The Gatekeeper

Hands clasped in front, nodding and smiling genteelly to the incoming guests, Andrew Cumby bowed his head after the last guest entered the sanctuary, and closed the big doors behind him.

With a quiet reserve in the vestibule with three other men, he bowed his head, stifled what little he can of a tear, and began to massage his palms.

The service was about to begin for the 4 months old baby.

Sitting there with an open heart and a sad smile, Cumby remembered how quick the whole process was for this one.

Three months ago, after the baby was born with a heart defect, doctors made a mistake during the surgery and shortly thereafter, the heart gave out.

Then, on a clear sunny day, Cumby received a call to say his 4 months old grandson had died.

The appointment was set for the next day; the couple said the sooner they got it over with, the better.

“We just sat down at a table, we made the arrangements, and it was all done within the same week,” Cumby said.

The next day the viewing of the baby was set in a small parlor room, where the tiny figure laid next to a wooden sideboard with added candles and a polished wooden cross.

“That was the hardest for me, the viewing of the baby,” Cumby said.

Even as an expert in the art of compassion, Cumby remembered to stay a respectable distance from the family.

“You feel like you are a part of them and you really feel their grief, but you still have to maintain a distance,” Cumby said.

The following day in the sanctuary, flashes of parents and three other children with the open-mouthed, smiling baby flooded the projector screen.

Tears fell like rain drops, and palms gathered sweat particles before Cumby rose from his chair.

“They thought the baby was fine, and they knew it was born with a heart defect, but the death completely threw them,” Cumby said.

After the hour passed, Cumby sauntered back to his designated spot before taking the family in the black limousine to the Guilford Memorial Park Cemetery in Greensboro, where the baby was to be buried.

The final day approached, and Cumby took a deep breath again before he rang the doorbell.

The wife answered, accepted his flowers, and signed off one final time in the black registration book he carried.

Cumby closed the book, gave her one final smile before shaking her hand and saying goodbye.

“I felt relief on my end, but also sadness that the child was gone both physically and spiritually,” Cumby said.

Once the torch was passed to him to carry on the family business, Cumby has been working as full-time director for ten years now.

“I love it, I absolutely love it, even if I have two or three more deaths going on at the same time,” Cumby said.

“I learned it over time, and what I love about it is getting to know and talk to people,” he said.

The business is, however, unpredictable in regards to scheduling events with the family.

“They call you when they need you. Sometimes you get up early to meet them, or in the middle of the night; it’s very unpredictable,” Cumby said.

“Are you going to be home tonight?” is a constant question for his wife to ask.

He could be home for several days, and others he could be at the office until 4 a.m. and then have to come back in at 7 a.m.

“I can have four families to see in one day, and often, it’s split up between the different events going on during that week,” Cumby said.

He could have one viewing in the evening, followed by a service tomorrow of that same family, then also have another viewing from another family planned that same night.

“One of the hardest things,” he said, “is the death of children.”

Like the death of the 4 months old baby, “should I tell my wife this?” Cumby asked himself.

Against his good judgment, he told his wife even though she’s about to have their first child.

Uplifting Routine

11:00 a.m., the sun poured in through the window of my dorm. Taking a moment to gradually come out of a dreamlike state, I looked to the sunny side of the room, and smiled.

Feeling refreshed and ready to start my day, I sprung out of my green, pink, and yellow sheets and hooked in "Love Story" to my iPod hookup.

After brushing my teeth, putting on some makeup, and picking out a red necklace to match my red top, along with gold earrings, I slid my favorite black boots over my black leggings, and put on a small black cardigan to complete the outfit.

My favorite class of the day was coming up, and since I skipped lunch to sleep in, I put some Ritz Bitz in my bag before walking over to the communication building.

I remembered what I had to do for this day, which included practicing Micheal Jackson's Thriller with some friends that afternoon, going to my last radio critique session, and reading my book.

Once I walked out my door, I held my head high, and put a smile on my face. Oops, one last thing I forgot: my sunglasses!

Questions on Readings for Tuesday, Nov. 3rd

1. In the handout on feature types, you have these experienced writers explain profiles, travel features, historical features as well as first person essays. Discuss three points you got from the reading about three different features. (Example: on profiles, I learned this... with travel I got this..., etc.).


