Category Archives: MFA in Creative Writing

“The Writer in the Family”

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This week’s lecture posed the questions: “Why do you write? What does it mean for you to be a writer? What do you want your stories and novels to do?”

I write because I love to write. Even when I don’t love what I’m writing or when the pain of writer’s block sets in, I continue to write because I love writing. It’s who I am. I’m a writer. I want my stories to fulfill my need to write them.

In the short story “The Writer in the Family,” E.L. Doctorow opens: “In 1955, my father died with his ancient mother still alive in a nursing home.” As a reader, I’m chuckling uncomfortably already and asking myself questions. For one, why doesn’t he refer to his father’s mother as grandma, nana, mum-mum or any other cutesy name we tend to use when describing our parents’ parents?

“The Writer in the Family” grabbed me immediately. Maybe it was the empty way the narrator spoke of his recently deceased father or maybe it was Doctorow’s snarky “ancient mother still alive in a nursing home.” The way the story is narrated is both bitter and funny, and I love that. Would she have been dead in a nursing home? It also reminds me of the way we as people speak sarcastically of our families when we have deep-rooted, hard to understand issues with them.

Non-writers get to simply speak this stuff out. Whether the stuff, if you will, is good or bad, they talk about it, deal with it and move on. They brag about their kids at family functions, bash their in-laws in the form of a joke at a cocktail party, update a passive aggressive Facebook status or two, and/or commiserate mutual marital problems with friends over coffee. Or maybe they skip all of those middle men (and women) and go directly to a psychiatrist. Well, writers write. This is how we deal with it… whatever it is.

The part in the story I most related to came early. “You’re the writer in the family,” the narrator’s aunt says. She butters him up with flattery, lays on the guilt and then asks him to write a fake letter to his grandmother pretending to be his father. The narrator clearly doesn’t want to do this. Who would? But he goes on: “That evening, at the kitchen table, I pushed my homework aside and composed a letter.” He writes the letter and the aunt is brought to tears by it.

Being the writer in my family has its advantages and disadvantages, too. I get to be the “artistic” and the “creative” one. However, I also get to be the “moody” and “obsessive” one. I can’t argue. I am all of those things. I get to write all the resumes (my dad once said “you made me sound like me only better.”), cover letters, eulogies, holiday card messages, love poems, complaint and/or thank you letters which typically start out “dear sir or madam.” I get to proofread all the homework (well, all but math). Last week my brother Frank called and asked me to write him a “fake note” saying why he kept his 16-year-old son, my nephew C.J., home from school. When he argued that “raging diarrhea” wasn’t a good enough reason, I argued it was much better than “I took him to the Eagles game. They lost… again.” Even though these things can be, at times, annoying, I say “I get to…” because, even when it feels like a curse, it is still a privilege to write.

As Doctorow’s story continues, the letters (and the guilt) progress and they weave into a sort of life story. It’s not a true story but in a way that doesn’t matter. It becomes Jonathan’s father’s story, a legacy of sorts, and though it begins as a way to protect the frail dying grandmother, it becomes something bigger. The letters help the family to grieve and they help Jonathan learn and come to terms with his father’s life and death, as well. Even when Jonathan expresses his desire to stop writing the letters, he can’t. He needs to do this. He is being called to do this. Not simply by guilt or grief or love or some sort of family obligation, but by that inner voice inside of him who tells him who and what he is. Like you and me, he is a writer.

Works in Progress

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When I quit my job as an event planner to pursue my literary dream, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I didn’t realize my life was changing forever.

I banged out a novel in three months. I was proud of it though I knew it needed work. But I’d reached the finish line on something that had been a goal of mine for a very long time. It felt good. The feeling was so good that I decided to submit it to agencies and publishing houses. I received feedback from several, rejections from most. All of this inspired my second draft.

Joyce Carol Oates says: “Any artist who is impatient with revision is probably doomed to be forever an amateur: “promising” through a lifetime.”

