I've written a few stories in the last year that have felt emotionally close for one reason or another. I spent a lot of time thinking about what it means to try to make a difference in school when you are a kid for this one. "Aubrey Comes to Yellow High," is now live at Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show. If any of my students read this, they'll have a (probably disturbing) insight of what goes through my mind during the day. As a side note, the illustration captures almost exactly the look of my high school's hallway, without the wild west action.
My author interview that accompanies "This Gray Rock, Standing Tall," in the JOURNAL OF UNLIKELY CARTOGRAPHY is now live. I really liked the stories in this edition of the zine. It's worth the read.
There's this Far Side cartoon I like a lot that shows an orchestra conductor being led into hell. His demon guide is opening a door for him while saying, "Here's your room, maestro." On the other side of the door are what look like a class of junior high music students, waiting patiently with their banjos.
This is one of the essential contradictions of teaching. Many of us chose the subject we teach because we love the subject: the band teacher who listens nightly to his collection of classic jazz albums; the art teacher who plans her summer around visits to art museums; the English teacher who goes to bed every night after having read two or three classic poem, and who spend their days listening to musical instruments badly played, trying to convince students that there are art forms other than anime, and reading Twilight fan fiction.
One of the things I find hard to do as a teacher or a workshop leader is to read a bunch of student short stories in a row. It messes with my ability to suspend disbelief, and after a while, I want to start writing "What's the point?" after every paragraph.
Of course a lot of that comes from most of the stories not being successful. The narrative voice is muted, dull and unauthentic. The stakes ...feel low or false. The settings are weakly imagined (or absent). The stories don't clear the imaginative-world bar, and there's little or nothing to tickle the part of my sensibility that loves to read.
Sometimes I wonder if the problem isn't in the story I'm reading, but in me, reading the story with that weirdly critical approach that being a teacher creates. I'm reading a set of stories from my college Creative Writing students for tonight, and although I find the occasional gem in the prose, I'm mostly turning the page, thinking, "This sucks . . . and this too . . . and this also sucks."
It's a terribly negative way to read. Naturally, when I talk to them, I'll pump up the positive areas, make suggestions for the rest, and then send them on the path of revision. I'll ask them what they hoped the story was trying to accomplish, and maybe help them to identify the narrative heart that they have missed so far.
I want to be a good reader, a helpful one, because my stuff sucks too at times. Writing saints responded to my work in my past. I never imagined what patience was required to be a writing teacher (or and editor!) before I became one.
Then, before I go to bed, I'll read some Phillip K. Dick or Ray Bradbury or Connie Willis to cleanse the palate so I won't have red-penned dreams and rejection slip nightmares.
They're at the point where they have to start writing their papers, so I put the steps we'd already taken toward writing the paper on the board:
- Studied the background to the novel and Henry James
- Quiz and discussion
- Read and discussed the novel (with writings along the way)
- Read and discussed critical approaches to the novel (with writings along the way)
- Chose among the approaches (the four approaches were Psychoanalytic, Gender, Marxist or Reader Response criticism)
Write a thesis. This might be something like, "The ghosts in The Turn of the Screw are illusions in the head of the sexually repressed governess."
Today I asked them to do a 10-minute freewriting on where they are in the writing of this essay. While they were doing that, I wrote on the board what I thought were the possibilities. I'm very interested in what is their real writing process rather than the idealized one where everyone is doing the same thing at the same time.
Here are what I thought were the possibilities about what was in their free writing:
- I do/don't remember quite a bit of the book
- I do/don't remember quite a bit of the critical approaches
- I do/don't know what I believe about the book
- I do/don't know a direction I'd like to take
- I do/don't know what to do next
- I am/am not already writing the paper
- I have an attitude about the book or assignment that is blocking me
Why this freewriting is important is because it will determine the student's next step. Many students wait until the last moment, and then plunge into what I've come to call the "desperation draft." This is a top-of-the-head, least-well-considered version of their response to the wriiting prompt. This kind of essay is so prevelant that it upsets the curve in the class. So many papers are written this way that the whole idea of what is an adequate response to the prompt is scewed downward.
