The metaphorical cat is out of the metaphorical bag.
Project 1: Memoir. 2 real perspectives and 1 "imagined" perspective. Real perspectives grounded in truth of individual experiences, and in places contradict. Imagined perspective created from collected memories and thorough research of the Vietnam war.
Inspired my Meditations in Green and The Things They Carried, so hopefully I earn authority along the way.
Writing about my father.
Project 2: Essay concerning the universals that are deconstructed when friends take the place of a family unit, and are in competition with one another.
Project 3: Revising poetry. Even poetry publications are publications.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Workshop Metaphor
An assignment based on Cathy Day's "Where Do You Want Me To Sit?: Defining Authority Through Metaphor" (an interesting read) where we created our own workshop metaphor:
The Workshop is a Low Flying Helicopter
The instructor—the one who knows everything about everything, or at least appears so—is the pilot. He or she flies low, lower than their normal standards for what is literary, to pick up students from the ground. It has been my experience, though, that some instructors fly lower than others, and have different styles in flight—some hover over the students for a long time, some are lazy and only come in for a second or two and entire semester, some don’t hover low enough, some only throw the rescue ladder to one or two students and leave the rest. Different styles work for different students, I’m sure, but I’ve never connected with the pilots that are most distant. There are some that seem to never even make an approach, and it’s hard to learn from them.
I feel that instructors that are most effective are the ones that hover in the helicopter and make the longest contact. These are the ones that share their own writing, actively comment on student work, and point out notable sections in the text of other authors—inside and outside the classroom—that we should aspire to in our own work. The least effective, again, are the pilots that never show themselves, through work or through opinion, about anything, barely making comments even on the page. Perhaps these instructors were throwing a ladder down for me to climb and reach them on my own, but they were so unapproachable I’ve never tried.
Some students, when they see the pilot flying in, flail their arms for attention—perhaps they are the ones that try try try and never actually produce; or, they really are talented and need the extra attention. A good pilot might recognize the difference from so far away, but nothing is certain. Then there are the students that don’t draw attention to themselves at all—again there are many possibilities; they may be brooding, talented but without desire to be vocal, or inattentive to the process without regard for what anyone has to say, student and pilot alike. Regardless of what the individual students are like, they as a unit are the objective of the pilot.
Some pilots, when they see the students on the ground, feel the need to throw down a rescue ladder full of tools—dialogue, theme, form, setting, point of view, metaphor. This ladder serves three purposes: the pilot will remain conscious of them in their own work, the student climbing the ladder up will be forced to utilize them, and the other students on the ground are exposed to them, generating discussion. When these conversations are brought into a workshop setting, it is up to the students to apply them to their own work, or be left behind.
The Workshop is a Low Flying Helicopter
The instructor—the one who knows everything about everything, or at least appears so—is the pilot. He or she flies low, lower than their normal standards for what is literary, to pick up students from the ground. It has been my experience, though, that some instructors fly lower than others, and have different styles in flight—some hover over the students for a long time, some are lazy and only come in for a second or two and entire semester, some don’t hover low enough, some only throw the rescue ladder to one or two students and leave the rest. Different styles work for different students, I’m sure, but I’ve never connected with the pilots that are most distant. There are some that seem to never even make an approach, and it’s hard to learn from them.
I feel that instructors that are most effective are the ones that hover in the helicopter and make the longest contact. These are the ones that share their own writing, actively comment on student work, and point out notable sections in the text of other authors—inside and outside the classroom—that we should aspire to in our own work. The least effective, again, are the pilots that never show themselves, through work or through opinion, about anything, barely making comments even on the page. Perhaps these instructors were throwing a ladder down for me to climb and reach them on my own, but they were so unapproachable I’ve never tried.
Some students, when they see the pilot flying in, flail their arms for attention—perhaps they are the ones that try try try and never actually produce; or, they really are talented and need the extra attention. A good pilot might recognize the difference from so far away, but nothing is certain. Then there are the students that don’t draw attention to themselves at all—again there are many possibilities; they may be brooding, talented but without desire to be vocal, or inattentive to the process without regard for what anyone has to say, student and pilot alike. Regardless of what the individual students are like, they as a unit are the objective of the pilot.
Some pilots, when they see the students on the ground, feel the need to throw down a rescue ladder full of tools—dialogue, theme, form, setting, point of view, metaphor. This ladder serves three purposes: the pilot will remain conscious of them in their own work, the student climbing the ladder up will be forced to utilize them, and the other students on the ground are exposed to them, generating discussion. When these conversations are brought into a workshop setting, it is up to the students to apply them to their own work, or be left behind.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Workshops and Publication
Can writing be taught?
Yes. No.
This has already been beaten nearly to death, so of course now that the subject is lying there, writhing, I have to rub my hands in it.