How fitting. Each of us shows promise as writers. Whether it’s through talent or drive or a combination of the two, there is a promise for something more.

I’ve now written two whole novels, though neither is finished. Now I’m writing a third and a fourth while revising the first two. Friends say funny things, like “You’ll never be happy. Just self publish already” or “You’re just afraid to be finished.”

No, that’s not it at all. I’m afraid to say something is finished when it’s not. I’m afraid of putting my name on something that hasn’t reached its potential. I’m afraid that finishing it now would be the equivalent of throwing in the towel long before the game is over. I have so much to learn and my writing continues to improve with each new lesson. Self-publishing certainly has its merits but I’m not ready for that either. If I knew my work was “perfect” or even close, maybe I’d consider it. But though I‘ve come so far I know I’m not even close to where I need to be.   

Oates says: “Writing can be revised, living cannot.”

What a great Facebook status! Also, what a fun way to look at this process we have chosen! Writing gives us the opportunity to strive for perfection or at least our idea of perfection. As writers we can continue to improve through our writing and we never have to stop improving—even after we say something is final. I’ve heard of many professional writers who continue to tweak their manuscripts even after they’ve been published. Perhaps that’s the perfectionist spirit or maybe it’s hard to break the habit of consistent improvement? Maybe it’s the promise to be the best we can be or to see the writing reach its purpose. Are we ever really done? 

Oates says: “We don’t know what we’ve written until we read it through as a reader, expelled from the process of the work, and no longer as a writer enthralled by its creation.”

This seems true and yet I wonder if I’ll ever be able to separate myself enough from my work to be able to be a reader and not also the writer? How is it possible to make that distinction? As a mother, I know it’s impossible to see my daughter as a child without also being her mother. I gave birth to her. Whether it’s a child or a creative work being born from another, how can the person giving birth be expected to be objective? Is it possible?

Oates says: “Lady Chatterly’s Lover exists in three quite unique manuscript versions of which the last was the one to be published, and become infamous.” In her lecture this week, my writing professor says: “Those who have been writing for a long time will usually tell you that what they start out with only bears a partial resemblance to what they reach at the end.”

Being on my fourth complete overhaul of my first novel, this gives me hope. This draft will be nothing like the first. Versions two and three were already dramatically different. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever “finish” this novel. I don’t know. But I know I’ll never stop trying.

Another Sleepless Night (a short short)

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Note: This short short story was inspired by an exercise in the book “3AM Epiphany.”

The instructions of the exercise were to combine an original poem of my own with a poem previously written by a professional poet, and use them to create a new 700 word short story.

For the professional poem, I chose one called Sleepless Night written by Tiziano Thomas Dossena and made a few tense changes for the sake of consistency in my story. This is what I came up with…

Another Sleepless Night:

A sleepless night spent struggling through the meanders of my mind in endless explorations, I laid there staring at the ceiling wondering and worrying about nothing important while waiting for the Sandman to come.

Instead of counting sheep, an exercise that never made much sense to me, I counted nonessential items I’d lost and random things I’d forgotten to do. In fact, it wasn’t until my 3AM epiphany when I realized those infinitely unimportant items on my life’s ‘to do’ list.

Innumerable considerations scattered around as stars in the sky, none with enough light of its own but adaptable in their interconnection to show me the way. The harmony of the universe, confined for a moment in the boundaries of my head, exploded in its beauty.

At some point in between stressing over that missing flip flop and trying to recall if I remembered to set the timer on the coffee pot, I sank into slumber. The thirst for knowledge had kneeled at my need of sensations.

Bittersweet memories of lovers past, some real and others made up in my mind, erased all the powerful thoughts leaving a proven soul sighing in an exhausted body. The dread of the night had subsided and a sudden warmth had overtaken me. While the first sunbeam snuck through the window I suddenly remembered how to sleep.

