Could somebody please explain to me how exactly I could purchase a series of short stories and wind up reading a series of lectures? I expected something... well... something from "Juice," maybe even something good, and now I'm thoroughly convinced that there is a new hallucinatory drug on the streets referred to as "juice."
I started reading with a hopeful heart. On my break from work, I spent my half hour waiting in line for food and then sitting in front of the small pages with a burger in my hands. The words droned on and on like an endless, animalistic bleat. Goats could have been significantly more entertaining, even if they managed to piss on my work uniform (seriously, they "go" everywhere). After a while, I wondered why exactly I'm supposed to care about this main character who is alone and constantly touching herself.
"Translation" was like a nightmarish version of Cast Away, but without any sympathy or sense. What happened? When is this? Why does this matter? I received no answers, leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth after reading. Gladman has a very sophisticated voice that did not in any way match the mood of the story. It is great for writing essays, not stories. Given that it is written in present tense, we should be getting fresh, off the cuff thoughts and phrases. We should be placed right into the action, experiencing the narrator's emotions, wants, hopes, and fears. What I got was exposition, exposition, exposition.
"My new home is right outside the shelter. Of course I would want to go there and hang out with the things that root my people. The hope being that upon their return I will have missed them less."
See, now I recall something heavily being stressed last class period. DETAIL. I remember us talking about describing something without actually saying it. I remember applying that to my own writing. Why on earth are we reading something that doesn't follow the class focus? Unless this is an example of what NOT to do, I'm at a loss.
Here is how I would have written those three sentences above:
"Bits and bobbles of years past litter the mouth of the cave. Their colors faded hues of blues, pinks, and gray, purposes meaningless and lost to me. My hands chafe on the rough wooden surface of the makeshift planks that I pile nearby, turning the my light palms to a deep sunset red. A throbbing sensation begins to set in, but I grit my teeth and strain to build my shelter. Home. Is it really home? So close to what they were, what my village was, I can but turn to see the memories of a long forgotten past sitting there in the darkness of the cave. The Past Shelter. As I sit down in my newly assembled shack, I can't help but notice how empty it is. Where are they? Where?"
But instead, Gladman only tells us where things are and what the protagonist is thinking on in a tone that does not fit the setting. If you were alone forever, would you stay so level-headed? It fascinates me how Gladman is able to say absolutely nothing with so many words. We receive absolutely no emotion in the entire piece, and we can't even get a clear image of what is going on. What the actual hell is happening? I don't know, and, after reading, I don't care.
And that is one of the biggest problems in the history of writing. People love to hear about people they love to hear about. When I don't know some random character in some random situation that only talks about what is going on (unclearly, I might add), the only thing that crosses my mind that resembles concern is the question: "I spent money on THIS?" Renee Gladman obviously never heard the phrase, "Show, don't tell." As a published author, she has no excuse... although I may just be living in a fantasy world; they seem to let anybody become published these days.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Perspectives and Post Cards
They say a picture's worth a thousand words. I was given three, and I made a short story within... what? A half hour? Obviously, it didn't reach the supposed word cap. Not even close. That's why they're short stories.
This week's class (the only one, praise be) was staring at three post cards and describing them. Then, after we described them, we were supposed to include each image in a short story. I described one post card, saying that, "Had I known about what the assignment was before I picked the card, I would have avoided this one like the plague." I must admit that the descriptions beforehand felt very dry at first. The question as to what exactly the point was eluded me until I started to actually write the story.
But that was quite a way away yet, I was sitting with contempt brewing in my veins until I was tasked to connect the cards... somehow. How on earth was I supposed to connect a weird painting, a nearly frozen pond, and a picture of the Mackinac Bridge? Well, I found a way.
I spring-boarded off the fact that one post card looked like it was a painting. I first imagined-up an art gallery. Given my pointedly dark taste for stories, I added a little dust to it. Now there was a story behind the painting. Why was it dusty? Why didn't people view it?
As a sort of parallel to the unwanted picture, I added a character who equally didn't belong. The narrator has a very strong and analytical personality. He swears occasionally, yes, but I've heard it said that real people don't censor themselves, and he does it only in his mind. He was, I pictured, wearing a brown and slightly ragged suit, in stark comparison to the black and white expensive outfits surrounding him. We understood that he was different at that point, and then he needed a reason for being somewhere he didn't belong.
The answer: the painting. It seemed natural to connect the two, especially since they complement each other so well. So I set to work with the oldest motivation for a man being in a place where he didn't belong. Women. Or, in this case, a woman.