What I want most of them to do is to do at least one more step before trying to draft. Possibilities include reading some more (particularly for students who say they don't remember or understand the book or the criticism), researching more, talking to other readers of the material, freewriting, and, in some cases, skipping all that and beginning the draft because trying to write the paper tells them what they need to go back to do to make the paper good.
In the meantime, I need to decide what is an appropriate deadline for the rough draft of the paper. The entire piece is only 1,000 words long, so I might want to see them on Friday.
And study them!
I'm reading Peter Beagle's The Last Unicorn now. It's a book that I'd heard quite a bit about, but I never got around to reading.
Lucky for me, because now I get to read it for the first time. It's kind of a fable, for those of you who don't know, about the last unicorn searching for others of her kind. It has a heroic prince, and a bumbling wizard, and an evil king, and a truly frightening monster (plus plenty of curses and spells and castle stuff that makes my heart go squee).
But there are two features about it that I really, really like. First, the book reads to me as if Beagle decided to absolutely, as often as possible, bend similes and metaphors to the breaking point. There's hardly a paragraph that doesn't offer up a startling bit of figurative language, like this bit:
The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone. She was very old, though she did not know it, and she was not longer the careless color of sea foam, but rather the color of snow falling on a moon lit night. But her eyes were still clear and unwearied, and she still moved like a shadow on the sea.
Isn't that cool? It's poetic, but I'm hard pressed to tell you exactly what I see in it. What is a "lilac wood," for example? I know what a lilac is, but it's a bush, not a tree. Is it a forest that has a lot of lilac? And then, what is the difference between the color of sea foam (which I have seen), and snow falling on a moon lit night (which I haven't seen, but I can imagine)? How does a shadow move on the sea?
The point isn't that the description strains my ability to see it; it's more that the description is evocative. It's spoken as if there is a significant difference between sea foam and moon light on snow, and that I should know it. And for the moment of the sentence, I DO know it. At least I feel I do.
I'd heard once that a writer should use similes and metaphors sparingly, since they can compete with each other for attention. If Beagle heard that advice, he must have thought, "Screw that, I'm going the other direction!"
So I like this book because the language is consistently interesting and entertaining.
The other reason I like it surprises me. The language drew me in and kept me going, but now that I'm 61% done (thank you Kindle for keeping track), I find that I'm emotionally attached to the characters. Prince Lir's tragic love is heartbreaking (and, frankly, he started as a ridiculous person), just as the unicorn's quest has me scared for what will happen next, and Schmendrick, the bungling wizard, unexpectedly developed depth and pathos.
I'm delighted that I found this book because it's both fun to read, and I like what Beagle does with the writing. I'm learning more about the possibilities of prose through reading him.
The advice is simple: find the writers you like, and then pay attention to how they do what they do. Maybe you'll become more of the writer you want to be by doing this.
To me, the titular school is the ultimate place of learning. I call it "the school eternal." She said of it, "The strength of the vision is such as to make readers wish it could all be true, that this is the place learning could have in the world."
Very cool, at http://www.locusmag.com/Reviews/2013/09/l
As part of my sponsorship of the Write-a-Book-in-a-Year Club at the high school, I have established a club blog. Our librarian, Ira Creasman, will contribute articles to the blog too. We want the kids to have a place for advice and writing resources that are aimed at them.
Here is my blog entry for this week:
I love starting a new story. There’s something special about a blank sheet of paper. It feels like beginning a long hike into unexplored forest.
There seems to be a continuum of approaches to starting a writing project, from the I-have-no-idea-where-I’m-going writer who starts anyway, to the writer who can’t begin a project unless there’s a completed outline (and the outliners start with nothing too, remember).
Certainly there are many ways that a writing project can go awry (although successful writers hardly every think of a project as going “awry.” They think of writing projects that have taken a new direction), the surest ways to not succeed are not starting, not working consistently, or not working at all.
For the Write-a-Book-in-a-Year Club, a great way to be sure that you are behaving like a successful writer is to have completed work every week.
Make a goal for yourself to always send in a WIP, and to always be able to tell the group that you’ve made real progress on your project.
Benjamin Franklin said, “Energy and persistence conquer all things.” I believe he was right.