A split second or maybe an eternity passed and I was asleep and, yet, I was aware I was dreaming. I didn’t mind. I’d had this dream before. And it was a good one.

“Hello, Alejandro,” I said in a fuck me tone I’d have probably never used in real life.

Alejandro didn’t respond. He knew there was no time for conversation or mindless chit chat. There was business that needed attending to and he and I were on a stiff deadline.

Wasting no time, Alejandro climbed into my bed and kissed me. His breath was close and warm like a space heater. In retrospect, it may have been the space heater. I tried to focus while he drew a line from my mouth downward with his tongue. My mind fell away and my skin seized the day. My spine lifted as I pushed into him. He pulled back, pursed his lips and blew a cool concentrated breath across my stomach. I gripped the sheet beneath me tightly and hoped it wasn’t a cold wind coming in through my window being sent to interrupt us.

Not wanting to take any chances, I turned over onto him and returned the favor.

“Let’s get this party started,” I said.

In real life, I never would have said that. I was aware of that. Still, my dream lover, Alejandro, smiled like it was the coolest thing he’d ever heard. So I rewarded him.

It took but a split second to satisfy him. It was my dream and my rules after all and I was anxious to take my turn.

Alejandro was just about to go down on me again when Mother tapped on my window that morning seizing my skin with her breeze and my mind with the click-clack of leaves falling from trees. Still I squeezed my pillow in denial. If you knew Alejandro like I’d known him, you wouldn’t have blamed me.

My thighs held on to Alejandro’s face and my eyes held on tightly to slumber—a slumber that had eluded me for so long. I pressed hard on my subconscious Snooze and I writhed in pleasure as Alejandro finished what he came to do.

Afterward I wanted to snuggle but my brain wouldn’t allow it. Like a cheap date with an adventurous streak, he dined and dashed. Unfortunately, the man of my dreams was also a jerk. He came and went as he pleased.

I didn’t have time to miss him or pine over him or negotiate him back. I wasn’t beyond lying to myself to keep a good dream going—or a bad man, like Alejandro.

But my loving Mother found another way to keep us apart. She sent the rain to trickle and tickle sweetly on my subconscious mind with its dripdropdrip dripdropdrip. Autumn sensations replaced with those of coffee and cream and delicious caffeine.

Apparently I remembered to set the timer. Suddenly I was awake.

More Prose, Stuff She Says and How It Relates

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When asked by her students to share one final lesson on writing, Francine Prose replied: “The most important things (are) observations and consciousness. Keep your eyes open, see clearly, think about what you see, ask yourself what it means.” As writers and as writing students we should take this advice to heart. We often hear the words: “Write what you know.” This is basically another way of saying that. Prose is saying write what you know but she is also saying think critically about what you know and what you think you know. In order to write, we need to truly know what we’re writing about. Otherwise, what’s the point?

Octavia Butler makes it a point to know what she’s writing about. Not only does she clearly research the past and incorporate what she has learned about that distant time and place into her novel but she also incorporates her own experience and feelings into it. In Kindred, The Storm (page 191), Butler writes: “Rufus’s time demanded things of me that had never been demanded before, and it could easily kill me if I did not meet its demands. That was a stark, powerful reality that the gentle conveniences and luxuries of this house, of now, could not touch.”

Butler’s working knowledge of the past and the present (1976: Dana’s present and Butler’s) is profound. She shares what she knows about both settings and she incorporates her own raw human emotion so that we can be right there with her, feeling with her.  I believe this is what makes great writers—the ability to emotionally connect the story to its readers.  

Prose also says: “I told my class that we should, ideally, have some notion of whom or what a story is about—in other words, as they say so often in workshops, whose story is it? To offer a reader that simple knowledge, I said, wasn’t really giving much. A little clarity of focus costs the writer nothing and paid off.”

In Kindred, Olivia Butler never loses sight of whom and what her story is about. Dana’s journey, the people and places she encounters, and the lessons she learns along the way are not simply revealed but they are carried throughout the whole novel and interlocked thematically. We can’t lose sight of things which are always there and which stay with us as we turn each page. 