2. After reading the first person essay: The Stalking of Kristin, tell me how you immediately felt after completing this extra-long feature. What made you feel that way?

blog for this week: oct 29th

I stood talking to my friend in the dark massive lobby of Norton Hall. Everything was going fine. Until I saw her. The person that I had once labeled as my friend, walked down the stairs into the once-calm- lobby.


My heart beat wildly in my chest. I knew that she would keep on walking past. She didn’t. She stopped and talked to my friend right next to me. No eye contact with me.


As I stood there, I pretended to look around. I had to do anything to keep my mind from feeling annihilated.


The internal me wanted to grab her arms erratically, shake her like she had shaken my life. I wanted to scream, “Why aren’t you talking to me? What did I do?”
Instead I looked around the lobby, noticed the large renaissance painting on the left wall that I had never noticed before.


I felt a massive ball of anger emerge from my stomach. I could feel it mounting. I could no longer hold back my feelings. They were going to come loose.
My face grew hot and I knew I was red. My jaw muscles tightened up, twitching to the outside observer.


“Well, I gotta go,” I hurriedly said over my shoulder as I climbed the stairs. They didn’t notice me. That seemed to bother me more, as I slammed my feet up the stairs. People coming down gave me a weary look as they scrambled out of my way.
My eyes squinted unwilling to comprehend what just happened.


As I slammed through the large pearl-like doors, I felt free. I could breathe, the angry tension in my stomach subsided.


With it, came a tide of sadness that wouldn’t leave.

ANGER

All the colors of the rainbow suffocate the room around me. I find myself strangeling my napkin as I stare at the 52 inch flatscreen in front of me. The cheers in the background as loud as they might be are blocked out. I quickly grasp my beer and guzzle it as if dying of thirst. I scan the room for my waiter and immeadiently order a tequila sunrise. I feel alone in my New York Yankee t shirt. Game 1 is over. We have lost, I see the despair in the eyes of the players. I share their pain. As I flush my emotions into the pictchers of beer ahead of me, I know tomorrow is another day.

Stress

As I sat in class, my mind wandered to the list of things I had to get done before the weekend. I pulled out my agenda for emotional support; looking to see if I could cross anything out. I found myself only writing more.
When am I going to have time to shoot and develop four more rolls of film? I need to shoot a roll of an animal, who has an animal on campus? I’m never going to get this done, I thought to myself as I continued to write my work down in my agenda.
Anxiety ran through my veins. All I wanted to do was get out of class so I could start getting things done. Thousands of things ran through my mind as I tried to bring my focus on the class I was in.

I shot up like a bullet at the screech of my alarm. I parted the curtain of blonde from across my eyes and kicked the snarl of blankets off that entangled my feet. I grudgingly rose from the bed and padded my way over to my computer.
The flashing light winked at me, letting me know I had emails waiting to be read. I slumped into the midnight colored desk chair and began to prepare for my long day.

Death Story

The Aftermath…

Kara sat with her face in her arm. Tears fell onto the wooden table where she rested her head as a circle of water gathered on the dark blue shirt that she wore. This was Kara’s first grief meeting after the loss of her mother.
“I just want to know what happened, I just want to know she’s safe…but why did she do this? Was it on purpose? I’m just so confused right now I don’t know what to do or where to go…” Kara said during group sharing.
Her voice quivered and she looked as though she hadn’t slept in weeks. Her eyes were surrounded with the faded color of charcoal from exhaustion and the tears ran freely as though she hadn’t cried in months.
The grief counselor stepped in, knowing Kara was on the edge of a breakdown and tried his best to comfort the 17 year-old girl, “Things will get better. I know that seems impossible to you now, Kara, but look at everyone here. Everyone here has lost someone they love and they’re all doing okay. You don’t have to forget, darling, you never have to let go of her memory.”

In the Beginning…

Kara grew up with one sibling, a brother named Spencer. The two of them were very close growing up, but as Spencer hit his teen years he strayed in a path that Kara didn’t agree with and the two hadn’t talked since Spencer moved out of the house two years ago.
After her brother moved out, Kara’s mom, Holly started drinking heavily. Holly hid her alcoholism from everyone; staying in so she didn’t have to see friends, sneaking drinks before family dinners, and even telling her parent’s that she’d never had a sip of alcohol.
After countless nights of Holly’s husband coming home to his wife drunk, he decided to leave her. Things moved quickly as the house sold and Kara’s dad bought his own apartment which Kara move in to and left Holly with nothing.
“I hate knowing that I left my mom to live without the family she’d been with, but she wasn’t being the mother that I needed at the time.” recalls Kara.
Holly decided to move in with her parents, facing the reality that she had no one.

