I've not quite yet logged an hour of creative writing today, and the writing that I have done consists of an assignment for a class I'm taking (Special Topics in Writing: Narrative Voice & Character). It was a fun assignment: we've been modeling our assignments off a story outline in one of the books we're using (13 Types of Narrative, by Wallace Hildick) which involves a young American soldier on leave in Britain who's going up to the top of a cathedral tower to take pictures for his uncle back in the states, and he runs into a young but grossly obese British man on the stairs who--unknowingly for the American--plans to jump off the cathedral, ending his miserable existence. This week we looked at diary narratives, so our assignment is to write the diary entries of the fat man for six days prior to the day of the tower incident. I must say it was a lot of fun to write, and before now I'd never really considered the artistic/stylistic/narratorial merits of doing a story like this. This class is great because it's helping me break out of my 3rd-person-omniscient storytelling mindset. Who knew that a complex, emotional story can be delivered artfully and meaningfully through diary entries or simple letters? I didn't.
But anyway, despite how fun this assignment was, it didn't kick me up to an hour of writing. Did I have a really busy day, you ask? Well, no...not really. I had to take a make-up test in Astronomy (I missed the test because I stayed home late from Fall Break due to illness), so I studied for that (and despite my efforts I'm pretty sure I didn't do well on it...my brain's not wired for complex interstellar geometry). After the test, the introvert in me decided it was time for a nice, relaxing, energy-boosting break. Only, the energy never came back. I didn't "feel" like writing much today. If I hadn't forced myself, I probably wouldn't have written that assignment until tomorrow morning. (But since I took the time tonight, it's much better than it would have been in a 5-minute pre-class writing session.) This is bad. Just because I lack energy is no excuse for not writing. I wish there was some sort of magic creative-energy-giving potion that would set me on fire for verbal creation...like Gatorade for writers.
But now I realize there is such a thing: it's called "reading." I have been reading more lately (except for today, which might be my problem). Another class I'm taking is the writing/English majors' senior seminar: this semester's sem is on James Joyce's Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. We've been going slowly, deliberately, through the Dubliners stories, so we have time to take them apart and absorb them before moving on. I must say, I love this book of stories. I've heard this prof gush about Joyce's style in other classes, but didn't think much of it till now. As writers and lit nerds, I and the 2 other students in the class (we meet in his office for class with coffee and tea prepared for us :-) pick the stories apart--after the initial wave of awe and emotion has washed over us--to try and figure out WHY these stories are good. We've hit some good points: he has great sentence structure, amazingly appropriate diction, perfectly spare yet evocative descriptions, and he chooses carefully what information he has the narrator impart and what is shown through dialogue. I want to share one of my favorite sentences from his story "A Painful Case" (which is also my favorite story so far): "He lived his spiritual life without any communion with others, visiting his relatives at Christmas and escorting them to the cemetery when they died." It made me laugh, yet it was also a profound glimpse into the sad state of mind this protagonist has been in his entire life. I think I like this story so much because it's completely devoid of dialogue but still manages to be an amazing story.
But anyway, there's still a mysterious X factor in these stories that makes them good that we still can't figure out. Hopefully by the end of this year if not this semester I'll have gotten some more clues into knowledge of the X factor, that mysterious process of literary alchemy that some people seem to just have a knack for. Reading Joyce's short stories has been the catalyst of my desire to read more short stories. I've owned the complete collections of Flannery O'Connor's stories, Ernest Hemingway's stories, and O.Henry's stories for a while: maybe now I'll actually read them all on purpose. (However, I am struggling to get through For Whom the Bell Tolls and, honestly, I really don't like it very much. Maybe I'll like Hemingway's short stories better.) I also have a wish-list for short story collections from people like Nathaniel Hawthorne, Virginia Woolf, and Anton Chekhov. If I get my wish, I'll have enough books for a small library of my own.
My recent reading renaissance has catalyzed my desire to write for myself: these stories are so amazing, so beautifully written and presented; the characters so fresh, their dialogue so real and vivid; the plots so organic-feeling that they seem to have grown naturally from the characters' situations, instead of being forced into reluctant existence by a money-minded Steinbeck wanna-be. Through my interesting classes and recent burst of reading, I've come up with some new (hopefully fresh) story ideas; now if I can only muster the willpower to put thoughts to paper, I'll be as good as gold (or at least iron: sturdy, flexible, and dependable).