Butler does not write for the sake of writing or give us anything that isn’t critical to the story’s progression. Every element she shares has a purpose. As a student who is studying Butler, I’d love to know if this is something that comes naturally to her or if it’s a product of stringent editing. My gut tells me it’s probably a combination of the two and as I nurture my craft that gives me hope.

When I write I often get lost in the writing and I sometimes lose track of the big picture. Sometimes I don’t even see the big picture until I’m editing. Because of that, I often have a lot to chop. Chopping these days isn’t as painful as it used to be (these days I think of editing like getting a haircut—if the ends are dead, why keep them?). Back when chopping was more painful, I used to keep a growing list of my chopped lines and phrases. I didn’t want to throw them away altogether so instead I saved them so that I could later turn to them if and when I felt stuck in a story. I stopped doing that because I realized it was holding me back. Those words and sentences were cut for a reason. Recycling is great for the environment but I’m not so sure the same can be said about recycling words or relationships. In my opinion, it’s better to say goodbye for good to an old flame (or old words and sentences in this case) instead of holding on and hoping he or she might eventually be right for a friend.  

As with most things in life, my writing is getting better with practice and, of course, reading the work of other writers helps too. By studying novels like Kindred and paying close attention to such masterpieces and deconstructing them with the help of the lectures and lessons, I’m learning the importance of the big picture and how that concept relates back to my own writing. It’s not just about telling a story, manifesting themes and communicating messages. It’s also about creating something—not just a sum of parts, but rather something whole—that delivers on its promise and ties all the pieces together without leaving anything important out or stuffing anything irrelevant in.

Gesture Abuse

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In  the chapter on Gesture in “Reading Like a Writer,” Prose says: “Perhaps I should say that my definition of gesture includes small physical actions, often unconscious or semi-reflexive, including what is called body language and excluding larger, more definite or momentous actions. I would not call picking up a gun and shooting someone a gesture. On the other hand, language—that is, word choice—can function as a gesture: the way certain married refer to their spouses as him or her is a sort of gesture communication passion, intimacy, pride, annoyance, tolerance, or some combination of the above.”

In the story “A Temple of the Holy Ghost,” Flannery O’Connor is very descriptive. Through his vivid descriptions he makes it so easy to picture settings and characters in our mind. In fact, he describes each character in his story so explicitly that he inevitably uses gestures to continue his descriptions. Throughout the story, he bounces back and forth between description and gesture, peppering in at least one or the other (and often both) into every single sentence.

Flannery begins the story with multiple descriptions and gestures. In the very first line, he says: “All week end the two girls were calling each other Temple One and Temple Two, shaking with laughter and getting so red and hot that they were positively ugly, particularly Joanne who had spots on her face anyway.”

“Temple One” and “Temple Two” are gestures similar to Prose’ example of “him” or “her” being intimacy gestures for a married couple. In addition, “shaking with laughter” and “getting so red and hot” are also gestures. These gestures get O’Connor’s message across more eloquently and pointedly than any description could. We know immediately that these two girls have a close connection since not only do they have pet names for each other but even their pet names are tied together (the names themselves reminded me of Disney’s Thing One and Thing Two). Then in the same sentence “shaking with laughter” and “getting so red and hot” gives the reader images of hilarity and an overall giddy BFF-ness that cannot be misinterpreted. These two are not just friends; they are best friends.

Prose also says: “Even the greatest writers may use stock gestures or employ gesture badly.” When O’Connor writes, on page 462, “…and the child was convulsed afresh, threw herself backward in her chair, fell out of it, rolled on the floor and lay there heaving” is a good example of this. It was just too much. While each phrase is familiar and gets the message across that the child was hysterical, the sum unfortunately breaks the believability of the story. Basically, he went too far with the gestures. 