The Phone Call

When the phone rang in my dad’s new apartment, I knew it couldn’t be good. My parents weren’t talking at the time and no one had the house number but my mom. I answered the phone and it was my grandma. She sounded shaken up but I thought nothing of it as I handed the white-corded phone over to my dad.
“That morning was the worst morning of my life. The conversation is blurry, but I can’t get the picture of my dads face out of my mind. I’ve tried. The picture just won’t go away.”
The Story
Her Grandma found Kara’s mom the morning of September 29th lying in her bed. Holly’s parents opted to not have an autopsy, causing all of Holly’s loved ones to never truly know what happened to her.
“I think my Grandparents were in denial about her drinking and wanted to have someone to put the blame on, which ended up being my dad,” said Kara “I think it was her alcoholism but I’ll just never know. It’s just a mystery that I’m going to have to hold in my heart for the rest of my life”

Ron Suskind's Article

I cried when I finished this article. I can't even make words to describe how wonderful I thought this article was. He demonstrated such depth and emotional capacity in this piece, and I fully understood what life was like for Cedric Gilliam. He had it rougher than any other kid in his area, and he made it on top of the world, and I was counting on him. The violence and the shooting was eloquently put in, and wasn't too graphic, which worked for this piece. The church ceremony and the anecdote from the father were a perfect tie to the theme of this piece. I don't know what else to say about this article other than it was deeply moving, and I will use it as one of my inspirational readings if I ever want to try for a pulitzer-prize. And kudos to journalist - that had to have been really tough to write.

Political Candidates

I just read this section in the News and Record about the Greensboro council candidates, and I think it was very effective in purposes to sway voters to vote for whichever candidate they choose. They had answers posted from the different candidates from questions like what are the main pr0blems with the Urban Loop, whether to support annexation, and what should be done for the White Street landfill. My vote would be Robbie Perkins because I liked the answers he gave in the questions. He found solutions, not more problems, and I think the news and press in this situation for campaigning is definitely on his side. I also found the difference between finding a candidate who promises to work with the people, versus one who is just going to sit at a desk and ask themselves why are we having these problems? I found it very informative, and glad I read it before going to cast my vote. So, just a word of advice: know your candidate before you vote for them.

Performance Feature

By: Lizzie Cothran

Loud music blares out of the modern juke-box, barely covering the clanking of bottles in the smoky room. The Red Bull clock strikes 11:15 and Claire Kallimanis’ night is just getting started.

She wipes her forehead every time the second hand of the clock makes a full round. Her black t-shirt is just short enough to show an inch of midriff above her skin-tight, dark wash jeans.

She pulls back her long, black hair into a messy ponytail, just before tending to the businessmen that just grabbed three stools at the end of the bar. They ask for menus, which she passes right through their wall of smoke they’ve managed to make in the two minutes they’ve been there.

Claire spins like a dradle, between bottles filled with dark, light, and clear liquor, and the wobbling, stuttering good-tippers. She grabs bottle after cold bottle of Budweiser, Michelob Ultra, Smirnoff Black Ice, and Coors Light, handing it to the obnoxious group of local college students, none of whom manage to spit out a simple “Thank you.”

A woman in her mid-thirties with blonde hair, a tight, black dress, and drooping eyes stumbles up to the bar, grabs Claire’s arm and pulls her, handing her a handful of cash and a face full of bad breath. Claire turns and uses her lengthy arms to reach to the top shelf. A belligerent man manages to let out a whistle as he watches her stretch. Claire rolls her eyes as she pours clear poison into a shot glass and hands it to the woman.

The large man, dressed head-to-toe in black, motions for Claire. She pulls down her shirt as much as possible before asking the man what he’d like to drink. He orders a Flaming Dr. Pepper, and Claire twists around to grab the components that make up the liquid confidence.

Claire’s fills a glass with beer, and places it on the bar in front of the man. Then, she uses her skills to carefully layer Bacardi 151 on top of Amaretto. The man tries to use his best pick-up lines, but Claire doesn’t bother to reply. She lights the shot, sending up a blue flame, lighting up the dimly lit corner of the bar.

