Fried. No, Flambeed

I was almost ready to fall asleep--or resort to chocolate--between Advisement and class, had to stop marking assignments, as I was unable to process anything I was reading, not to mention that I was getting systemically grumpy. What to do? Ah, I'll work on something that gets me excited. And indeed, I sat at the computer, began working on the sabbatical application, and felt the desired adrenaline surge. Working on the application morphed into working on the publishing proposal--also good for an energy surge. I rather wish I'd remembered to put the book review on my flash drive, so I could work on that instead, but the sabbatical thing is due sooner, so it does make sense to get it done first.

I got a good whack in on the book review over the weekend. I hope I have a chance to talk to my 102 students about my experience/process; they may realize that writing is not easy for anyone. I started to write, got some ideas down, and began to feel lost in a sea of possibilities--so I realized it was time to back away for a bit, let the murk subside. The next day I returned to it and was able to be much more clear. The problem is trying to fit everything I want to say inside the word limit (not something my students generally experience). I reached another impasse, as just as I was starting to run out of steam, I started wondering if I need to say something about every essay in the book or if I can simply mention the overall through-lines and  specifically refer to only a few of the pieces. But if I'm going to say something about every discrete part of the book in question, I'll need to cut a lot of what I wrote. I don't mind cutting my own writing--I have to do it all the time (I'm nothing if not verbose)--but I want whatever remains to do justice to the brilliant little book I'm reviewing. None of the ideas are completely, startlingly new, but the author's presentation is compelling, provocative in the best sense, beautiful and often funny. Can't beat that with a stick. (For those of you who are interested: Shell of the Tortoise, by Don McKay. Ecopoetics, geopoetry. Very cool beans.)

In any event, I did get the requisite energy boost from working on the various proposals, so although I knew my brains actually were fried, I arrived in Fiction Writing ready to go--and the students were metaphorically lying about like so many flounder. They were beyond fried: no brain energy at all, or so little that it was submerged and stifled by the vast weight of inertia in the room.(Flounder flambe?) Part of the lack of energy can be put down to the fact that most of them were unenthused by the story we'd read--but when I dropped discussion of the story and opened the door for them to talk about their revisions, there wasn't much improvement in the enthusiasm level. A few students asked a question or two--good ones, I admit--but no real takers. I talked to them briefly about their next stories, told them to let me know if anything they read inspires an idea, either an "I'd like to try that" or a nice bank shot into something different. Still very little in the way of enthusiasm. I again made the offer of allowing them to critique one of my stories, and they perked up a little at that: they like the idea. I need to figure out whether we'll do that instead of (or along with) one of the readings, or if we'll add mine to the next workshop round (the former, I'm guessing, for time reasons). But with still about 20 minutes of class time to go, it became very clear that, short of resorting to a cattle prod, I wasn't going to get anything more out of them, so I let them go. (Didn't break my heart to be out early either.)

I was very happy that, as I was wrapping up the class, one student asked if he could make an announcement and told the others about the first meeting of the Creative Writing club, which will be tomorrow. Several were taking notes, clearly planning to go. Nice. And two stayed after class to ask me about specific portions of their revisions. I had suggested to one student that she try to find a more unique way to describe the moment for a character, and she didn't know what I meant. I told her I could have read exactly those words in any number of places (hackneyed, cliched), and when I pointed to specific phrases, she heard what I meant and said, "Well, I guess you can tell what I read." Yep: romances. I knew it, but it was amusing to have that confirmed. The other wanted more information about how to provide back story or context without simply telling it, how to drop the needed bits into the dialog or whatever--and how to determine how much is needed. She has some good impulses: her story surprised me, being a lot stronger than I'd have expected. So I'm very glad she's looking to make it even better.

It was also good to talk to the whole class about developing voice, the need to read, as much and as many different things as possible, and to listen to the world around them. I start to realize a similarity between writing fiction and acting: one needs to be able to get into the skin, hear the voice, of each character, or it falls flat. One student noted that all the stories the class had written were sad or upsetting and asked about that; yes, I said, it's easier to write about dramatic events, which usually means unhappy ones, than it is to write about happiness. Not that it can't be done--it can, and beautifully--but it's not as easy to find the real stakes, the drama, in being happy. (Joy, maybe; happy, not so much.) One asked how to make her dialog sound less immature. Several suggestions: one, listen carefully to people around you, how they talk; two, don't write chit-chat, but write what has real emotional stakes behind it (OK, sometimes the subtext of chit-chat is pretty powerful, but that's a lesson for another time); three--and perhaps most important--shut up the inner critic and just write.

But speaking of that desire for more maturity in her writing--which came from Ms Romance Novel--she noted with admiration and envy the writing of the young man who did the deceptively simple story I enjoyed so much. Perfect entree for me to note that part of my instructions for their first story--routinely ignored--was to write one specific, telling event. Oh, their faces said; we forgot about that. Another student complained about the length limitations, but I told him that having to write short--really short--is an exercise in figuring out what matters most. I did remove the upper limit from their revisions and from their next stories: a minimum of four pages, period. But I did warn them to still keep it as tight and clear as possible: sticking within four to six pages is ferocious practice in discipline. (And, Prof. TLP, take note for yourself: if it's good advice for them, it's good advice for you, too.)

But I natter. I am going to cancel the rest of my evening office hour (not that anyone will show up: people see me by appointment only)--and I'm getting out of here. I don't know whether I'll be stronger tomorrow, but I hope I'll be more rested, and can leap into the work in the morning with verve and enthusiasm.