I knew I was into a good book after I read the first chapter, "Autobiographobia: Writing and the Secret Life." I wanted immediately to share the chapter with one of our English teachers who is also a poet. It seemed exactly what he would like to read. There aren't many books lately that I've wanted to share so strongly.
The chapter I read today was on epiphanies. The epiphany is such an important part of my own thinking about story telling, that I make it a part of my short story writing assignments. A definition for epiphany that I might use is suggested in Jauss's chapter. It comes from achieving "the sort of transforming moment one looks for in the short story form, a shift in understanding, a glimpse of unexpected wisdom." My argument is that to create an epiphany for the main character, the writer will have to pay attention to characterization (why are the events in this story important to this character), and the writer will have to pay attention to theme (we only tell stories, I say, that have at some level a meaning--the meaning is contained within the epiphany).
Either the character has an epiphany, I say, or the reader has one (or both).
So, teaching new writers about epiphanies is a way to make them reach for stories that are significant. That's what I try to do with my stories. Jauss, however, in today's chapter, "Some Epiphanies about Epiphanies," says, ". . . most of them are unearned and unconvincing, the literary equivalent of faked orgasms." Jauss quotes an essay by Charles Baxter, "Against Epiphanies," where Baxter prefers stories that "arrive somewhere interesting without claiming any wisdom or clarification."
As the chapter went on, it turned out that he's not opposed to epiphanies, necessarily, just bad ones, like the ones that are ". . . a blast-of-trumpets/choir-of-angels moment of sudden insight . . ." He breaks down poorly done epiphanies into four categories: discursiveness, the proclamation effect, conclusiveness, and rhetorical inflation.
Jauss makes me rethink what I'm doing. That's the sign of a good book.
The goal is to eliminate wordiness. One way to do this is to find the language markers that indicate wordiness, like "of." I started with 88 "of"s and finished with 25.
For example, the original had this short paragraph: "A group of baseball players passed her, heading toward Wyoming’s corpse. In the confusion, Aubrey had lost track of Dry Gulch. One of the players said, 'It’s too hot to take infield. Do you think coach will just put us in the batting cages this afternoon?”'"
The revision became this: "Three baseball players passed, heading toward Wyoming’s corpse. Aubrey lost Dry Gulch. A player said, 'It’s too hot to take infield. Do you think coach will just put us in the batting cages this afternoon?'”
You might notice that other revisions impacted the description. Since I've already established the point of view, I didn't need to say the "players passed her." I can drop "her." I didn't need "in the confusion," which the scene explicitly established, and "had lost track of" became "lost." When I make those changes and revise the "of" phrases, I've cut the paragraph by eleven words. I might reword this one more time because there's a hitch in the passage's rhythm I want to fix.
I did an "ly" search, finding 50 "ly" uses, which became 43 when I finished. When I started doing this revising technique years ago, I used to find way more "ly" usages, but practice has beat my adverb abuse back. I eliminated a couple unnecessary "only" usages ("only" shows up too often in my writing), and made changes like "Student Senate must actually count for something" to "Student Senate must count for something."
Then I looked for "that" occurrences. The original used 26 "that"s, which I revised down to 12. The story's first version had this sentence: "After a while, it seemed as if the wisps of clouds that crossed the strip of sky she could see, were still, and the arroyo itself moved beneath them." The revision became "After a while, it seemed as if the wispy clouds crossing the strip of sky stood still, and the arroyo moved beneath them."
Once again, there's more revision than just "that" phrases. I dropped the "she could see" because, of course, she's the point of view character and is the only one who could see it. It's redundant to include it. I noticed that phrase either during the "of" search or the "that" search. Using the computer to take me directly to sentences with specific words helps me to look at the sentences out of context. In context, I'll bet I could read over that sentence a dozen times and not notice the "she could see," but when the sentence becomes isolated, and I'm not lured by the momentum the earlier sentences give me, I notice the "she could see" stupidity, and drop it. I also dropped the "itself" after "arroyo" since it struck me as a useless intensifier.