The man picks up the torch, tilts his glass, and spills the contents of the shot. This catches his hand on fire, but he manages to quickly shake it out. Claire can’t help but let a slight smile graze her lips as she puts the money into the cash drawer.

Performance Paper

98…99…100. Laryssa’s back slaps the padded blue mat over and over. Her bright white sneakers are plastered to the gym floor. Her grey tee shirt shows signs of moisture around her neck and lower back. Her wavy black hair is thrown messily in a knot on top of her head.

The tiny workout room, located in the University Center, smells of rubber and cleaning products. The lights are not hooked up just yet. The sun, which is barely peeking through the overcastted sky, and the glow from the televisions on the work out equipment are the only sources of lighting.

As her face meets her kneecaps, she lets out an exhausted puff of air. She mouths the number of reps quietly to herself, with headphones in her ears. During a break for water, she explains that she works out every single day, sometimes even twice a day. She mops her forehead with the back of her hand as she continues. “I just feel so much better about myself after a good work out. I feel like I really did something productive with my day.”

She puts her white Ipod headphones back in her ears and turns up, what sounds to be, rap music. She marches across the squeaky floors and heads to the treadmill for the next installment of her daily routine. She runs 3 miles everyday, follows the run with an hour on the elliptical, and brings it all to a close with a short weight lift session. “It’s the greatest way to stay healthy and life a long happy life,” she says.

weekly post

I was really excited our class had the opportunity to speak with Angelique Perrin on Thursday. I thought it was very beneficial to hear the ins and outs of the business most of us are interested in. I thought she was very personable and when we heard her tape I was amazed! I thought she was great.

I've been brainstorming for my "death story" and I am a little nervous about this just because I get uncomfortable talking about death. I also think this could be a really cool story and very interesting if it is done well. I'm brainstorming to try to find the perfect angle.

Flight Attendant

A young attractive Brunette picks up the telephone hanging on the wall. “Welome to the USAirways non-stop flight from Fort Walton Beach to Charlotte,” she announced.

The nameless flight attendant stands at the front of the aircraft and introduces herself as Amanda and her fellow flight attendant, Judy. The only similarity between the two is the pin in the shape of wings, each of them wear on their blouses.

Amanda wears a white blouse with blue patches on the top of both shoulders accompanied by a slimming black business skirt that reaches just past her knees. Tied loosely around her neck is a stylish red and blue scarf.

Judy could be described as the complete opposite of Amanda—a heavy set, middle aged woman, with blonde hair and glasses. But, appearances aside, there is no doubt Judy has been doing this longer than her fellow co-worker.

Time to prep for departure. Seatbelts fastened. Bags stowed. Seatbacks upright.

Flying high above the clouds, the flight attendants rummage around the cabin and begin serving complimentary beverages including soda, coffee, and water. For those trying to let off a little steam, alcoholic beverages are available for a price.

Once the passengers are served and satisfied, the two women start their rounds to collect trash. Every couple of minutes, they walk by carrying large white plastic bags packed to the max, somehow not splitting at the bottom.

Time to prep for landing. Seatbelts fastened. Electronics off. Shades up.

At the front of the aircraft, the young flight attendant, Amanda, unfolds her temporary chair and takes a seat. She moves her hands around, locates the seatbelt and pulls the straps over her shoulders.

Her figure is hard to make out because the darkness has taken over. Facing the passengers, she crosses her legs and folds her hands delicately across her lap.

Amanda shoots a smile to the couple seated directly in front of her. Her eyes continue to wander around the cabin then become stuck in one spot. No longer wandering aimlessly, her eyes remain still, turning into an uninterrupted stare.

For a split moment, her eyes are no longer visible. She couldn’t resist such heavy eyelids anymore, her fatigue finally got the best of her. In an attempt to wake herself, she squirmed and readjusted herself in the seemingly uncomfortable chair.

City lights crept through the small windows on either sides of the plane, giving more definition to those around. Shadows stain the worn out gray carpeting that stretches infinitely down the aisle to my left.

death story

To be honest I am a little nervous about the upcoming death story. Even the title, Death Story, sounds scary. I am just not sure where to even begin. What have some of you guys been doing?
I think I just might go to a local funeral home and talk to someone there, but I am not even sure if I will be able to do that. Dead people scare me haha. So does anyone have any other ideas to help me out??

Humor Writing

By Cathy Caudill

Having Angelique Perrin in the class last week was great. Even though we're not posting the stories on the blog, I hope we will get to see each others' work--I'm really curious to see different peoples' unique approach to the story.

