Traditional Writing Workshops and “Stephen King – On Writing”

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The traditional model of teaching creative writing may work for the majority but there will always be exceptions, due to personality, skill level and work ethic differences. I think it’s been so successful over the years primarily because of its simplicity. Get a bunch of writers together in one place to study, review each other’s work and share information, tricks-of-the-trade and experiences, and you’re bound to get interesting and thoughtful feedback and opinions.

I have had both positive and not-so-positive experiences with traditional writing workshops. While I’ve gotten a lot of good out of them, I do not believe they stack up to the “ideal.” Personally, I found it challenging to read and review so many other writers while also focusing on my own writing. In one particular workshop I participated in, students would need to review 120+ pages of text each week. This made it challenging for everyone, I think, to get their own creative juices flowing since we were spending so much time reading and critiquing each other. Also, it became clear rather quickly that not everyone was reading (or thoroughly reading) everyone else’s work. The time and energy involved, added to the fact that everyone has different interests and work ethics, made it tempting for some to simply agree with what someone else in the circle may have said. I think the element of group think in these traditional workshops can be challenging to overcome. For that reason, I believe one-on-one feedback, blind feedback or even online workshops can be more valuable to a writer’s growth because the group think mentality is eliminated and students needn’t worry about what others in the circle say, think or how they react nonverbally. In a nutshell, people tend to be more open and honest when others aren’t watching.

I found King’s book useful. I thought it was interesting, for one, to get an honest sneak peek into the mind of another writer, especially one with King’s level of success. He shared some crazy stories from his childhood (Eula-Beulah, p19-21, will stay with me forever) and also gave unique insight into critical writing elements (i.e., theme, p200, pacing, p220, research, p227). Although the book felt, at times, more like an autobiography than a memoir on craft (King himself made that note on p17), King’s storytelling caused me to realize that I should use my own memories for inspiration, as well.

Feeling Silenced

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Every writer, at one point or another, feels silenced. The classroom should be a safe place that promotes the growth of creativity, not work against it.

There have been times when I’ve felt “silenced.” I took one class, for example, where some of the other students were (or seemed to think they were) too advanced for the class. I felt intimidated and mocked by their comments and while this pushed me to toughen up and expand my knowledge, I struggled and even felt afraid to share my “lesser quality” work. In this particular case, the teacher added to the problem by constantly putting those students on pedestals and ignoring others.

In chapter four of “What Our Speech Disrupts,” Haake tells the story of a time when she was silenced by her own insecurities. She says, “Now, under the spell of Melville’s prose and genius, my future, stark as destiny, seemed clear to me. I was neither smart nor talented enough to be, as I had dreamed, a writer.” She gave up writing for four years. Looking at this in a classroom setting, a student could easily feel inferior to other students, the teacher and even famous writers and their works (like Moby Dick in Haake’s case). The feeling of inferiority can silence a student and even halt creativity. Later Haake goes on to say, “For most of us, by the time we lapse into silence, we are past the point of caring.” No matter the size of the dream or aspiration, just as we can be held back by physical issues and threats we, too, can be held back by mental and emotional ones. Creativity is both powerful and delicate in that in can move mountains but something as light as a feather can disrupt or destroy it.

An open, nurturing, non-competitive environment is necessary in preventing this. Much like a mother loves all of her children unconditionally, with all their unique qualities, a teacher must create a similarly supportive, safe environment, where students aren’t afraid to share their deepest thoughts, fears and dreams. Additionally, it’s important to make sure students know there are no “stupid” questions or “bad” writing and that everything they say or share is valuable, valid and good. Validation and grading are, of course, necessary but should be done in an honest, constructive and positive way. No student should be put above or below another student. The class should feel like a team with everyone working toward the same goal.

Since creativity is subjective, who is to say what work is “better” or “worse” than others? For this reason, students should be primarily graded by their own growth and how they express their point of view. A good argument, especially one creatively expressed, is worth more than perfectly regurgitated information. Much like it’s futile to compare apples to oranges it’s also futile to compare creative writing students to each other.

Creativity needs room to grow. It also requires time and inspiration. By providing a time and place where students feel safe, they can be free to be inspired.