As I grow as a writer, I’m learning that overusing gestures, putting them where they don’t belong or stuffing them in useless spots where they do nothing for story progression are all easy things to do. Perhaps too easy.

Prose explains:  “Too often gestures are used as markers, to create beats and pauses in a conversation that, we fear, may rush by too quickly.” I do this all the time. In a misguided attempt to find a nice cadence, I often lean on gestures. I wasn’t aware of it until now but I’m guilty. To break up dialogue or to add action where none exists I’ll throw in the unnecessary hair flip or the occasional eye-roll. I shudder to think how many times I’ve made a character glance down at the floor or sigh in disbelief. Not only do I agree with Prose that we employ gestures when we’re seeking a certain rhythm but I think we also lean on them during times when we’re simply at a loss for action.

I want to keep this lesson and some others in the forefront of my mind as I approach my revisions. Reading Prose’ chapter on gestures and realizing that even highly successful writers, at times, lean too heavily on, overuse and downright abuse gestures altogether is helping me come to terms with my own gesture addiction.

Reading Out Loud

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I often read out loud.

In fact, I feel the need to read everything I write out loud, not just because I like to hear my own words (though I’m sure that’s part of it) but more so because I have to hear the words in order to know for sure whether or not they’re right—contextually, rhythmically and, if it’s dialogue, right for the character speaking. No matter what I write, I need to hear the words.

For similar reasons, I recently started purchasing audio books and listening to the narrator read out loud while I visually read along.

I like to read others’ works out loud, too. In workshops, I often read the submissions of other writers, those I’m meant to critique, out loud. Doing so helps me focus entirely on the words and phrases as if my own voice cancels out distracting noises. Just the act of reading aloud helps me better absorb the information and it keeps me connected to it instead of spiraling off into my own head to add bullet points to any number of mental ‘to do’ lists.

I once lost my voice (literally) reading a 300 page manuscript out loud before submitting it for consideration to an agency.

For the past few weeks I’ve been reading Kindred by Octavia Butler to my three-year-old. I’m reading and analyzing it for a class and since I read to my daughter everyday anyway, I guess you could say I’m killing two birds with one stone (you’d probably only say that if you love clichés as much as I do).

Anyway, it’s not your typical toddler story but Lyla doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seems to enjoy hearing me read it to her. Maybe she somehow knows how much it’s helping me.

“Borges and I”

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I’m glad this story was merely a single page because I had to read it several times to fully understand it. How can something so brief manage to be so complex, powerful and true? The more I analyzed it the more I understood what Borges was trying to say and I’m glad because what he wrote rang true for me.

This week’s lecture on Setting and Atmosphere says: “Does “Borges and I” have a setting? In a traditional manner, no, but it does project a sort of “outer envelope” that surrounds the text, an atmosphere of thought. The setting might be somewhat invisible, but not non-existent. Perhaps it is what thinking might look like, a kind of dream space. And there are objects and details for the reader to zoom in on: “the arch of an entry,” “the portal of a church,” “the clumsy plucking of a guitar” (Borges 277). If not the mind, maybe time itself is the setting of this very short piece, or a human soul.”

This made a great deal of sense to me. The setting is in the author’s head and his subconscious mind. It exists but not in the same way a city exists. It exists in his mind.

“Borges and I” describes a kind of internal struggle that the author feels between his private and public selves, between what he writes and who he is, between his thoughts and how he expresses them. It’s a way of putting into words what we cannot actually see, hear or touch. How does one describe something that exists only in the mind?

He says: “It would be an exaggeration to consider our relationship hostile. I live, I agree to go on living, so that Borges may fashion his literature; that literature justifies me.” It seemed to me almost as though the author is admitting he’s depressed. He defines himself by his writing and so much so that he would cease to exist without it. It’s not just how he defines himself but it’s also what he lives for. That’s profound.

It’s beyond deep and, yet, I bet every writer can relate to this feeling on some level.

