Miss Reap seemed very tall to me. With her black bouffant hairdo and her eyebrows penciled in arches of permanent surprise over her eyes, she looked like an exclamation point. She always dressed smartly in bold colors and pantsuits. I remember, in particular, black polyester slacks and a suit jacket with a flowered blouse beneath, its large red blooms accentuating her dark hair and pale skin. There's a box in my bedroom that contains mementos of lives past and included in this little collection are several reports I wrote for Miss Reap in my fifth grade year. There is one on Grand Tetons National Park, Mankind and His Origins, Marie Curie, Robert Frost and an autobiography. I wrote book reports for that class that accompanied many a diorama, but I have no artifacts of those efforts. In addition, I wrote short stories in that class, winning the St. Patrick's Day story contest with my short work entitled, "A Leprechaun in Dublin." I still have the folded card made from yellow construction paper that says "Happy St. Patrick's Day! First Prize, Leprechaun Story, Tricia Annese" on its cover and "Congratulations" written in Miss Reap's ladylike handwriting right on the inside, right above the blank space where she had taped four quarters, evenly spaced, as my prize.
When I look over this writing, I am surprised by its grammatical complexity and strong sense of voice. Describing Robert Frost's childhood, I write: "His mother, who loved poetry and sometimes recited it to Robert and his sister, was a schoolteacher."
At first glance, I am sure that I must have copied this work from another source. I remember very clearly the story (which I think may be an academic myth now that I'm older) of the student in Miss Reap’s graduate class who went to the library, selected a book on his assigned topic and copied it word for word before submitting the paper he wrote AS HIS OWN! The gasps in the classroom were audible. The audacity of someone stealing the work- the THOUGHTS-- of another! Outrageous! Of course, the kicker, the punchline to the story was that the book that the writer had copied had been written by the professor himself. Naturally, he immediately recognized the student's misappropriation of his ideas and failed him. Indeed, in that day and age, the student was actually subject to disciplinary consequences and it was all "very embarrassing" according to Miss Reap. The act of copying distressed Miss Reap so deeply that she could do little but shake her head in profound disappointment at the temerity of a man who could steal the words of another. Miss Reap detested plagiarism and I loved Miss Reap, so I cannot imagine I would have even attempted to copy from a book or an encylclopedia. And when I look at my original writing about the leprechaun, my ability to use the appositive phrase bears itself out: "One, whose name was Johnnie Gallagher, was yelling that he had played the trick so he might as well get the [whiskey]."
In addition to a relatively accurate adherence to conventions, I wrote with a close attention to detail and extensive vocabulary (for a fifth grader): "The house was made of brick, with a huge bay window at the front and three steps that led up to the tall door that loomed above the large porch and tiny bushes that had been planted (so I was told) just last year. There was an old roughly sanded wooden table along with three wooden chairs that set on off-white cobblestone floor."
I must have had a very clear idea of what I was seeing in my mind's eye for even reading this so many years later (almost thirty-- eek!) I am struck by the specificity o the image and how it leaps to my mind as I read.
I'm particularly struck by the sense of voice in my work. In the autobiography, I write about my friend, Sharon Kimball: "She has a few good ideas, but she's undecided. For example: She can't make up her mind whether she likes this girl, Michele, or not which I think is funny. Our favorite game to play together is 'island.' We make a fort and gather berries for food and stuff. It's fun. But the bad side of Sharon is, she thinks she's so big because she's in Middle School. She's not older than me. She was just put into school earlier." And then I mention Sheila:"The bad part about Sheila is, when something goes wrong, she pouts and won't talk to anybody. I mean, I get mad, but it stays for about five minutes, then leaves."
My person is so clearly expressed on the page—and with such assurance too! I wonder where that originated? I read like crazy as a kid, completing books like Gone With the Wind and Little Women in fifth grade (It was, after all, the year that I won the reading contest Miss Reap sponsored. For one month we were to document all of the time we spent reading and at the end of the month, the winner would receive a prize. I dutifully logged my hours and in the end, I won the prize for the most hours read: 50!), so I must have internalized some of those narrative voices—must have been able to make the connection to other voices and somehow integrate their various styles into my understanding of my own writing. I remember that writing just felt, to me anyway, like talking on the page. And goodness knows, I liked to talk (still do, if you cannot already tell!). What is interesting to me as a teacher of writing is how often the students I teach are real talkers, but when it comes to getting anything down on paper, they completely freeze. I tell them all the time, “Write as you would speak,” and while this is not a panacea for all of my students, it is a skill that, were they able to apply it, would serve them well.