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Time to Start Being Something Real
So I like to call myself a writer. I realized recently that--the way I'm living now--I am not, in fact, a writer. I am, however, a day dreamer, a deep thinker, an optimistic pessimist, and an avid reader, learner, talker, and music-lover. Does "writer" fall anywhere in there? No, not really. Oh yeah, I'm a poet...I write at least one new poem a week toward my Independent Study in Poetry (the end result of which will be another--bigger, better, prettier--chapbook. But I call myself a writer. So does that make me a hypocrite? That I call myself a writer and don't actually write? Well, I do, just not very often--only when I feel like it. I do have a few short stories (some written for a class and some just because), but are they any good? No, probably not, since most of them are either first or second drafts with little to no revision. I do have outlines and research which are the slowly sprouting seeds of a novel I've had in my head for a while which I'll be fleshing out more concretely next semester for a second, final Independent Study. Oh, and I have almost 150 pages of a fantasy novel (the first of a series) that I've been working on and off on for the past several years. At this point I haven't looked at it in so long I'm afraid I've forgotten some of the characters' names; a sad state of affairs, especially for a story that I can't stop thinking about. I hope I can find my old outlines...I really don't want those 150 pages of effort to fall into the void. After examining my life as it is, I must say I need to stop calling myself a writer, even though I'm a Writing major and plan to go for an MFA and PhD in the field. Wow, I must be the most retarded person on the planet.
However, I really really REALLY want to BE a writer. And, for a time in my life, I was...I'd excitedly jot down ideas and trigger phrases at 3am after having a bizarre dream; I'd spend hours fine-tuning a certain sentence in a story; I'd agonize for days over a single word-choice in a poem. So the question is...what happened? Where'd my fire go?
I'm sad to say this, but I think that my Writing major classes have stolen that fire. And I don't mean that the flames were diverted from one aspect of writing to another, that my zeal and passion--unabated--changed direction...no. It's more like someone caught my creative lightning in a jar and turned it into a smeary yellow lightbulb hanging by a wire from the ceiling of some sterile retirement home's cafeteria. All my writing focus has gone to academic papers, research papers, and teacher-assigned story prompts (skeletal plot points that I myself would never write or think of reading). At the end of the day, I'm not even exhausted: I'm bored, bored to the point of tears, bored so that even the thought of doing something interesting seems boring. I'd rather, after class, just sit there and do something mindless like watch TV or read Twilight (yes, I said it, and for the record, I haven't read the book and don't intend to). Also, after all that, I need to cough up a new poem for the Independent Study. I love poetry, don't get me wrong: since they're so short, I can scratch up a crappy sonnet or villanelle in under an hour, sit on it for a couple days, come back and realize it's crap but that I still like the central metaphor, so I'll change it to be better, either by changing its form (maybe even to free verse...gasp of dismay) or changing the diction or rhythm.
But my real passion lies in story-telling. Not that you can't tell a story through a poem, but poetry is different...there's limited space and possibly one of the biggest aspects of poetry is that the best of it is entirely suggestive, capable of presenting a vague concrete idea--and sometimes not even that--but with infinite layers of possibility, depending on each reader's personal poetics (everyone has one!). Now, good fiction has great suggestibility too, but even the most suggestive short story has a lot more concrete information than a poem. Most poems don't have "characters," for one. It generally takes a lot longer to write a good short story than a good poem; but, for me, the satisfaction of writing a good short story is way better than writing a good poem. All the levels of complexity...narrative voice, character voice, plot techniques, characterization, rhetorical/grammatical techniques...it's like, to me, a poem is a work of obscure yet completely idiosyncratic modern art, whereas a story is like a piece of classical landscape or portrait art, conveying a clear surface meaning, but then as one delves deeper into the specifics of the painting--the composition, materials used, techniques used, perspectives, positioning, the use of shadows, light, color--then the viewing of the painting becomes an individual experience for each viewer, and each person, depending on his/her taste, temperament, background, and sensitivities, might come away with a completely different emotional response or interpretation. It takes skill--mad skill--to pull off a piece of art, visual or verbal, that can do all those things.
I feel since I've been so engrossed with poetry that it's taking away from my prosaic abilities--despite the simultaneous need for good prosaic ability for certain other classes. Also I'm just lazy...extremely lazy. I make excuses like since I'm an introvert I need at least a couple hours of "down time" (aka doing nothing of any importance at all) to regain my "energy" (which mysteriously never returns but just keeps seeping away). What I really need to do is come to grips with one fact: that being a good writer requires work--hard work, and lots of it. I don't want to be a hypocrite: a couple of my peers in the Writing major are those pretentious, snobby types that talk at the speed of light about their intricate projects and ideas and whatnot, and yet never seem to have anything to show for all their talk. "Well, it's on my computer and I don't feel like wasting paper," or "I'm still revising it and don't want anyone to see it yet because it's not my best work" are just a couple lame excuses I get from them when I ask if I can read and possibly critique their work. I may not be a writing machine, but when I do write I really try to make it good and am not afraid to tell people the details or give them drafts to look over. Despite their pretention, these writers are pretty good--from what I've seen--and I value their input, and any input, for that matter. But if I don't want to be a hypocrite for thinking badly of them not actually writing, that means I actually need to get writing myself.