This story made me think of my own story. Not just the stories I write but also the one I’m living. I’d been writing full time for two years when my daughter was born. She wasn’t home a week and I was pitching one novel and writing another. Postpartum depression set in and even thought I fought it and denied it, on some level I knew it was there. Still, to his day, I’m unsure if the depression was entirely a result of childbirth and the lack of sleep that comes with it or the onslaught of rejections that come hand in hand with pitching a first manuscript. It was probably a combination but I knew I had to embrace my feelings in order to get through it. Family and friends urged me to take a break from writing but I knew I couldn’t stop writing because it would have been like killing the part of me that made me who I am.

Writing isn’t just a profession or a hobby, it’s an existence. It’s not just what we are—it’s who we are. We are defined by the words we put on paper as if we gave birth to them.

Borges writes: “Little by little I am surrendering everything to him, although I am well aware of his perverse habit of falsifying and exaggerating.” This brought me right back to Prose and what she says about “good liars.” In a way, writers of fiction are liars in that we are making up stories and telling them in such a way that the make-believe becomes believable. Good writers are able to pull this off much like “good liars” are able to seem genuine.

 

“Kindred” by Octavia Butler (The Fall)

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Our protagonist, Dana, starts the chapter showing us how she met and fell in love with her husband, Kevin, and what her life was like just prior to meeting him. We get to know her.

Something I found poignant was how she referred to her job with the casual labor industry as “a slave market.” When I read that in the first paragraph I knew this chapter was going to show Dana’s perspective change. Looking back, she states: “It was nearly always mindless work, and as far as most employers were concerned, it was done by mindless people. Nonpeople rented for a few hours, a few days, a few weeks. It didn’t matter.” She is an aspiring writer and though she feels this job is beneath her, she does it—half asleep and popping No Doz but she does it. A new perspective for her came painfully in “The Fire” as she saw real slaves and was even beaten by the patroller, but because of this flashback of sorts into her past we get to see where it started and appreciate her shift of awareness.

We also learn on page 57 that Kevin, her husband or at this point future husband is “a kindred spirit crazy enough (like her) to keep on trying.” In this one line, we know he will keep trying for as long as she does and that tells us all we really need to know—he will be her partner. They’re kindred spirits, similar to Dana and her ancestors. So on the very next page when we see them “fall” together into the past to the moment when Rufus just “fell” and broke his leg, it’s not just an interesting thematic namedrop moment (even though I loved that we were given “kindred” and “fall” in the same chapter) but we also know he will play a big role in Dana’s adventure.

In “The Fall,” Dana and Kevin acquire motivation. In “The Fire” it was all about how Dana was going to get out of this place and time and back home, but in “The Fall” it’s about supporting each other and after Rufus—not just because he’s a child who needs help but also because he is, in such a profound way, Dana’s past. By helping him, she also helps her ancestors and herself.

My thoughts are summed up by Butler in this paragraph: “I was the worst possible guardian for him—a black to watch over him in a society that considered blacks subhuman, a woman to watch over him in a society that considered women perennial children. I would have all I could do to look after myself. But I would help him as best I could. And I would try to keep friendship with him, maybe plant a few ideas in his mind that would help both me and the people who would be his slaves in the years to come. I might even make things easier for Alice.”

As the chapter progresses, this motivation grows. Later in a conversation with Kevin, who has been hired to teach Rufus, Dana says, “Let me help you with Rufus as much as I can. Let’s see what we can do to keep him from growing up into a red-haired version of his father.”

While Kevin and Dana share perspective in their present day, it seems, their motivations in the past do not line up. While Dana is beginning to bond and show desire to fix things, Kevin is still motivated by “home.” On page 100 he says, “Look, I won’t say I understand how you feel about this because maybe that’s something I can’t understand. But as you said, you know what’s going to happen. It already has happened. We’re in the middle of history. We surely can’t change it. If anything goes wrong, we might have all we can do to survive it. We’ve been lucky so far.” I wonder if this difference of motivations will cause conflict later between Dana and Kevin. 