I remember fifth grade with a deep fondness. Prior to that year I wrote, but it was Miss Reap and her expectation that we use writing as a means of expressing and processing what we knew, who made me into a confident writer. By demanding quality work from me, by recognizing my efforts as a reader and writer, by rewarding them with praise and prizes, she reinforced my surety as a writer and as a thinker. Where Mrs. Stein, my fourth grade teacher, rolled her eyes at my creative attempts, finding them to be self-involved or obnoxious, Ms. Reap recognized and celebrated my voice. The joy of writing and researching, of exploring my own life and the lives of others in print, remain as some of my most pleasant memories of school. As I prepare my students for the academic demands that lie ahead of them, Miss Reap's figure still leaps to mind when I teach. I only hope that I am as adept as she was at being able to convey to my students the joys inherent in discovering the world through the pages of the book and being able to express that understanding—indeed, being able to embellish and celebrate it and make it my own—through writing.
26.7.10
Whether I Like It or Not: Writing Begets More Writing
I wrote my first short story as an adult in 1998. It was winter time and I had been meaning to write for a while (by “a while,” of course, I mean years) when I finally sat down and got some words on paper. It was essentially biographical in nature—apparently this is common among new writers of fiction—and recorded the moment before a young girl leaves her childhood home and the abusive mother who is her keeper. It is a decent story, even it is a bit cliché, and while its focus on one particular moment saves it from being completely trite, I’m not sure that it’s not trivial. I entered the story in the Glimmertrain short fiction contest, however, and was awarded an honorable mention in that competition. Over 1000 entries had been logged, 3 winners had been selected and 10 honorable mentions recorded. In other words, the competition had been steep and even though the story didn’t end up being published, it had been recognized by a quality literary magazine and therefore had been deemed “worthy” by the writing establishment. And although it is twelve years later and that story has never seen the light of day, it is still the work that put me on the path to writing with an eye toward doing it “for real.”
I signed up for a short fiction course at Writers and Books where I met my friend, B, a writer herself who loved my work and encouraged me. B. had attended a low-residency program in creative writing where she had earned her MFA in fiction and she suggested I look into the school. Ever susceptible to another’s faith in my talents, I did some exploring and ultimately ended up enrolling in the same program. For two years, twice a year, I would attend a two-week residency at the college where I would attend workshops on writing and commence working with an advisor; the remaining six months would be spent writing and reading and then sending the dreaded “packet” to my advisor for review and feedback. I remember constantly racing to the post office during the first semester, doling out the cash for overnight deliveries to A., my first advisor. In the beginning, A. was scary. I now know that A., in addition to being ambivalent about her role as a writer of fiction, is merely shy and circumspect with those she does not know well. But in that first semester when the names of students’ advisors went up on the board and I was assigned to her, people came out of the woodwork to ask me if I was ‘okay.’ At first, I was anxious. What had I done?! After all, I had placed A's name on my list of desired advisors, so I had, as the saying goes, "asked for it." Had I asked for too much? It turns out that I hadn't. I really loved working with A and sharing my writing with her--especially since I figured out relatively early in our partnership that the quality that struck fear and loathing into the heart of every aspiring writer who worked with her required that I use language masterfully and in a manner that was grammatically correct. Apparently, a lot of other students had difficulty with this demand. I did not. Grammar—even if I can’t necessarily explain why or how or under what circumstances certain things should happen—is my friend. I write cleanly and with little equivocation. A. liked me for that and we developed a thoughtful relationship centered around my writing and her fascination with the fact that I was an actor as well as a teacher and writer. Her son wanted to act and so she was curious about the sensibility of someone who chose to do so—especially when she, herself, was so reticent. I did some good writing that semester. Nothing fancy, but under the tutelage of an advisor who was invested in my skills and development, I felt confident. A. liked our literary critiques and responses to be creative, so I relished the ways she encouraged me to think divergently as an analytical writer, coming up with alternative scenarios for examining a book and critiquing it. That first semester was wonderful. I was experimenting. I was learning. And most important of all, I felt like a writer. It rocked. Seriously.