I believe failure often lies in generalization. It seems to me that different approaches work for different people, so why not create a model that does, too? Much in the way kitchen cabinets can be “custom” built to meet individual needs, why couldn’t a workshop? I’d propose different classes to target specific qualities, rather than a broad range of “everyone.” Unique class descriptions, for example “workshop for beginner romance novelists” or “workshop for advanced comedic storytellers” or even something as simple as “critical creative boot camp” or “friendly feedback for all” might help people choose where they believe they’d fit, feel most empowered to participate and safest to share.

In chapter nine of “Colors of a Different Horse,” Sarbo and Moxley say, “Our current understanding of creativity shapes and limits the ways in which we can effectively intervene in our students’ creative process and leads inevitably to a clarification of our role as teachers. Familiarity with creative research increases our sensitivity to the negative effects of external evaluation; fortifies our tolerance for each student’s unique personality style, work habits, and writing process; and prepares us to supplement these preferences appropriately.”

If each student is indeed unique, then the fruit is found in unique approaches which would allow students to feel safe and really dive deep into their creativity without concern of being unfairly compared to other writers, by others or by themselves, like apples are to oranges.

Works Cited

Bishop, Wendy and Ostrom, Hans. Colors of a Different Horse. Chapter 9.

Haake, Katherine. What Our Speech Disrupts. National University. Chapters 4 and 6.

To the girl at the supermarket

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I said hello and smiled through you

And you eagerly smiled back before

Mine melted away

Into your molten scarred unrecognizable face

An innocent smile instantly replaced with sadness since

I could not hide my horror, then my shame

I peered up and down aisle after aisle

Slowly filling my cart while searching and

Wondering—how could I?

And if and how could I correct my transgression?

Should I apologize or simply start over and try again?

Offer up a joke or a note about the weather?

I wanted…

I needed another chance to prove I’m not that person

To you

To me

To the guy cleaning up in aisle three

But neither of us knows me evidently

Or even well enough to know I’d react that way

Or that I’d care this much about a complete stranger

Or that I’d obsess over you and then somehow forget you

Before suddenly spotting you again

In the last aisle

My last chance

But face to face I froze again before making amends

I was immersed in fear again

I smiled that same stupid smile again

This time sincerely hoping it might hide

My insincerity, my regret and my fear

But it didn’t.

I wanted to tell you I didn’t mean to hurt you

But my pathetic face failed us both

And you let me know I missed my chance to make it up

To you—oh who am I kidding?

To me!

This time, you didn’t smile back

This time, you looked through me

And I deserved it

I had my chance to be a better me

And I blew it

I’m so sorry.

“Last Night in Montreal”

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My first MFA course is winding down so I thought this would be as good a time as any to start sharing projects. Here’s one from a novel I really enjoyed reading…

Project: Select a character from the novel “Last Night in Montreal” and discuss whether or not that character is compelling. Explain why or why not.

Private Investigator Christopher Grayden’s daughter, Michaela, has such a profound purpose in the novel Last Night in Montreal. I found her compelling in large part because of her many parallels and juxtaposition to Lilia and because of the level and sincerity of her pain throughout the story.

As we read, we cannot help but be drawn to Lilia. She is the main character and all eyes are on her and, just like every other character in the book, we, too, can’t help but feel that she needs our help. She’s just a little girl, fragile and helpless but throughout the course of the novel, we see her grow into a woman. We get to experience her strength, resolve, intelligence and we understand how much she is truly loved.

After a while, we learn that there is really no reason to worry about Lilia. What we may have missed though along the way, as the other characters seem to have missed too, is how much Michaela needs help. She is just a little girl, too, just like Lilia, when she gets abandoned by not one but both of her parents. While Lilia has her father guiding, providing and loving her, Michaela has no one. She is left to fend for herself while everyone focuses on Lilia.