Going back to Prose and analyzing what she says in her chapters on character and dialogue along with what I’m trying to accomplish as a writer, I am absorbing a ton through reading Kindred. Through lesson with Prose and through example with Kindred, this week I learned the importance of depth when it comes to characters. Butler gives Dana depth by sharing her original perspective and motivation and then changing both of those things dramatically.

It’s not enough to know what a character looks like; it’s important to go deeper. We must figure out and then project to the reader the character’s motivations. It’s also crucial to give a character perspective so that it can change as he or she grows.

“Aren’t You Happy for Me?” by Richard Bausch

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“Aren’t You Happy for Me?” by Richard Bausch is an excellent example to showcase this week’s lecture as well as Francine Prose’ chapters on character and dialogue.

The story is a fast paced, high energy and, yet, profoundly sad and intensely frustrating peek at broken relationships and family. While the story was, at times, all over the place that added to its authenticity. It felt familiar but also uncomfortable like a true story being shared or like I was a character myself, sitting awkwardly in the room with the father and pretending not to listen.

This week’s class lecture states: “As students of writing, we are often told for example that we must describe what our characters look like, and we often do, and this is fine and even good. But, writing isn’t a formula, it is an art, and our characters certainly shouldn’t be created with a formula in mind either. Prose gives an example of the Marquise in Heinrich von Kleist’s novella The Marquise of O–, saying that “There is no information, not a single detail, about the Marquise’s appearance . . . We assume that the Marquise is beautiful, perhaps because her presence exerts such an immediate and violent effect on the Russian soldier that he loses all control and turns from an angel into a devil . . . Kleist tells you what sort of people his characters are–often impetuous, wrongheaded, overly emotional, but essentially good at heart–and then lets them run around the narrative at the speed of windup toys” (115).”

Prose goes on to say, “He (Kleist) has no time for their motives, nor do they, as they struggle, like the reader, to keep up with the pace at which one surprise follows another.”

In “Aren’t You Happy for Me?” it was easy to picture these people, flawed and full of issues and real life drama, despite the fact that Bausch doesn’t really describe them or their surroundings physically. In fact, aside from what the mother is wearing (and the smile on her face) and the characters’ ages and genders, he tells us very little about what they look like. And, yet, we still feel we know them because of their actions and words. 

For example, I imagined the daughter being pretty, fresh-faced, bratty and naïve but book smart. I pictured the father to be sad, lost, lonely, and defeated both emotionally and physically. For the most part neither one’s actions or words felt premeditated. They were guided by the situation.

In so many ways this family is my family, your family or the family of someone we know. It’s unique and, yet, familiar. You and I may have never experienced their exact situation, but we understand how they feel. As a parent, it’s easy to relate to a father who wants the best for his child. And looking back at my youth, though I never got knocked up by a much-older professor (not that I’d admit it here if I had), I feel like I can still easily relate to the daughter’s fears, anxieties and, especially her all-in-without-concern-for-the-consequences mentality. She is her age, and we’ve all been there. Descriptions are not necessary when we’re looking in the mirror.

In regards to dialogue, Prose says, “Most conversations involve a sort of sophisticated multitasking. When we humans speak, we are not merely communication information but attempting to make an impression and achieve a goal.” 

Bausch exhibits this masterfully. In the story, the dialogue is intense, choppy and inconsistent. Because of this it feels real and authentic. The conversation between father and daughter is a family nightmare but a believable one. The way the daughter drops bombshell after bombshell on her dad is crazy but classic. And the way she continuously sighs, puts him on hold and even hangs up made it feel like life in the way nothing in life goes smoothly. The fact that her fiancé was sitting there listening made me feel uncomfortable, similar to how the father felt. It was already awkward! With so many abrupt distractions and interruptions, I wanted to yell at the daughter, “Hey! Pay attention. This is your life we’re talking about!”