I've decided that I'm going to force myself to write everyday. My favorite writing professor--an old-timer with lots of industry and teaching experience--thinks that it's good to have a length goal for each day; after all, he says, 1 page a day equals 300 words a day, therefore 1 page a day for a year equals 109,500 words: a more-than-average length for a novel. But I, personally, don't think a length goal is the right thing for me: I mean, sure, I can shell out several pages a day, but they might be crap or about nothing, and I'd just delete them the next day. What's the point of that? I mean yeah, it would be "practice," but I know from experience with papers/stories for school that sometimes I sacrifice meaning for word count just so I can say I fulfilled that goal. No, I think I'm going to go for time goal: 1 hour of personal writing a day. That means my own work, my own ideas, not related to school assignments. I think an hour is reasonable, since I need other time each day to work on stuff required for school. I'll even log my time, and maybe, at the end of the month, if I've managed to say loyal to myself and my professed lifestyle choice, I'll reward myself. How? I don't know...maybe with an extra special drink at wing night instead of the standard 1$ Yuengling lager, or a special outing with friends or something...I'll come up with something. I think this personal scheduling will be good for me, since I'm such a free spirit...so free and lackadaisical that if I don't have a schedule, I won't do anything at all. I'm serious. If I don't have anything to do, nothing scheduled, I will seriously do absolutely nothing, which either entails just that--nothing, just sitting there daydreaming or even sleeping--or doing something mind-numbing, like computer games or surfing the net or reading books by Christopher Paolini (that's right, I said it...his Eragon books are poorly written, genre rip-off cliches filled with fantasy archetypes that might have been interesting when they were original but now have lost all their flavor, like a single piece of gum chewed obsessively for an entire day). I've made up my mind: I NEED to write, and every day, or I'll never get better, and no journals will ever accept my stuff.
I also plan on being more proactive and interested when I submit things to journals. So far I've only submitted to journals that offer online services, because I'm too lazy and miserly to take the effort to send stuff to more reputable and accessible journals by mail. I'll start sending stories, too, not just poetry. So far I've been leisurely sending off random samples of what I think is my best poetry to random journals, one at a time, with the vague hope of seeing my name in print. I'm a senior now and I think I need to start being more proactive with my own life. Up until now I feel like I've been on a ride for my own life...stuff just happened and I simply reacted. Now, soon, things won't just happen at all unless I make them happen. This might as well be a New Year's resolution, because from here on out I'm living a different life: the life of a WRITER, and not someone who wishes TO BE a "writer." Maybe I'll celebrate the anniversaries of this decision. Who knows?
However, I really really REALLY want to BE a writer. And, for a time in my life, I was...I'd excitedly jot down ideas and trigger phrases at 3am after having a bizarre dream; I'd spend hours fine-tuning a certain sentence in a story; I'd agonize for days over a single word-choice in a poem. So the question is...what happened? Where'd my fire go?
I'm sad to say this, but I think that my Writing major classes have stolen that fire. And I don't mean that the flames were diverted from one aspect of writing to another, that my zeal and passion--unabated--changed direction...no. It's more like someone caught my creative lightning in a jar and turned it into a smeary yellow lightbulb hanging by a wire from the ceiling of some sterile retirement home's cafeteria. All my writing focus has gone to academic papers, research papers, and teacher-assigned story prompts (skeletal plot points that I myself would never write or think of reading). At the end of the day, I'm not even exhausted: I'm bored, bored to the point of tears, bored so that even the thought of doing something interesting seems boring. I'd rather, after class, just sit there and do something mindless like watch TV or read Twilight (yes, I said it, and for the record, I haven't read the book and don't intend to). Also, after all that, I need to cough up a new poem for the Independent Study. I love poetry, don't get me wrong: since they're so short, I can scratch up a crappy sonnet or villanelle in under an hour, sit on it for a couple days, come back and realize it's crap but that I still like the central metaphor, so I'll change it to be better, either by changing its form (maybe even to free verse...gasp of dismay) or changing the diction or rhythm.
