single file line that weaved through the shelves and eventually ended right out the door. Looking at my brother, he gave a deep breath to try and hide the nervousness that crept up on him while looking down the long line. He then straightened out his jacket and turned to his first admirer, a little girl who had been talking about nothing but meeting him for the past week. She squealed with excitement and jumped up and down and shoved her Maggie book right into his hands. It was that moment I saw any doubt, worry, or nervousness leave his body. This was the very reason he created Maggie.

It turns out that little girl’s name is Nora. She is in fact 4, and had been battling a rare form of eye cancer since her infancy. She believes in fairies and loves her pet chickens more than anything in the world. She has a sense of curiosity and wonder that is exactly like Maggie’s. “Mr. Gregg! Mr. Gregg!! I have 4 chickens! we just got 2 more today! Mom made me leave them at home!” She exclaimed when Gregg sat down to autograph her book. The people around laughed at her excitement and bluntness. “Well isn’t that a shame!” Gregg replied playing along with the purity of her heart, “Do your chickens have names, Nora? I can write them in your book with yours if you’d like?” Her eyes grew wide and her smile took up her whole face, “yes, please!” as she named off names no one would ever think to name a chicken. When their encounter came to an end, Nora gave Gregg a big hug and told him she was going home to read to her chickens. I don’t think Gregg could have had a better first autograph.

Minutes ticked by and soon a few hours, the line didn’t seem like it was getting any smaller but no complaints were ever heard. People waited and didn’t moan or get impatient, and Gregg still took the time to get personal with every individual, like they were the only ones who showed up. A group of his elementary school teachers all came together and recalled their own versions of the outgoing, talented kid that sat in their classrooms. One even brought a notebook of his that held doodles and outlandish fairytale stories he had made up in the fifth grade. “Look at you now,” she said to him through tear filled eyes, “I am so proud of the man you are and the things you will accomplish.” Tissues, I thought to myself, next book tour I have to remember tissues.

Gregg and I both knew this hometown store would bring tears of both joy and sorrow. We had a grandmother pass five years ago who got to see some sketches of Maggie before she died. “Maggie” I remember her saying, “Your grandfather was the only one to ever call me that.” Her name was Margret and was usually referred to as Marge. Here,, in the bookstore my grandfather walked over to a section diagonally behind Gregg and sat down on his walker. He sat there the whole night and watched with pride and reflection at his eldest grandson’s success. He’d smile and wipe away tears every now and then. I caught a distant look in his eyes a few times, and I can’t help but wonder if it was Margret he was thinking about in the midst of Maggie.

What was supposed to be a 3-hour event turned into 5 and finally we could start to see the end of the line. Gregg was starting to look exhausted but still gave everyone the same amount of attention as he did to little Nora. I had never seen my brother in this kind of light before. This wasn’t the first time he’s been the center of attention, he’s always had art shows he was focused in all throughout high school, college, and even after. He’d mingle and laugh and say thank you to everyone who showed up, but this night was different. He was in his element here, more than he had ever been before. His art had always come from a meaningful place, but this book came straight from his heart. It is his artwork, but it is his words, his story, and his morals.

I was the last person my brother got to sign. I sat there next to him and felt humbled. He took my book, and instead of telling him how proud I was of him and how much he inspires me, I opened my mouth and “well this is awkward” came out. It felt strange to be sitting next to him, a published author who just spent 5 hours autographing his book for fans from all over the region but who was also my brother, the kid who threw a Little Mermaid puzzle piece at my eye. So I sat there and made snarky remarks, like any little sister would do. “This feels too formal, I don’t like this, just sign it already” is what I said. “Shut up, let’s wrap this up and go get drinks. Mr. Gregg needs one.” He said with that smile that held thankfulness, definitely pride, and a hint of exhaustion.

The total books sold that night was 75, and the total number of people who showed up was well over 300. The amount of lives that Maggie will get to touch, well I hope that is limitless. I can only imagine this is the kind of outcome every first-time author receives: all the love and support from their friends and family to get the word of their book out to the public.