The chat between the father and his future “son-in-law” was relentless. It’s easy to understand the father’s frustration as he deals with his child making what he sees as the mistake of her life. And if that’s not bad enough he gets to talk to this immature adult who his daughter has chosen, for lack of a better word, as a life partner. The fact that she seems to not be listening makes it even more frustrating and realistic. There’s nothing the father can do or say to fix this situation but, like anyone in his shoes, he’s trapped in his disappointment and frustration and simply can’t argue effectively but also can’t just let it go.

Oddly enough, the father and the fiancé, due to their circumstances and disappointments in life, are also her age—emotionally speaking. The fiancé is twice a widower and the father is spiraling toward divorce and realizing that he’s about to lose his wife and daughter. At their ages, both men should know better. But the fiancée sounds more like a young college student than an experienced professor, and while the father’s advice might be seen as wise, his delivery was not. Even stranger, the mother who is separated from the situation for most of the story and soon to be separated from her husband should probably be more alarmed but simply seems disconnected, free and optimistic. Even that somhow felt natural to me given her situation with her husband.

In regards to my own writing, I’ve learned a few important lessons here about character and dialogue from Prose and Bausch. First I learned that, while helpful, descriptions aren’t always necessary to define characters. There are other ways to provide critical details and information without getting physical. For me, this validates my occasional instinct not to worry so much about the descriptions and just focus on the story. Second, I learned that there are exceptions to every rule. Regarding dialogue, some say writing can be real without being overly realistic and others disagree. So I get to decide for myself. Finally, I learned to always keep my goal front and foremost in my mind. It doesn’t matter which roads I choose to get there as long as I arrive.  

“In the American Society”

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In the story In the American Society, Gish Jen glosses over the family’s backstory and skips to their success. I think this is why, for me, the beginning felt rushed and the narrator’s initial tone seemed braggy. It was like Jen jumped to the successful part without showing the struggle first. Looking back, I needed to see the struggle.

I had trouble relating to the family from the start. Going back to Prose and the chapter on narration I analyzed in my last post, it may be that Jen wasn’t writing this to me. I certainly don’t consider junior high too soon to start saving for college. If anything that feels too late. Things like this made the family’s struggle fall flat for me.

Regarding dialogue, the term “you people” didn’t feel sincere or authentic either. While I get what Jen was trying to show, I just don’t believe that Mrs. Lardner would use it like this: “Why, I’d be honored and delighted to write you people a letter.” I’m just not buying it. It felt contrived and over the top. Then when the family mocks her in private it made me dislike them, not Mrs. Lardner.

But as I read further, I started to think that may have been her intention. Perhaps the narrator wasn’t trying to get me to like or even feel for the father and his family but, rather, maybe she was trying to get me to feel even more sympathy for the workers. If that was indeed her intention, it worked. When Booker enters the story on page 666 was the first time I felt any emotional connection whatsoever. His arrival, for me, also made the father feel real to me but only briefly. But then it all fell apart again with the way he treated his workers and then again later with talk of bribing the judge. In the back and forth between Jeremy and the father in the final pages, I felt like I was being strong-armed into feeling pity. The only thing I felt badly about was the fact that I felt no sympathy whatsoever for this man.

If this was a much longer story, I think I might have been able to grow more with the characters and my feelings would have had the chance to flow organically but, again, it felt rushed from the start.  This is the lesson I’m taking away for my own writing. Don’t rush the important stuff! 

Prose says if you know who you’re speaking to then it’s okay to “skip over slow parts” or even “hurry the narration along.” But I had trouble connecting to this story. In fact, I think it’s a prime example of how as Prose puts it: “The truly problematic question is: Who is listening?”

I tried to “listen” but I just didn’t get it. To use Prose’ words again, Jen “tossed this heartfelt confession out into the ozone” for all to experience but the tone simply wasn’t for everyone.  It didn’t work for me.