While everyone searches for a lost Lilia, paying close attention to her, sniffing out and following clues along the way, Michaela is being ignored as she cries out for help. She begs for attention, in a positive way at first, by getting good grades and even showing an interest in the circus, something her mother and father were once interested in. When positive doesn’t work, she shifts to more desperate measures and starts acting out like any kid in her position would do. Michaela is dropping clues of her own left and right, begging for help, but she is being ignored. She is desperate for anyone to love her and pay attention to her, but she never gets that. In the story, she starts to show us signs that she is jealous of Lilia and who could blame her? While this may cause the reader to dislike her (or even fear more for Lilia as we can’t help but wonder if Michaela’s jealousy will lead to an act of violence against Lilia) at first, once we start to understand Michaela better and see how fragile and shattered she is, then we begin to truly understand her and want to save her, too. But just like the characters in the story, specifically Michaela’s own father and Eli, by the time we realize she needs our help, it’s too late. 

Michaela’s climactic death took my breath away and changed my whole focus as well as what I’d previously resolved in my mind as the purpose, plot and path of the novel. In addition to how she affects us as readers, we also get to see and experience how she affects the other characters in the novel. While some characters grow because of her existence causing us to perhaps like them more, like Eli for example, other characters show weaker, uglier sides of themselves. When Michaela is speaking to her father and says “You’ve been chasing her since we were both eleven years old” it’s like she is spelling out what’s wrong with this picture. I personally wanted to shake Christopher and scream, “Can’t you see what you’re doing to your own daughter?”

While everyone, including the reader, is focused on and busy feeling one thing or another for Lilia (whether it be the feelings of unconditional love and concern from her own father, fear and hope from her brother, jealousy from Michaela and her mother, love and infatuation from Eli, or an addictive competitive desire to save her from Christopher), Michaela is ignored and lost in the shuffle.

Lilia is able to eventually grow up and find herself perhaps because she has people loving, helping and guiding her along the way, while Michaela is on a lonely one way path toward destruction. While all eyes are on Lilia, Michaela is the one left truly abandoned, alone, broken and lost along the way.

Flea Diddy

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The other night I had a dream in which my husband, Jason, brought home a dog and we named him Flea Diddy. I told him about the dream when I woke up and we both laughed. I thought it was so randomly funny that I told a few friends in conversation and I even posted it on Facebook and a friend replied, “You dream in humor, nice.”

It was rather nice. Not all of them are. I have my fair share of nightmares but usually I’m quite fond of my dreams. They are such a wonderful part of life. Don’t you agree? In a completely relaxed state, we get to visualize ourselves being and doing and achieving all sorts of magnificent things.

Sometimes, my dreams are funny.  This time, yes. I laughed a long time over Flea Diddy. Awake, I even came up with a name for his kitty sidekick: Fluff Daddy.

But, like I said, I have a variety of different types of dreams…

Happy. Sad. Occasionally scary (especially if I eat pepperoni). Hyper.Playful. Exciting. Romantic. Sexy. Sexier. Pornographic. Weird. Supernatural. Fun. Futuristic. Adventurous. Childish. Black and white and/or color, depending on the genre. Just me or featuring friends, family, strangers—sometimes with feet and sometimes without. Vivid. Interesting. Musical. Informative. Inexplicable. Random. Not so random. Memories. De ja vue. Even predictive.

I believe dreams are a connection to our subconscious. At times, my subconscious can be pretty intense. It would have to be with so much fact and fiction being simultaneously digested in there. Awake, I can tell the difference between reality and one of my novels but I’m not sure my dreams can separate the two. So whether it’s real or make believe, if it’s floating round in my brain somewhere, chances are I have or I’m going to eventually dream about it.

I’ve even learned to use my dreams to help my writing. When I get writer’s block, I’ll often opt to take a nap to break through it. Usually this works. I have had numerous literary revelations while zonked out and slobbering on my pillow. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve woken up in the middle of the night ready to write with enough detailed inspiration that I was able to do so for hours. I have instantaneously gone from a sound sleep in the dead of night to wide awake and was still typing away while watching the sun rise.

One bad part is that I talk in my sleep so even if I don’t remember a particular dream when I wake up, chances are my husband will. He can tell you stories! He has a few favorites—one about a “cantaloupe juggling machine,” for example. I have some pretty interesting, and at times crazy, dreams. Don’t we all? This has been going on for as long as I can remember. My college roommate has a few choice selections of her own that she would be happy to share. I’m sure my mom probably does, too.