Although we're not writing until Tuesday, I've decided I'm going to try my hand at humor-writing. The other day I was reading a review in a magazine, and I was struck by the way in which it was written: it wasn't just informative, it was amusing. I've incorporated humor into writing before in personal essays and fiction, but I haven't done it with feature writing yet. After all, aren't we taking this class so that we can convey a story while entertaining our readers?

 Artistic wording is the method I've worked with so far, but with Angelique's story I think it would be great if I can add some humor to the mix. Hopefully my story will be as entertaining to read as it was to listen to Angelique speak.

My Performance Feature: Tic

By Cathy Caudill

Stage 1: Her hands clench the chair. She lowers her head, her chestnut bangs obscuring her tightly-closed eyes. She looks as if she is about to be swept away by a cyclone or sucked into a vortex, desperately grasping her stronghold (that flimsy plastic chair), her eyes shielded from the imaginary swirling debris that whisks and whirls through the study hall.

Stage 2: She begins to shimmy—not like a dancer, rather she looks like she is struggling to forcibly cast a demon out of her body. Her shoulders move back and fourth, rapidly accelerating: left shoulder, right shoulder, left, right, left, right, left-right-left-right-left-right. Her head is still lowered, her body is hunched. Her hands are still clenching, her arms rigidly straight, moving mechanically like a set of pistons.

Stage 3: She begins to emerge from the mire: the shaking ceases and her eyes reluctantly reopen. One hand pries itself from the chair and seizes a blue click-top pen. She bashes the top of the pen against her open notebook in a rapid-fire of clicking: tic-a-tic-a-tic-a-tic-a-tic-a-tic-a-tic-a-tic-a-tic-a-tic-a-tic-a-tic.... Then she stops and stretches, tilting her head far far back, forcing her shoulders out of the hunch by rolling them back, as if to flex the entire length of her spine. At last, she relaxes into a normal posture and returns to her homework.

Each stage lasts a little more than ten seconds; altogether, the spasms do not amount above a minute. She recedes into these tics once every few minutes, but somehow she is able to keep them well enough controlled that the other 30 students busily studying in the room fail to notice the girl with Tourette Syndrome.

Performance Piece from Fuddy Meers

As the green curtain rises, and the stage lights come up, Gertie Mason, played by Eliza Walmsley, is crossing the stage to her kitchen table. In her left hand is a bear-shaped, yellow-lidded bottle of golden honey; in her right, a silver teaspoon. On the brown, wooden table, waiting for her, is a ceramic coffee mug.

Gertie is making tea.

When Gertie reaches the table, she silently sets down the spoon. She flips up the cap of the honey, and squeezes the honey bear right in his middle.

No amber syrup comes out, no splash is heard, no tea leaps up from the cup.

Gertie though, does not seem to mind. A contented sigh slips through her lips, upturned into a slight smile. She sets down the honey, pausing to click the lid closed, and crosses left to the brown, wooden chair.

The chair is a little too close to the table, and needs to be pulled out, which Gertie does. After one tug, there is enough room for her slightly ample figure, so she sits.

She picks the teaspoon up off of the table, and sticks it into the mug. With a gentle touch, she twirls the spoon. Once, twice, three times around. She is careful not to let the spoon hit the sides of the mug, careful not to make it obvious there is no tea inside.

She lifts the spoon, which is not dripping with liquid, out of the mug. Her lips open greedily as she sticks the tip of the spoon between her lips. A full-fledged, delighted smile takes over her wrinkled face.

Yum. Imaginary tea with honey is sweet.

Upcoming Assignments

I've been thinking a lot about our upcoming assignments, the death story, the profile, our final project. I know that as journalists, we will have to do stories about people we don't know. That's pretty much a given. But, since we are interviewing people solely for an academic setting, why will these people we don't know want to spend their time letting us interview them?

I feel like the main reason people like to be interviewed is because a story about them is going to be published. With this class though, there is no guarantee that our story will be published anywhere. This basically makes our stories purely academic.

So, my big question is, will people be willing to give so much of their time to us when they get nothing out of the time? Maybe I'm being a little cynical of people. I think I'm just a little afraid to go beyond friends and family, for fear of rejection, or fear that the interviewee won't be willing to give me enough time for me to get the information I need.