After I get the general idea down, I just sort of charge into the work. I don't draw out an outline, not for a short story, because I start to lose my "writing mood" that I got myself into. The freshness wears away, and it becomes stale. Short stories have so little time to be engaging. They need to say something, even if the characters themselves don't actually change themselves.
Try it out for yourself, if you like. Let go. Figure out which cardinal direction you're going in, like North, and just go. Maybe you'll hit a river that takes you a little to the East, and you might have to backtrack down South until you can get around something. That's okay, but you learn the terrain as you go. There's always time for revision later, especially now that the 2012 panic is over and you don't have to worry about the "end of the world..." until the next one rolls around.
And if that doesn't work out for you, I apologize. No refunds. Buyer beware. What works for me won't work for everyone, and I know already that it doesn't. Writing is something, I believe, that sits very close to the soul. It'll be different for everyone. I encourage you to try.
This week's class (the only one, praise be) was staring at three post cards and describing them. Then, after we described them, we were supposed to include each image in a short story. I described one post card, saying that, "Had I known about what the assignment was before I picked the card, I would have avoided this one like the plague." I must admit that the descriptions beforehand felt very dry at first. The question as to what exactly the point was eluded me until I started to actually write the story.
But that was quite a way away yet, I was sitting with contempt brewing in my veins until I was tasked to connect the cards... somehow. How on earth was I supposed to connect a weird painting, a nearly frozen pond, and a picture of the Mackinac Bridge? Well, I found a way.
I spring-boarded off the fact that one post card looked like it was a painting. I first imagined-up an art gallery. Given my pointedly dark taste for stories, I added a little dust to it. Now there was a story behind the painting. Why was it dusty? Why didn't people view it?
As a sort of parallel to the unwanted picture, I added a character who equally didn't belong. The narrator has a very strong and analytical personality. He swears occasionally, yes, but I've heard it said that real people don't censor themselves, and he does it only in his mind. He was, I pictured, wearing a brown and slightly ragged suit, in stark comparison to the black and white expensive outfits surrounding him. We understood that he was different at that point, and then he needed a reason for being somewhere he didn't belong.
The answer: the painting. It seemed natural to connect the two, especially since they complement each other so well. So I set to work with the oldest motivation for a man being in a place where he didn't belong. Women. Or, in this case, a woman.
After I get the general idea down, I just sort of charge into the work. I don't draw out an outline, not for a short story, because I start to lose my "writing mood" that I got myself into. The freshness wears away, and it becomes stale. Short stories have so little time to be engaging. They need to say something, even if the characters themselves don't actually change themselves.
Try it out for yourself, if you like. Let go. Figure out which cardinal direction you're going in, like North, and just go. Maybe you'll hit a river that takes you a little to the East, and you might have to backtrack down South until you can get around something. That's okay, but you learn the terrain as you go. There's always time for revision later, especially now that the 2012 panic is over and you don't have to worry about the "end of the world..." until the next one rolls around.
And if that doesn't work out for you, I apologize. No refunds. Buyer beware. What works for me won't work for everyone, and I know already that it doesn't. Writing is something, I believe, that sits very close to the soul. It'll be different for everyone. I encourage you to try.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Fragmented Mentality
I am crazy.
My first realization of this was when I wrote a short story titled, "The Broken Window." As I recorded what happened to the protagonist, whose mental state is called to question, I discovered he had a profound effect on me. The terrible things that happened to him distressed me quite a bit, but the insanity came from more than just sympathizing for him.
He started to talk to me. It wasn't a communication of words, per se, nor was it a Fight Club-esque hallucination. As his own personality developed from the first few parts of the story, I felt as though his intersected with my own in some places. In the middle of writing it, I remember freaking out because I reacted to something in school in the way that he would have, rather than myself.
Needless to say, I was glad once I finally forced him into the paper, out of my head.
But this entire episode revisited my memory because of the packet we read, by Lamott. "Polaroids" talked about how characters come to life. They begin as blank ideas before turning into full fledged persons. They start wanting things on their own, doing things independently, and even rebelling. They become real, not just to the writer, but in actuality.
Now I know what you're thinking. "This kid's freakin' nuts!" And, I would wholeheartedly agree. Maybe you have to be crazy to be a writer; I don't know. What I do know is this: stories come to life. Maybe it can be explained away using the firing of certain neurons, but whatever causes this change doesn't matter. I'm stuck with it and so are my fellow writers.
My first realization of this was when I wrote a short story titled, "The Broken Window." As I recorded what happened to the protagonist, whose mental state is called to question, I discovered he had a profound effect on me. The terrible things that happened to him distressed me quite a bit, but the insanity came from more than just sympathizing for him.