Since I usually remember my dreams even without assistance, I try to get the most out of them as possible. I definitely refer to ideas from dreams in my writing and even in everyday conversation. I love talking about dreams, mine and yours, and especially the really juicy ones!  I’ve made it a point to write mine down whenever possible or jot notes here and there so that I don’t forget the really good ones.

Over time, my dreams have become clearer and crisper and, to me, more interesting and useful. I’ve even subscribed to a few dream sequels and a dream series or two. To get myself to continue a really good dream, I just focus on whatever it is I want to dream about while in bed and when I start to drift away, I visualize and try to control the topic. It’s like sleepy time meditation or setting my dream DVR.

While I can’t always control my dreams or my inspiration for my dreams, I can control what I do with them. I believe dreams are a special gift we all have been given to use however we wish. We can use them to dive deeper into our own minds and learn more about ourselves or we can use them for entertainment purposes only. Personally, I like to do a little of both.

I’m not sure if Flea Diddy, the dog of my dreams, will work his way into one of my stories. But it was certainly nice dreaming about him and analyzing what he and the rest of my dreams mean to me.

“L” is for Lyla

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Every time we pass a big yellow school bus on the street, my 2-yr-old daughter, Lyla, gets thrilled and says, “Mommy, look a schoo bus!” Sometimes she even waves to it and says “hi, schoo bus!” or “bye, schoo bus!” She leaves off the “L” at the end and, to me, that makes it even cuter.

Lyla is my inspiration for going back to school to get my MFA in Creative Writing.

I want her to believe me when I tell her again and again that she can do whatever she sets her mind to and she can become anything she wants to be. That’s what my mom used to tell me. In fact, she still tells me that and I still have no reason to doubt her. So I will teach Lyla the same. I want her to be confident and proud of herself and of her talents, skills and achievements. I want her to understand that no challenge is too big when commitment and hard work are involved. I will tell her that when all else fails, it’s OK to try harder or to try something else. But never stop trying! And most importantly, never stop believing in yourself. We are only limited by our desire to dream and our willingness to believe in ourselves.

She is looking forward to someday being big enough to ride together with the other kids on the schoo bus to the big kids’ schoo where I’m sure she’ll probably learn all about that missing “L.” I’ve been warned that I might cry when that day comes. Maybe so but for now, I plan to simply cherish my time with her as I try my best to teach her whatever I can and help her learn and grow and believe in herself.

To do that effectively, I must continue to learn and grow and believe in myself, too.

So I’m back in schoo.

And even though I don’t get to ride the wondrous yellow bus, I couldn’t be more excited about the journey. So far I’m absolutely loving every second of it.

From time to time, I plan to post some of my projects here on the blog. That way we can share the experience and you can let me know your thoughts on how I’m doing! You can even grade me if you like. Now doesn’t that sound fun?

xoxo

Boom Boom Boom

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My mom says I’ve never been the type to let grass grow under my feet, meaning when I get an idea in my head I go for it.

That made me laugh considering how much planting and gardening my husband and I have been doing this week. And, of course, then I applied for graduate school the other day and later that same night I was accepted. Since then, I’ve already scheduled my courses, handled financial aid and bought books. For something I’ve put off for so long, it’s all happening so fast.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

With no time to catch my breath or change my mind (not that I would), I’m holding on tight and embracing the process.

My first class is early next month. I’m anxious and excited and nervous… like a school girl (sorry, couldn’t resist it). I don’t know what to expect really, but I am sincerely looking forward to the whole experience and whatever the future holds. I have a good feeling and that’s good enough for me… for now.

By this time next year, I’ll be well on my way to my MFA in Creative Writing, something that’s been on my 30s Bucket List for a while now. (If you’re good) maybe I’ll share that list with you at some point and you can help me keep track of all the crazy things I continuously add to it.