Then, I was unable to get the time off from school to attend the second residency. So, instead of returning for the next round with my cohort group, I was forced to take a leave of absence and complete the program during the summer months over the next three years. Along with this glitch, I ended up being paired with a collection of advisors who either didn’t much care for my writing or didn’t much care for me and I struggled to find the joy that I had experienced during the halcyon days of my first semester of study. I cannot blame this discomfort solely on outside circumstances, however. Rather, my dysthymia related to writing came as a function of my inability to tell a story. As much as I wanted to write fiction, I didn’t have stories in me. Oh, I had snippets and scenes and images and scenarios. But I didn’t have narratives. I didn’t have events that, layered one upon the other, arrived at some inevitable conclusion. Now, I am not sure—to this day—if this lack of story is a lack of willpower. Do I simply not have the wherewithal to see it through to the end? Do I become too easily bored by the same idea? I don’t think this is the case. I spend a lot of time on ideas centered around a particular theme, for example, I just don’t know what to do with them once I begin to pin them down. This flaw of mine became exceptionally problematic when I was confronted with consistent deadlines and advisors who were looking for me to produce. I froze. Often I wrote my 20 pages at the last minute, sending the packet in with a collection of texts that screamed “VERY, VERY ROUGH DRAFT!” I just couldn’t bring things around to the end. I thought if I focused on shorter pieces, it might work out for me. But that didn’t seem to work either. It didn’t matter how long the story, I didn’t know where or how it should end. I consider this an issue of discipline as I often struggle with getting an idea or a project started and then, for whatever reason, let it lie fallow until I am able to address it—which is, in most cases, never.
So, while I am a ‘credentialed’ writer, I often loathe writing simply because the act of it reminds me—assiduously so—that I have some sort of ‘block’ that prevents me from doing it the way that I imagine I want to. Sometimes I think that I just have not found my voice. But I’m 42, for God’s sake! Whose voice have I been speaking in all of these years? Other times I think I am just not cut out for the writing life; it requires so much intrinsic motivation-- so much discipline. There is only one solution to this problem that I continue to perseverate upon, however, and that is to write. So, here I am. Taking my own advice. For a change, anyway.
I signed up for a short fiction course at Writers and Books where I met my friend, B, a writer herself who loved my work and encouraged me. B. had attended a low-residency program in creative writing where she had earned her MFA in fiction and she suggested I look into the school. Ever susceptible to another’s faith in my talents, I did some exploring and ultimately ended up enrolling in the same program. For two years, twice a year, I would attend a two-week residency at the college where I would attend workshops on writing and commence working with an advisor; the remaining six months would be spent writing and reading and then sending the dreaded “packet” to my advisor for review and feedback. I remember constantly racing to the post office during the first semester, doling out the cash for overnight deliveries to A., my first advisor. In the beginning, A. was scary. I now know that A., in addition to being ambivalent about her role as a writer of fiction, is merely shy and circumspect with those she does not know well. But in that first semester when the names of students’ advisors went up on the board and I was assigned to her, people came out of the woodwork to ask me if I was ‘okay.’ At first, I was anxious. What had I done?! After all, I had placed A's name on my list of desired advisors, so I had, as the saying goes, "asked for it." Had I asked for too much? It turns out that I hadn't. I really loved working with A and sharing my writing with her--especially since I figured out relatively early in our partnership that the quality that struck fear and loathing into the heart of every aspiring writer who worked with her required that I use language masterfully and in a manner that was grammatically correct. Apparently, a lot of other students had difficulty with this demand. I did not. Grammar—even if I can’t necessarily explain why or how or under what circumstances certain things should happen—is my friend. I write cleanly and with little equivocation. A. liked me for that and we developed a thoughtful relationship centered around my writing and her fascination with the fact that I was an actor as well as a teacher and writer. Her son wanted to act and so she was curious about the sensibility of someone who chose to do so—especially when she, herself, was so reticent. I did some good writing that semester. Nothing fancy, but under the tutelage of an advisor who was invested in my skills and development, I felt confident. A. liked our literary critiques and responses to be creative, so I relished the ways she encouraged me to think divergently as an analytical writer, coming up with alternative scenarios for examining a book and critiquing it. That first semester was wonderful. I was experimenting. I was learning. And most important of all, I felt like a writer. It rocked. Seriously.