He started to talk to me. It wasn't a communication of words, per se, nor was it a Fight Club-esque hallucination. As his own personality developed from the first few parts of the story, I felt as though his intersected with my own in some places. In the middle of writing it, I remember freaking out because I reacted to something in school in the way that he would have, rather than myself.
Needless to say, I was glad once I finally forced him into the paper, out of my head.
But this entire episode revisited my memory because of the packet we read, by Lamott. "Polaroids" talked about how characters come to life. They begin as blank ideas before turning into full fledged persons. They start wanting things on their own, doing things independently, and even rebelling. They become real, not just to the writer, but in actuality.
Now I know what you're thinking. "This kid's freakin' nuts!" And, I would wholeheartedly agree. Maybe you have to be crazy to be a writer; I don't know. What I do know is this: stories come to life. Maybe it can be explained away using the firing of certain neurons, but whatever causes this change doesn't matter. I'm stuck with it and so are my fellow writers.
Monday, October 14, 2013
Short Stories: A One-Night-Stand?
As an avid reader and writer, I find myself thinking about stories more and more romantically, almost. Not to say that I enjoy the cut and dry Disney production that follows the exact same plot structure to the letter (but that's a different rant). No, I am more referring to comparing stories to women. I can list a few similarities: I don't understand either very well, both seem to do whatever they want, regardless of my advice and urging, and sometimes they don't make sense until we arrive at the end. And before you cue up the angry mob, I'm not bashing women in any way. I love stories, and I love women.
And because I love both, I almost look at reading a story the same way one would "court" a woman. Call me old fashioned, but I do favor a relatively casual and slow speed. There is a sort of peaked interest initially, given the first two or three chapters. Then we arrive at the act of pursuing, which requires much more effort. This process involves sacrificing a lot of personal time and energy, getting "acquainted" almost. As we approach around the middle of the book, I find myself thinking more and more about the book (assuming I still like it at this point), before I finally, after all this time, reach the climax and resolution, thus either solidifying my relationship with the book or completely ending it.
Short stories present a complex issue with my... interesting reading process. You see, some short stories have clear and developed thoughts that end up staying with me forever, which is the point. Stories are supposed to have developed thoughts; they're supposed to arrive somewhere at the end. When I first experienced the "Mystery Stories" (The quotes are meant to be sarcastic, not proper.), I felt like I had just experienced the reader's equivalent of a one night stand.
We didn't know each other too well, I was so disoriented I wasn't sure that I could make proper judgement calls about my actions, and arrived at the climax way too quickly without even a satisfying assurance that this would resolve itself well. (In case you're wondering, it didn't.) I woke up alone, wondering where the point had gone and why it had left without even saying hello or goodbye.
Here we arrive at the brash and fiery difference between stories and garbage that reflects the line between structured poetry and poetry-looking shit (you may know it as typical free verse). You can't chuck out a paragraph of words and call it "Literature." That's like painting a white line down a red canvas and calling it "Modern art." You didn't create a painting, you drew a ping-pong table. Poetry needs meaning (which can be achieved without structure, I do realize; it is simply immensely difficult), and stories need thought.
But I'm getting off topic. The point being that while poetry contains raw emotion, stories contain movement of thought. We start somewhere and arrive somewhere else. Nobody would ever read a story about a turtle that never moved, ate, shit, or died. Our thoughts need to go somewhere. "Internal" by Brian Evenson was a wonderful example of an actual story.
I found myself asking questions throughout the reading (much like my friend Maryia did when we watched Donnie Darko together just yesterday). I wanted to ascertain what was actually going on, it was a mystery (more so than the "Mystery Stories" were anyway). I was invested in the protagonist and what he/she was going through. I felt that I knew who he/she was as a person, and that essentially grounded my interest and made it flourish into an actual relationship. I was there with the protagonist as our sanity eroded into nothing. Together.
My advice to my fellow writers: slow down. Like essays and girls' skirts, they need to be long enough to cover everything and short enough to keep people interested. But, following today's latest fashion craze, we're practically removing the skirt completely. "Forget thinking about what's happening, LOOK AT WHAT'S HAPPENING!" I can appreciate wanting to leave a relatively open ending, to which the reader is free to interpret what is going on, but they shouldn't have to interpret the entire. Damn. Story. It's perfectly acceptable to end with a mind-fuck resolution, but when you take the mind out of a story then you're just left with... Fuck.