We’ll see…

In the meantime, I hope you’re enjoying this lovely spring weather, finding time to recover from the darker days of winter, relaxing a little and planting some seeds of your own. It’ll be summer before we know it!

xo

Planting Trees…

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In addition to the real trees I’ve been planting with my husband in our yard, I’ve also been planting some metaphorical trees of my own.

I’ve officially applied to graduate school and if all goes as planned, next month I’ll be on my way to earning my MFA in Creative Writing.

This is something I’ve wanted to do for a while but all the moving around we’ve been doing has made getting started a bit challenging.

Well, I’ve found an online program that sounds absolutely perfect for me. It will give me the opportunity to expand my knowledge and skill set while taking my writing to the next level. I will continue focusing on my novels and I might even add a screenplay or two to the mix. Oh and my husband promised to call me “master” when I graduate. That’s a kinky incentive if I ever needed one!

This is simply another seed I’m planting in my garden. But this is one that I can take with me wherever I go. It’s time to grow. And the sky’s the limit!

I am SO excited to take this next step toward reaching my dreams.

Wish me luck!

My (Other) First Born

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In addition to several other projects I’m simultaneously working on at the moment, I’ve also been overhauling my first novel… again.

Let’s just say the third time wasn’t so charming but it’s getting there.

It’s a work in progress and while the progress keeps progressing, it also somehow keeps starting over at page one. I’m getting dizzy.

Still, I tell myself that every edit, revision, chopped sentence and tossed page brings me and my manuscript(s) closer to the ultimate goal but the process is challenging. I’m learning and growing so much and I know that that’s evident in my writing. It’s also evident that I’ve been working my ass off.

In the past month alone, I’ve cut over 30,000 words in this particular novel. Gone but not forgotten but buh-bye. I’ve replaced those words with 30,000 different words (there may have been a few repeats). Compared to the first draft (the one I finished writing, or thought I’d finished writing, four years ago), it’s a totally different story. My other novels have been changing, too, as have I.

I’ve killed characters, created new ones, changed the plot, the themes, the pace and the point. The term chop-chop means something entirely different to me these days. A close friend of mine who is also a writer recently asked me if all the chopping hurts. “Isn’t it painful?” she said. Nope, not any more. If it’s not right, then it’s not right. Every change brings me  another step closer. If I truly believe that, then time spent wallowing over chopped words is wasted time.

I’m so close… I can taste it.

And, yet, I’m only about halfway there… give or take a few thousand words.

At times, it has seemed like I’m in a foreign country, climbing a huge mountain without a guide. Will I ever get to appreciate the view from the top? I hope so but I won’t know for sure until I get there… if/when I get there. But one thing that I know for sure is that I can’t stop now. This is what I’m supposed to be doing. I can feel it in every aspect of my being. This is my mountain to climb.

While I’ve never considered giving up, I’d be lying if I said there haven’t been moments when I’ve found myself procrastinating and making excuses to do anything else…

I’m a full time mom and writer. Believe me; I have plenty of other things to do and other projects to work on. But everything else leads me back.

I eat, sleep, breathe my writing and this one project in particular owns me… for now. It’s an all-consuming, mind altering, life changing, soul destroying beast that I love with all my heart. I have other manuscripts, both completed and in progress, but this one was/is my first. You know how that goes.

Sometimes I wonder if this is what drug addicts feel like.

People often compare writing a novel to giving birth. Having done both, I can certainly feel the correlation. So, going with the same analogy, the process of overhauling a novel must be like raising that child… over and over again…

Like I said, this is my fourth overhaul of my first manuscript. This time around has been the hardest but also the most rewarding.

Even though I’m in the heart of it now, I’m certain it’s my best writing thus far. The beginning and the end changed organically. All of it just flowed out of me, no epidural needed. But now I’m writing the middle and the middle has been like a toddler having a never-ending tantrum in a supermarket… the spine chilling, stomach curdling kind that tends to get passively blamed on the terrible twos when the culprit is far more likely three sixes and a pound of sugar.

I’m trying to juggle ideas and character nuances while keeping the story and timeline straight. I’m fighting the confusion, even though I’m easily on my fourth (or is it my fifth?) beginning and ending and the middle, well, this must be at least my tenth middle my now.