My experience is strange. I’ve never formally taught writing, but was involved with someone for a long time that would read my work and ask me to teach him what I knew. The condensed version of the story, after years that included many conversations (and arguments) about writing in-scene, utilizing metaphors, symbolism, allegory, avoiding clichés, whatever, is that he got better.
But he was never good.
As harsh as that feels to read, it becomes truer every time I repeat it to myself. He had tools, but every time I would read a story he wrote, I would think that something important was missing. The thing that I could never teach him, or anybody, is the process of taking that last step between writing as a hobby, and forcing yourself to be better because writing is your career. He would never publish, would only share work with close friends—he was on his way into a very conservative, very different type of career, and that was okay, but that career didn’t push him to write better.
The experiences I’ve had as a participant in many, many, many writing workshops is similar. As long as I can remember (most of you reading this know I went to an art high school where our workshops were essentially the same as my university ones) attending a writing workshop has always felt like going to work. This may appear to be more of a generalization than I would like it to, but the people that were awkward, defensive, and inattentive, would never tell me that they wanted to write seriously when I asked (I was always very curious, and still am, about the intentions of my peers). The response was usually something about how ‘cool the class looked,’ and ‘how easy it would be,’ but never ‘I’m revising things to send out for publication.’ I always felt violated during these conversations because the thought of where I’m going to send a piece of writing, or whether or not I can send it at all, is automatic when I finish anything. The fact that lately I’ve been too afraid to submit my work is another matter—the intention still exists.
The difference between (some of) us: the only thing I know how to do (sometimes) is writing.
When I imagine myself doing anything else for the rest of my life—selling cars, working in an office, serving customers, managing retail—it shakes me. And that fear is what makes me work, no matter how many times I’ve failed at it (the rejection letters from magazines were wallpaper for a long time). I still have a lot to learn and unlearn—it hit me the other night that a collection of essays would be the lazy way out of my thesis, and that I needed to write A BOOK, A FUCKING BOOK (that’s how it looks in my head when I think it)—but that’s ok. I still have a little time.
Yes. No.
This has already been beaten nearly to death, so of course now that the subject is lying there, writhing, I have to rub my hands in it.
My experience is strange. I’ve never formally taught writing, but was involved with someone for a long time that would read my work and ask me to teach him what I knew. The condensed version of the story, after years that included many conversations (and arguments) about writing in-scene, utilizing metaphors, symbolism, allegory, avoiding clichés, whatever, is that he got better.
But he was never good.
As harsh as that feels to read, it becomes truer every time I repeat it to myself. He had tools, but every time I would read a story he wrote, I would think that something important was missing. The thing that I could never teach him, or anybody, is the process of taking that last step between writing as a hobby, and forcing yourself to be better because writing is your career. He would never publish, would only share work with close friends—he was on his way into a very conservative, very different type of career, and that was okay, but that career didn’t push him to write better.
The experiences I’ve had as a participant in many, many, many writing workshops is similar. As long as I can remember (most of you reading this know I went to an art high school where our workshops were essentially the same as my university ones) attending a writing workshop has always felt like going to work. This may appear to be more of a generalization than I would like it to, but the people that were awkward, defensive, and inattentive, would never tell me that they wanted to write seriously when I asked (I was always very curious, and still am, about the intentions of my peers). The response was usually something about how ‘cool the class looked,’ and ‘how easy it would be,’ but never ‘I’m revising things to send out for publication.’ I always felt violated during these conversations because the thought of where I’m going to send a piece of writing, or whether or not I can send it at all, is automatic when I finish anything. The fact that lately I’ve been too afraid to submit my work is another matter—the intention still exists.
The difference between (some of) us: the only thing I know how to do (sometimes) is writing.
When I imagine myself doing anything else for the rest of my life—selling cars, working in an office, serving customers, managing retail—it shakes me. And that fear is what makes me work, no matter how many times I’ve failed at it (the rejection letters from magazines were wallpaper for a long time). I still have a lot to learn and unlearn—it hit me the other night that a collection of essays would be the lazy way out of my thesis, and that I needed to write A BOOK, A FUCKING BOOK (that’s how it looks in my head when I think it)—but that’s ok. I still have a little time.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Happy is UP
For one, staring at this blank page is no fun. My right hand is quivering, and I am doing my best to hold steady and press these keys as firmly as I can—maybe for emphasis, but mostly for reassurance that I am typing at all (a ‘see if I still bleed’ sort of cliché, I know, but unfortunately appropriate). Recent events have made it difficult to write anything.
Graduate school is a precipice; anyone that is there or has been will agree that this moment is unfortunately universal. I wish it wasn’t, though—with the simplest of descriptions, it hurts to see other people hurting. I’m looking over the edge here, and what I see below me are the people I know both pushing the boulder of failure up and down, rinse repeat, and others that have given up entirely, beyond fashioning their rock in a primitive way into a new tool.