And because I love both, I almost look at reading a story the same way one would "court" a woman. Call me old fashioned, but I do favor a relatively casual and slow speed. There is a sort of peaked interest initially, given the first two or three chapters. Then we arrive at the act of pursuing, which requires much more effort. This process involves sacrificing a lot of personal time and energy, getting "acquainted" almost. As we approach around the middle of the book, I find myself thinking more and more about the book (assuming I still like it at this point), before I finally, after all this time, reach the climax and resolution, thus either solidifying my relationship with the book or completely ending it.
Short stories present a complex issue with my... interesting reading process. You see, some short stories have clear and developed thoughts that end up staying with me forever, which is the point. Stories are supposed to have developed thoughts; they're supposed to arrive somewhere at the end. When I first experienced the "Mystery Stories" (The quotes are meant to be sarcastic, not proper.), I felt like I had just experienced the reader's equivalent of a one night stand.
We didn't know each other too well, I was so disoriented I wasn't sure that I could make proper judgement calls about my actions, and arrived at the climax way too quickly without even a satisfying assurance that this would resolve itself well. (In case you're wondering, it didn't.) I woke up alone, wondering where the point had gone and why it had left without even saying hello or goodbye.
Here we arrive at the brash and fiery difference between stories and garbage that reflects the line between structured poetry and poetry-looking shit (you may know it as typical free verse). You can't chuck out a paragraph of words and call it "Literature." That's like painting a white line down a red canvas and calling it "Modern art." You didn't create a painting, you drew a ping-pong table. Poetry needs meaning (which can be achieved without structure, I do realize; it is simply immensely difficult), and stories need thought.
But I'm getting off topic. The point being that while poetry contains raw emotion, stories contain movement of thought. We start somewhere and arrive somewhere else. Nobody would ever read a story about a turtle that never moved, ate, shit, or died. Our thoughts need to go somewhere. "Internal" by Brian Evenson was a wonderful example of an actual story.
I found myself asking questions throughout the reading (much like my friend Maryia did when we watched Donnie Darko together just yesterday). I wanted to ascertain what was actually going on, it was a mystery (more so than the "Mystery Stories" were anyway). I was invested in the protagonist and what he/she was going through. I felt that I knew who he/she was as a person, and that essentially grounded my interest and made it flourish into an actual relationship. I was there with the protagonist as our sanity eroded into nothing. Together.
My advice to my fellow writers: slow down. Like essays and girls' skirts, they need to be long enough to cover everything and short enough to keep people interested. But, following today's latest fashion craze, we're practically removing the skirt completely. "Forget thinking about what's happening, LOOK AT WHAT'S HAPPENING!" I can appreciate wanting to leave a relatively open ending, to which the reader is free to interpret what is going on, but they shouldn't have to interpret the entire. Damn. Story. It's perfectly acceptable to end with a mind-fuck resolution, but when you take the mind out of a story then you're just left with... Fuck.
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Warning: Contains Strong Language
Fuck prestige.
Our society puts so much stress on social standing and titles that we forget what it actually means to have them. If you're rich, everyone wants to be your friend. If you're poor, you're stupid. If you're homeless, you're lazy. (Never mind the fact that the system was built by the rich for the rich.) Take tuition costs for example. We put an ungodly amount of money and time into getting a piece of paper that says we know something. Do we really know it by the time we walk across the raised platform to grab a scroll and shake somebody's hand?
Have you ever had a teacher who was full of him/herself? I'd bet the so-called educator spouted "impressive" titles like degrees or even publications that the instructor was responsible for. It was always about prestige "earned" for bullshitting assignments for four-to-seven years. We can still get degrees with C's for God's sake! Here's my final question about this person you suffered to know: Were they good at teaching?
In my case, no. My "College writing" teacher in twelfth grade did nothing of the sort. He had us write one research paper, and then pulled various fluffy projects out of... thin air. Nobody could say anything because he was in a position of authority. Nobody could do anything because he would fail them. Nobody could learn because he was the teacher.
This man had multiple degrees in literature and even performing arts, while Mark Twain had no formal education. See the difference? Twain was invited to speak at Princeton, and Oxford had even given him an honorary Doctorate. Society didn't value time spent at a particular institution worth congratulating, but what a person did to deserve a title truly earned.
The "Father of American Literature" didn't go to school.
Ain't that irony for you. But this inability to criticize isn't simply infecting relationships between teacher and student, it's between classmates as well.