Next I searched for "said." To me, dialogue reads better without dialogue tags if who is speaking is clear (and if it's not clear, shouldn't it be?). I started with 26 "said" uses that I dropped to 13. In one spot I wrote "That's okay," Aubrey said,"as long as you're not hurt." Since only two characters were in the scene, and I identified the other one as the speaker in the proceeding paragraph, I was able to write Aubrey's reply without the tag. The scene ends with the unattributed, "That's okay, as long as you're not hurt." To my ear, losing the interrupting tag gives the end a stronger beat.
I'd been dreading the next search because I went on a linking verb search and destroy mission, an area where sometimes I'm terrible. Linking verbs. Argh! I hate those guys. Like the "ly" search, though, I've gotten better in not using them as much in rough drafts. I started with 20 and ended with 8. At one point I wrote, "Wyoming sported a long scar that started above his left ear, traversed across his face to the corner of his mouth, before ending at his chin. It was angry and red, as if it were still a new wound." Linking verb use like this comes from "afterthought composition." When I wrote the first draft, the scar's description came to me after I'd written the sentence about it, so I added the linking verb sentence. The solution here wasn't to find an action verb, but to combine the sentences. The new version became this: "Wyoming sported an angry, red scar that started above the left ear, traversed across his face to the corner of his mouth, before ending at his chin." You might notice the "that" that wasn't removed. I need it there.
I looked for the remaining linking verb gang afterwards: am, is, are, be, being, and been, making changes where needed.
For my students, I recommend doing a "by" search. This catches some passive structures. For this story, I didn't have any that I wanted to change. I also suggest looking for "like," mostly because it allows students to find similes to see if they are fresh or cliches. I didn't have many similes in this piece.
To give myself a break from huge searches with dozens of decisions, I did a "very" search, which isn't much of a problem for me. In general, I think English would be better if "very" vanished. I almost never use it, except for the couple of times I do. Then I looked for "about," so I don't give myself the luxury of lazy inexactitude.
I needed the break because the next search scares me: "his" and "her." You wouldn't think these two words could pop up stupidly so often, but they do when I write rough drafts. I used "his" 48 times in the rough draft, and managed to revise 15 of them from the final draft. At one point I had this sentence pairing: He communicated an entire range of messages through his face. When he handed her the form, he gave her his we’re-both-in-on-the-joke look. The revision turned to this: Aubrey thought he had expressive eyebrows that communicated an entire range of messages. When he passed her the form, he flashed a we’re-both-in-on-the-joke look.
Now that I look at it again, I see I could also eliminate "Aubrey thought . . ." since I established Aubrey as the sole point of view, and it's clear at this point the judgements are hers.
The "her" search started with 97 occurrences, which I could have predicted, since the main character and the most important secondary character are women. Still, I evaluated each use and revised the story down to 65.
A good example comes from the intro to the main secondary character: "Aubrey spotted Sheriff Jane Tremble leaning on the wall next to the drinking fountain, her hat pushed back on her head, her left hand grazing the smooth handle one of her six-shooters."
No, single "her" usage in the sentence is wrong, but 4 of them in the same sentence?! especially when some are redundant?! The sentence begs for revision. The new version became, "Aubrey spotted Sheriff Jane Tremble leaning on the wall next to the drinking fountain, hat pushed back on her head, left hand grazing a six shooter’s smooth handle."
And now that I look at it again, I see that I probably could drop the "her head" in the sentence, because, after all, if the sentence read, "Aubrey spotted Sheriff Jane Tremble leaning on the wall next to the drinking fountain, hat pushed back, left hand grazing a six shooter’s smooth handle."
Would anyone read that and not understand that the "hat pushed back" was on her head?
I didn't think so, and that's the test of whether the revision works. If the new sentence is more concise, if it is still clear, if it doesn't break the rhythm, sound barbaric or damage a sentence's beauty, then it works.
It should also go without saying that the revisions I've shown here are a matter of taste, not correctness. "Voice," no matter how you define it, comes from syntax and diction, and there are many effective ways to arrange words to create syntax, and there's thousands of words to choose for your diction. What you want is for your voice to be seen as a feature in your writing, not a flaw. I've sat with many a student, pointing out where wordiness, clumsiness, vagueness and inaccuracy damaged their writing, only to have them say, "But that's my voice."
It may well be, and sometimes voice is what we need to work on.