But my real passion lies in story-telling. Not that you can't tell a story through a poem, but poetry is different...there's limited space and possibly one of the biggest aspects of poetry is that the best of it is entirely suggestive, capable of presenting a vague concrete idea--and sometimes not even that--but with infinite layers of possibility, depending on each reader's personal poetics (everyone has one!). Now, good fiction has great suggestibility too, but even the most suggestive short story has a lot more concrete information than a poem. Most poems don't have "characters," for one. It generally takes a lot longer to write a good short story than a good poem; but, for me, the satisfaction of writing a good short story is way better than writing a good poem. All the levels of complexity...narrative voice, character voice, plot techniques, characterization, rhetorical/grammatical techniques...it's like, to me, a poem is a work of obscure yet completely idiosyncratic modern art, whereas a story is like a piece of classical landscape or portrait art, conveying a clear surface meaning, but then as one delves deeper into the specifics of the painting--the composition, materials used, techniques used, perspectives, positioning, the use of shadows, light, color--then the viewing of the painting becomes an individual experience for each viewer, and each person, depending on his/her taste, temperament, background, and sensitivities, might come away with a completely different emotional response or interpretation. It takes skill--mad skill--to pull off a piece of art, visual or verbal, that can do all those things.
I feel since I've been so engrossed with poetry that it's taking away from my prosaic abilities--despite the simultaneous need for good prosaic ability for certain other classes. Also I'm just lazy...extremely lazy. I make excuses like since I'm an introvert I need at least a couple hours of "down time" (aka doing nothing of any importance at all) to regain my "energy" (which mysteriously never returns but just keeps seeping away). What I really need to do is come to grips with one fact: that being a good writer requires work--hard work, and lots of it. I don't want to be a hypocrite: a couple of my peers in the Writing major are those pretentious, snobby types that talk at the speed of light about their intricate projects and ideas and whatnot, and yet never seem to have anything to show for all their talk. "Well, it's on my computer and I don't feel like wasting paper," or "I'm still revising it and don't want anyone to see it yet because it's not my best work" are just a couple lame excuses I get from them when I ask if I can read and possibly critique their work. I may not be a writing machine, but when I do write I really try to make it good and am not afraid to tell people the details or give them drafts to look over. Despite their pretention, these writers are pretty good--from what I've seen--and I value their input, and any input, for that matter. But if I don't want to be a hypocrite for thinking badly of them not actually writing, that means I actually need to get writing myself.
I've decided that I'm going to force myself to write everyday. My favorite writing professor--an old-timer with lots of industry and teaching experience--thinks that it's good to have a length goal for each day; after all, he says, 1 page a day equals 300 words a day, therefore 1 page a day for a year equals 109,500 words: a more-than-average length for a novel. But I, personally, don't think a length goal is the right thing for me: I mean, sure, I can shell out several pages a day, but they might be crap or about nothing, and I'd just delete them the next day. What's the point of that? I mean yeah, it would be "practice," but I know from experience with papers/stories for school that sometimes I sacrifice meaning for word count just so I can say I fulfilled that goal. No, I think I'm going to go for time goal: 1 hour of personal writing a day. That means my own work, my own ideas, not related to school assignments. I think an hour is reasonable, since I need other time each day to work on stuff required for school. I'll even log my time, and maybe, at the end of the month, if I've managed to say loyal to myself and my professed lifestyle choice, I'll reward myself. How? I don't know...maybe with an extra special drink at wing night instead of the standard 1$ Yuengling lager, or a special outing with friends or something...I'll come up with something. I think this personal scheduling will be good for me, since I'm such a free spirit...so free and lackadaisical that if I don't have a schedule, I won't do anything at all. I'm serious. If I don't have anything to do, nothing scheduled, I will seriously do absolutely nothing, which either entails just that--nothing, just sitting there daydreaming or even sleeping--or doing something mind-numbing, like computer games or surfing the net or reading books by Christopher Paolini (that's right, I said it...his Eragon books are poorly written, genre rip-off cliches filled with fantasy archetypes that might have been interesting when they were original but now have lost all their flavor, like a single piece of gum chewed obsessively for an entire day). I've made up my mind: I NEED to write, and every day, or I'll never get better, and no journals will ever accept my stuff.
I also plan on being more proactive and interested when I submit things to journals. So far I've only submitted to journals that offer online services, because I'm too lazy and miserly to take the effort to send stuff to more reputable and accessible journals by mail. I'll start sending stories, too, not just poetry. So far I've been leisurely sending off random samples of what I think is my best poetry to random journals, one at a time, with the vague hope of seeing my name in print. I'm a senior now and I think I need to start being more proactive with my own life. Up until now I feel like I've been on a ride for my own life...stuff just happened and I simply reacted. Now, soon, things won't just happen at all unless I make them happen. This might as well be a New Year's resolution, because from here on out I'm living a different life: the life of a WRITER, and not someone who wishes TO BE a "writer." Maybe I'll celebrate the anniversaries of this decision. Who knows?
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