In Creative Writing on Thursday, we shared our poems with our classmates. One person, whose poem I did read (and even enjoyed), claimed that it was "awful." I would have argued fervently against that. Alas, he seemed to have no self-confidence in his work. This wasn't the first time that I have encountered this phenomenon. Many of my peers who have experienced this self-loathing explained to me that it was rooted to the fact that they (not including the man mentioned above, although I would assume that he would tell me something similar) were nobody. We have writer-idols already, and we believe them to be good. Society claims them to be gods with pens. And suggests, ridiculously, that criticizing anybody with a publication is taboo. An oppressive wave of "your opinion doesn't matter" can evolve into a grotesque "your work doesn't matter." And thus we arrive at the "I'm a horrible writer because I'll never be as good as them."
When I got my own poem back, I noticed a blatant lack of constructive criticism, or criticism of any kind. Everything was simply, "This is what you did and I liked it because it was nice." As an obsessive writer who constantly wishes to improve, this was somewhat distressing for me. The way my mind works is essentially this: if I'm not being told that I am doing something wrong, I'm damn perfect... No, not really. I'm speaking in hyperbole of course, but the message can easily be translated into one sentence. I can't improve if you don't tell me what's wrong. No, seriously, I want you to take apart my work. Tear it to shreds and piss on the scraps if you have to, just help me get better. Society tells you, "No, he says he's a writer." "You might hurt his feelings." "He probably worked really hard on that." I say, "To hell with it all, what did you really think of it? I deserve that much honesty!"
In this day and age, one can never tell if one is good at something, or if one was just never told the truth.
Tell me the truth damn it!
Our society puts so much stress on social standing and titles that we forget what it actually means to have them. If you're rich, everyone wants to be your friend. If you're poor, you're stupid. If you're homeless, you're lazy. (Never mind the fact that the system was built by the rich for the rich.) Take tuition costs for example. We put an ungodly amount of money and time into getting a piece of paper that says we know something. Do we really know it by the time we walk across the raised platform to grab a scroll and shake somebody's hand?
Have you ever had a teacher who was full of him/herself? I'd bet the so-called educator spouted "impressive" titles like degrees or even publications that the instructor was responsible for. It was always about prestige "earned" for bullshitting assignments for four-to-seven years. We can still get degrees with C's for God's sake! Here's my final question about this person you suffered to know: Were they good at teaching?
In my case, no. My "College writing" teacher in twelfth grade did nothing of the sort. He had us write one research paper, and then pulled various fluffy projects out of... thin air. Nobody could say anything because he was in a position of authority. Nobody could do anything because he would fail them. Nobody could learn because he was the teacher.
This man had multiple degrees in literature and even performing arts, while Mark Twain had no formal education. See the difference? Twain was invited to speak at Princeton, and Oxford had even given him an honorary Doctorate. Society didn't value time spent at a particular institution worth congratulating, but what a person did to deserve a title truly earned.
The "Father of American Literature" didn't go to school.
Ain't that irony for you. But this inability to criticize isn't simply infecting relationships between teacher and student, it's between classmates as well.
In Creative Writing on Thursday, we shared our poems with our classmates. One person, whose poem I did read (and even enjoyed), claimed that it was "awful." I would have argued fervently against that. Alas, he seemed to have no self-confidence in his work. This wasn't the first time that I have encountered this phenomenon. Many of my peers who have experienced this self-loathing explained to me that it was rooted to the fact that they (not including the man mentioned above, although I would assume that he would tell me something similar) were nobody. We have writer-idols already, and we believe them to be good. Society claims them to be gods with pens. And suggests, ridiculously, that criticizing anybody with a publication is taboo. An oppressive wave of "your opinion doesn't matter" can evolve into a grotesque "your work doesn't matter." And thus we arrive at the "I'm a horrible writer because I'll never be as good as them."
When I got my own poem back, I noticed a blatant lack of constructive criticism, or criticism of any kind. Everything was simply, "This is what you did and I liked it because it was nice." As an obsessive writer who constantly wishes to improve, this was somewhat distressing for me. The way my mind works is essentially this: if I'm not being told that I am doing something wrong, I'm damn perfect... No, not really. I'm speaking in hyperbole of course, but the message can easily be translated into one sentence. I can't improve if you don't tell me what's wrong. No, seriously, I want you to take apart my work. Tear it to shreds and piss on the scraps if you have to, just help me get better. Society tells you, "No, he says he's a writer." "You might hurt his feelings." "He probably worked really hard on that." I say, "To hell with it all, what did you really think of it? I deserve that much honesty!"
In this day and age, one can never tell if one is good at something, or if one was just never told the truth.
Tell me the truth damn it!
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