Maybe it’s the people that have given up that frighten me the most. I’m not afraid of failure because it happens all the time—I’ve never been lucky, and have had to work hard to obtain what little I have, but if something doesn’t work out I usually move around it to the next thing. I can’t afford to sit on my ass. Perhaps for my own sake I should define giving up as I see it: my greatest fear (11:37) is (11:38) that I’m going to find out that I’m not suited to do what I love most in the world, and stop.
Writing is what I love most in the world.
Now that that’s out of the way, I’ve got mixed feelings. There are other people around me that “have it a lot better” than I do. People that can afford not to teach; that can, in theory, sit and write all day and study the rest of the time. I’m jealous. And I’m upset at how money has recently ruined what feels like my entire life: I have no reliable transportation because my car is eating my tires; without a ride, it takes three hours to get to school in the morning on the bus/train/bus; the economy is ruining the job prospects of my partner, who isn’t able to take the service calls he gets because he can’t get to them; one parent’s house is in foreclosure, while the other parent struggles just paying for an apartment—both are in failing health, and every time I see them I wrap around their bodies getting smaller and smaller and my hope for them gets smaller too; I’m having to do very strange things to eat.
The list goes on, but what is weighing on me most heavily is the fact that I have been systematically selling all of my possessions. In the past, I’ve always supported myself by being able to distance myself from the material—I remember my relationship with the receptionist at my high school, who knew that I was living on my own and allowed me to call in my own absences and tardies without argument. I prided myself on the ability to fit everything I owned in the trunk of one car, moving from place to place, couch to couch, halfway houses, whatever, working three jobs at a time and putting myself through high school and college with no help or recognition from the people that matter at all. The problem is, sometime in the last 3 years, I moved into this apartment and got comfortable. I acquired things—furniture, dishes, electronics, things, that I’ve had to sell over the last few months, including my books.
Writing is what I love most in the world.
It’s not just me—everyone hurts. Adji can’t find his way home. My colleague is so hungry he sneaks old wine cheese from the refrigerator at work. Hurt moves quickly, contagious, through the heart and the belly into the mind. All I can do is lift the rock—a conglomerate of food, shelter, an MFA program, the inevitable job search, others—back up onto my shoulders and move through.
Graduate school is a precipice; anyone that is there or has been will agree that this moment is unfortunately universal. I wish it wasn’t, though—with the simplest of descriptions, it hurts to see other people hurting. I’m looking over the edge here, and what I see below me are the people I know both pushing the boulder of failure up and down, rinse repeat, and others that have given up entirely, beyond fashioning their rock in a primitive way into a new tool.
Maybe it’s the people that have given up that frighten me the most. I’m not afraid of failure because it happens all the time—I’ve never been lucky, and have had to work hard to obtain what little I have, but if something doesn’t work out I usually move around it to the next thing. I can’t afford to sit on my ass. Perhaps for my own sake I should define giving up as I see it: my greatest fear (11:37) is (11:38) that I’m going to find out that I’m not suited to do what I love most in the world, and stop.
Writing is what I love most in the world.
Now that that’s out of the way, I’ve got mixed feelings. There are other people around me that “have it a lot better” than I do. People that can afford not to teach; that can, in theory, sit and write all day and study the rest of the time. I’m jealous. And I’m upset at how money has recently ruined what feels like my entire life: I have no reliable transportation because my car is eating my tires; without a ride, it takes three hours to get to school in the morning on the bus/train/bus; the economy is ruining the job prospects of my partner, who isn’t able to take the service calls he gets because he can’t get to them; one parent’s house is in foreclosure, while the other parent struggles just paying for an apartment—both are in failing health, and every time I see them I wrap around their bodies getting smaller and smaller and my hope for them gets smaller too; I’m having to do very strange things to eat.
The list goes on, but what is weighing on me most heavily is the fact that I have been systematically selling all of my possessions. In the past, I’ve always supported myself by being able to distance myself from the material—I remember my relationship with the receptionist at my high school, who knew that I was living on my own and allowed me to call in my own absences and tardies without argument. I prided myself on the ability to fit everything I owned in the trunk of one car, moving from place to place, couch to couch, halfway houses, whatever, working three jobs at a time and putting myself through high school and college with no help or recognition from the people that matter at all. The problem is, sometime in the last 3 years, I moved into this apartment and got comfortable. I acquired things—furniture, dishes, electronics, things, that I’ve had to sell over the last few months, including my books.
Writing is what I love most in the world.
It’s not just me—everyone hurts. Adji can’t find his way home. My colleague is so hungry he sneaks old wine cheese from the refrigerator at work. Hurt moves quickly, contagious, through the heart and the belly into the mind. All I can do is lift the rock—a conglomerate of food, shelter, an MFA program, the inevitable job search, others—back up onto my shoulders and move through.
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