Then, I was unable to get the time off from school to attend the second residency. So, instead of returning for the next round with my cohort group, I was forced to take a leave of absence and complete the program during the summer months over the next three years. Along with this glitch, I ended up being paired with a collection of advisors who either didn’t much care for my writing or didn’t much care for me and I struggled to find the joy that I had experienced during the halcyon days of my first semester of study. I cannot blame this discomfort solely on outside circumstances, however. Rather, my dysthymia related to writing came as a function of my inability to tell a story. As much as I wanted to write fiction, I didn’t have stories in me. Oh, I had snippets and scenes and images and scenarios. But I didn’t have narratives. I didn’t have events that, layered one upon the other, arrived at some inevitable conclusion. Now, I am not sure—to this day—if this lack of story is a lack of willpower. Do I simply not have the wherewithal to see it through to the end? Do I become too easily bored by the same idea? I don’t think this is the case. I spend a lot of time on ideas centered around a particular theme, for example, I just don’t know what to do with them once I begin to pin them down. This flaw of mine became exceptionally problematic when I was confronted with consistent deadlines and advisors who were looking for me to produce. I froze. Often I wrote my 20 pages at the last minute, sending the packet in with a collection of texts that screamed “VERY, VERY ROUGH DRAFT!” I just couldn’t bring things around to the end. I thought if I focused on shorter pieces, it might work out for me. But that didn’t seem to work either. It didn’t matter how long the story, I didn’t know where or how it should end. I consider this an issue of discipline as I often struggle with getting an idea or a project started and then, for whatever reason, let it lie fallow until I am able to address it—which is, in most cases, never.
So, while I am a ‘credentialed’ writer, I often loathe writing simply because the act of it reminds me—assiduously so—that I have some sort of ‘block’ that prevents me from doing it the way that I imagine I want to. Sometimes I think that I just have not found my voice. But I’m 42, for God’s sake! Whose voice have I been speaking in all of these years? Other times I think I am just not cut out for the writing life; it requires so much intrinsic motivation-- so much discipline. There is only one solution to this problem that I continue to perseverate upon, however, and that is to write. So, here I am. Taking my own advice. For a change, anyway.
14.7.10
There Can Be Only One (On Being A Writer, Part III)
"Everyone and his brother wants to be a writer, you know."
The words were out of my mouth before I could consider their implications, before I could decide if I really intended the not-so-veiled contempt they revealed. If I really believed in that contempt.
Not too long ago, I graduated with my MFA in fiction from one of the myriad programs that have emerged to foster writers' dreams over the past ten years. The school itself sponsors a literary magazine and the literary magazine sponsors a short fiction contest-- for which I am a reader. Each summer, short story submissions arrive in my in-box in batches of 20 and I have two weeks to read and return them to the editor who will then move them up to the next round of evaluations or cast them into the slush pile. Now, writers far more able and well-known than I actually end up selecting the prize winners, but me? That's right: I'm the gatekeeper. And I take my responsibility pretty seriously. My job is to pass on the best of the best. My job is not-- most decidely-- to appreciate the personal investment and work ethic of every writer. After all, this is REAL WRITING. This is what matters. There is money to be had by the best writer of this contest and a certain degree of writerly clout. A contest winner is always published. The winner of this competition may well make the leap from a nobody with a word processor to somebody with a word processor AND a credit to his name. Have I mentioned already that this is serious business?
I was explaining all of this to a pair of brand new colleagues (I'll call them M. and J.) from the Genesee Valley Writing Project. We were strolling in the direction of lunch when we got into a conversation about writing and publishing and I mentioned that I was a first reader for this contest. That's when I said it (probably with a roll of the eyes): "Everybody and his brother wants to be a writer, you know." In the moment, I thought nothing of my observation. I didn't mean any harm by it. And I do, by the way, read a murder of bad stories some summers. J was quiet for a moment before speaking: "And we're here with the National Writing Project being told that everyone is a writer."
I like J. Not only is she an experienced teacher who obviously loves the kids she teaches, but she's an informed professional, someone who is thoughtful about education. So when she noted the irony of my statement juxtaposed with the rhetoric of the NWP that I'd already spent the first week of our program espousing, I was immediately embarrassed that I had so summarily dismissed the efforts of the competitors whose work I read. I attempted to amend my comment, to place myself in a more favorable light. "I know it! Isn't that crazy?!" I cried, "We tell people that everyone can write and then we tell them that only a particular type of writing is acceptable." Except I am the one telling these poor, hopeful suckers that the stories they're trying to tell are unworthy.