The word count goes up and down while my manuscript continues to transform and my brain vomits sentences into a pile of paragraphs which somehow manifest themselves into consecutive pages.

There are times when this feels like it’s taking forever and other times when I lament that my (other) first born is growing so fast. Where has the time gone?

I promise to hang in there and keep giving it my all but God help me if this one takes 18 years to move out of the house.

Check that. God help my husband.

Loser!

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This blog goes out to all the non-winners and the people who’ve judged them…

I recently entered a writing contest and lost. No big deal. That happens… a lot. I don’t feel bad about it, considering the majority of people who enter contests lose and I’m sure I’m in good, if not great, company.

The thing is I wasn’t expecting to win. Although winning would have been awesome, that’s actually not why I entered. I entered because contests are a great way to share work and get nonbiased feedback, constructive criticism and helpful comments. For the most part, I’ve found contests to be a useful tool in improving my writing. That is my primary goal.

But recently I entered a contest and one judge in particular was pretty nasty.

It was a simple 3-page contest. How nasty can someone be judging just three pages? Well, this judge’s comments read like a lecture, were written in red and all caps and were longer than my submission. I won’t bore you with all the gory details but it included comments like, “Your main character is an idiot” and, my personal favorite, “Reading this ruined my day.”

Rejection is one thing. Believe me when I tell you that I can take it. I have 4 years into this journey toward getting my novels traditionally published. The path hasn’t been paved with fairy dust or lined with daisies and giggling teddy bears. No. It may be hard to believe but there have been zero unicorns along this uphill battle either. I keep going, despite that because I’m not in this for the fairy dust or the unicorns. I’m in it because I know I have it in me to do it.

I try to take rejection and negativity with a grain of salt. Even when it seems impossible, I try to extract something positive from it, whenever and however I can. I usually pay no mind to the haters, grumpy naysayers and know-it-alls.

I submitted my three pages and asked to be judged, not because I’m particularly masochistic. I wasn’t looking for empty accolades but I certainly wasn’t hoping or expecting to be insulted or mocked either. While I didn’t expect to win, I also didn’t expect to be spoken down to or treated like a loser. That’s far from constructive. And whether it was intentional or not, this one anonymous judge used this contest as a venue to do just that.

I doubt I was the only one scorned. Perhaps she was having a bad day or was simply PMSing. Or maybe it’s part of some strange anger management course. Or perhaps that’s simply her style and she, somehow, thinks she’s being helpful. Or maybe she’s one of those folks who haze because she was hazed. I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know much about her at all, not even a name. The only credential she listed was that she was a published author. But for someone who claims to have walked a mile or more in my shoes, she was particularly harsh.

If my skin hadn’t already been toughened by this uphill battle, I would have been hurt. I might’ve even shed a tear (or 200). If I was just starting out and less confident in my creative craft, I might have been weakened by this judge’s poor choice of words, even enough to consider giving up. Probably not though since I want this so badly. Maybe this judge somehow forgot what that feels like.

I’d like to think this judge didn’t start out this way. I want to believe she signed up to judge contests with the intention of helping other writers but somehow strayed from that mission and got carried away with the red pen. She must’ve forgotten what it feels like to be vulnerable. Or maybe she hasn’t figured out that it’s possible to be constructively critical without being a complete asshole.

Whatever you’re passionate about, don’t let anyone’s opinion kill that passion. Do whatever it takes to get better. And when people are mean to you, use that energy to grow and get stronger. For me that means writing every spare second of every day. It includes work shopping and researching and getting feedback and keeping an open mind. It means being rejected time and time again while continuing to believe in myself. And, yes, it includes entering contests, while knowing my chances of winning are slim to none.

As writers, we know the power of words. Hell! As people, we know that words can sometimes hurt. It’s OK to be critical, even to err on the side of “tough love.” But negativity breeds more negativity and an epidemic of negativity is the last thing anyone needs.

Above all else, please remember that you are dealing with real people with real emotions and real dreams.

The next time you find yourself judging someone’s work, remember that you are also judging his or her soul. Please don’t destroy it.