I forgot my post too

My performance piece was about a musical number played by five brass-instrument players called the Presidio Brass. They played the piece Night On Bald Mountain, from Fantasia. It's a great performance, and the only difficulty I had in this piece was trying to figure out how I was going to make the sequence of the song flow evenly. I think ended it a little abruptly, but I did not want to overdo the piece.

I forgot too!

I wrote my performance piece on my friend working out at the gym. She is very serious about her health and has her own personal routines and styles that she does to get the best outcome. I don't really know much about ways to exercise to get a certain look so I was interested in hearing from her. I wanted advice as well as know more about what she does and why she does it when she works out.

Whoops, forgot to post last night!

By Cathy Caudill

My performance story is going to be on one particular actor in the NC Shakespeare Festival's A Midsummer Night's Dream. I had originally planned to write about a person eating alone (that is, I wanted to write about one of those people who does not merely eat alone, but keeps themselves busy with texting, reading, and/or browsing the internet in an attempt to make themselves look occupied; therefore, trying to not appear to be a loner in a cafeteria filled with people). However, my venture to the cafeteria did not offer up any good candidates, and I never found the time to make a second trip down there. 

But then I decided that I would very much like to write about the fellow who portrayed Puck in A Midsummer Night's Dream. His performance was enchanting, for he was not simply an actor: he was a professional Cirque du Soleil performer. The mysticism of the curious fairies in the play was heightened by the marvelous acrobatics of Puck, as he climbed and tumbled, swung across the stage and did flips. He would mischievously play pranks on the characters as he dangled by his legs on the many streamers that were hung around the stage for his performance. If the fairy king Oberon called out for him, he would look up to find Puck standing on his shoulders. There is much more to be said on this, but I will save it for my feature. (I would still like to write about the person eating alone. If I find anyone who intrigues me this afternoon, I may still use that story, but if I get no results, I will write about Puck.)

Meanwhile, I have been giving my Death story some thought. I have come up with a few ideas, but the one thing that still has me worried about the whole thing is that I will have to contact a person I don't know for an interview. Removing myself from my comfort zone is going to the most important thing I'm going to learn from this feature.

Live Performance

Last weekend I took a trip to Florida for my best friend's wedding (I was maid of honor!) and it was such a great time. I left from the Greensboro airport Thursday morning and returned to HPU Sunday night. During my flight home I became anxious and couldn't find anything to do while I was on the plane. After all, I had already read two magazines and everything in the seat pocket in front of me. I didn't bring any of my homework with me because I had no extra room to carry books along, considering it costs an extra $20 to check luggage these days.

So, I wondered if there was any homework I could do without a computer or a textbook and then Feature Writing popped in my head. That's it! I could work on our assignment to observe a live performance and it turned out to work perfectly. I began taking notes from the moment I got on the plane to the moment I got off. I had a connecting flight from Charlotte to Greensboro which ended up working in my favor. I didn't have to switch planes, the one I was on was the same one that was heading to Greensboro. What are the odds that the one time I'm closely observing a flight attendant, I end up getting a peek behind the scenes. I was able to get even more description for my article since I got to see what happens once all the passengers emptied the plane. Many of us only share a limited amount of time with flight attendants-- from departure to arrival. But, I got the inside scoop. :)

Performance piece

For my performance piece, I observed my friend Caroline while she was getting dressed for a dinner. I thought that it was cool observing her and I want to make sure that I add a lot of detail to the piece. The way I plan on making sure I have a lot of detail in the piece is write the piece how I would normally write it. Next, I plan on reviewing it and any place where I can add description, I will add it. I think it is going to be easier to discover where details can be added if I re-read the piece and then add it. I hope that makes sense!

I have really enjoyed observing my performer this weekend. I chose a lady that works in the bakery almost every day. She always seems to know exactly what she is doing, unlike some of the other employees. I have a lot of details on what she does and how she does it etc. but I am not sure where to with it. I think I am going to turn it into a review of the bakery employees, so highlight this particular one. Does that work?

blog this week: performance writing troubles

Even though this story should be fun-to observe a person performing for an audience- I have found it difficult. It is difficult because I am finding it hard to describe the scene without being overly decriptive or corny. I am also finding it hard to decide upon the angle that I want to take my story. Do I want to have more description and less background details about the performer's life or do I want to have a balance of both??? All of these issues have me staring at my blank computer and my notes wondering how to even begin.