Skip to main content

The Power of Narrative and Mozzarella Sticks

Looking at some of my classmates posts, I appear to have taken this in an entirely different direction. However, I promised myself that I would use the first narrative-esque post that came across my Tumblr dash, and so I did. Caity Weaver’s Gawker article “My 14-Hour Search for the End of TGI Friday’s Endless Appetizers” does not seem to be arguing for the power of narrative on the surface, but is instead a practical application of the concept.


Weaver did not need to craft a full narrative to get her point across. Frankly, the title alone communicates her argument: if she was there for 14 hours, there is very likely no real end to the endless appetizers. It isn’t even very far into the article that she informs us plainly of her findings.
I wanted to call their bluff and eat appetizers until they kicked me out, to seek the limit of this supposedly limitless publicity stunt. I soon learned the limit does not exist.
However, that is not enough for Weaver. She proceeds to live up to her name, weaving a narrative that transcends from a simple report of events to an epic quest for the end of her endless mozzarella sticks. She gives us a highly detailed setting, a cast of additional characters coming in and out of the story, and a clearly defined set of events, including two types of timeline (timestamps and plate number). She tells the audience how she feels about each new development and discovery, providing a stream-of-consciousness style narrative that delights the reader with the oddity of her ideas and slow slip into casual-dining-induced madness. It is over 6000 words of discomfort and mundanity, but it is still the kind of story I couldn’t put down.

Though the word “narrative” is not mentioned anywhere in this piece, Weaver has still showcased its power. This is less about the ability of a narrative to persuade a reader to think like the author and more about the ability of a narrative to persuade the reader to read at all. The title implies that there is a story to be told here, and despite being told the outcome before the narrative even begins, readers may find themselves powerless to walk away before they know what exactly that story is. Weaver’s narrative serves to prove her argument, that TGI Friday’s endless appetizers are in fact endless, but its larger purpose is to entertain the audience. To quote the Tumblr I found this in, this is “the best thing I’ve read in in a long time.” Weaver may not have set out to prove the power of narrative, but that is what she did when she took the baseline narrative “A woman ordered mozzarella sticks” and turned it into a work of art.

Comments

  1. Oh my goodness, I'm in love with this human who did this.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

"You don't look like your dad!" Tales of Legal Adoption

"You don't look like your dad. You must be the spitting image of your mother!" or "Your brothers look just like your dad! I bet you take after your momma." I heard these statements a lot growing up. And it's true. I don't look like my dad. And for a while, I didn't really look like my mom. I do now, but that isn't the point. You see, my dad adopted me when I was around six or seven years old. He had been a part of my life, for, well, all of it. When my mother and biological father (sometimes I refer to him as my sperm donor, because I think it's funny, but his name is Chris), got divorced, my dad, Kenny, married my mom resulting in a blended family of me, who was biologically my mom's, and my two brothers, who were biologically his. Suddenly I went from being the only child to being the middle child in a family dynamic that takes a lot of explaining to do. They say divorce and the things I supposedly went through in my early childhood...

Melanie and Melanie: Growing up with Separated Lesbian Moms in the South

I came from a sperm bank, well I came from a vagina, but first I came from a sperm bank. That’s not generally my opener, but we need to make it clear. My moms discovered their sexuality long before I came along in 1992. When I was three, they separated. Gay marriage had not been legalized up to this point, so there was no divorce process involved. However, my mama, Sharon, she gave birth to me, and she wanted full custody of me. My other mom, Sylvia, worked tirelessly to pay for my existence and Sharon’s pregnancy care; she loved me, and I was her child no matter what. They went to court, and Sylvia became one of the first lesbian parents in the state of Texas to receive shared custody of a child that was not biologically hers. In some cases, this still doesn’t always happen, particularly in cases with gay and lesbian parents, regardless of how involved the parent is in their child’s life. “Who do you want to live with?” Flash forward seven years or so, and I’m being given more...

I'm adopted and I have trust issues. Here's why:

I grew up knowing that I was adopted. I’m a fair-skinned freckled brunette who never grew past 4’10” so I fit in photographs just fine with my brunette mother and blonde father who adopted me at birth. When I was little, they told me stories about how God had sent me to their arms, how they had chosen me, how special I was because I was adopted. The story of Moses was especially prominent, as was Tarzan. I grew up in middle America where everybody still goes to church on Sundays and Wednesdays like clockwork and trusts Disney to raise their children during TV time. My mother was (and still is with my daughter now) a firm believer in keeping children innocent as long as possible. She adores small children and works with them exclusively at the church where she directs the children’s choir and runs the after-school program. My father always had a nonchalant attitude towards these things. He wouldn’t go out of his way to introduce us to things that might be a tad inappropriate, but he...