And, as Hamlet observes, "There's the rub." I enjoy writing myself but then I feel as though for it to be legitimate I have to get it published and I subject myself to the same pressures-- and disappointments-- as the competitors whose work I am asked to judge. I am constantly caught between these two worlds. I want to nurture students' writing, but I have to grade it. I want my students to love writing, to believe it is personal and valuable and an opportunity for expression that gives them deeper insight into what it means to be human but I also want them to be able to compete-- to get into those 'good' schools, to get the jobs they want, to effectively research and argue their ways to success. It feels sometimes as though I not only wear different hats, but that they sit on completely different heads. There's the academic, standards-driven, literary establishment brain and then there's the expressive, creative, head-in-the-clouds noggin. And even though I tell myself that my core values lie more with the latter, I am beginning to suspect that I live most of my writing life in that former head.
This afternoon I will read the first twenty entries for the fiction contest the competiton master e-mailed to me earlier this week. I will read them and I will sort them. Sometimes I will not go beyond the first paragraph. If the story is not good from the get-go, I know it will never win and I don't pass it on. I am instructed not to waste the panel's time with mediocre submissions. After reading for the contest for three years, I am attuned to the kind of work the magazine expects to reward and I can often recognize a competitor after the first sentence. Some of the writers have not taken enough time to hone their craft-- to even proofread in some cases-- and those first sentences and those first sentences can be a hard read. Occasionally I will read ahead, engrossed in the story despite the fact that the writing itself does not measure up; it is clunky or inappropriately unsophisticated or lazy. These are the stories that really kill me. They are, at the same time, both wonderful and awful. The writer just needs more practice in shaping her ideas. Some of the stories are gorgeously written. Their sentences sing and I continue reading, lured by the beauty of the language or the vividness of the voice, but these stories are like confections-- they tempt but do not satisfy. Like many fashion models, they are lovely but vacuous.
Despite my criticisms, however, I love reading them-- even the bad ones. I try to imagine the writer settled in his writing space, hunkering down before the word processor to feed his dream. I know how hard it is to craft a story and I have the utmost respect and admiration for the perseverence and, yes, ego, that a story requires of its maker. Many of the stories are manifestations of their writers' lives. The men often write of war, the women of divorce and broken families and despite the fact that these submissions are fiction, I know they are true in the ways that good books are true even when they happen in places like Narnia or the Shire. What I do wonder is why these writers feel compelled to submit this very personal work to a contest for judgment. It puzzles me and it forces me to confront some of the duality I experience in my approach to my own writing. These people obviously want to write-- some for very cathartic reasons. Why do they need others to validate this writing? Why do I? Especially when, as the Highlander exclaims when he beheads another poor sucker seeking immortality, "There can be only one!?"
The words were out of my mouth before I could consider their implications, before I could decide if I really intended the not-so-veiled contempt they revealed. If I really believed in that contempt.
Not too long ago, I graduated with my MFA in fiction from one of the myriad programs that have emerged to foster writers' dreams over the past ten years. The school itself sponsors a literary magazine and the literary magazine sponsors a short fiction contest-- for which I am a reader. Each summer, short story submissions arrive in my in-box in batches of 20 and I have two weeks to read and return them to the editor who will then move them up to the next round of evaluations or cast them into the slush pile. Now, writers far more able and well-known than I actually end up selecting the prize winners, but me? That's right: I'm the gatekeeper. And I take my responsibility pretty seriously. My job is to pass on the best of the best. My job is not-- most decidely-- to appreciate the personal investment and work ethic of every writer. After all, this is REAL WRITING. This is what matters. There is money to be had by the best writer of this contest and a certain degree of writerly clout. A contest winner is always published. The winner of this competition may well make the leap from a nobody with a word processor to somebody with a word processor AND a credit to his name. Have I mentioned already that this is serious business?
I was explaining all of this to a pair of brand new colleagues (I'll call them M. and J.) from the Genesee Valley Writing Project. We were strolling in the direction of lunch when we got into a conversation about writing and publishing and I mentioned that I was a first reader for this contest. That's when I said it (probably with a roll of the eyes): "Everybody and his brother wants to be a writer, you know." In the moment, I thought nothing of my observation. I didn't mean any harm by it. And I do, by the way, read a murder of bad stories some summers. J was quiet for a moment before speaking: "And we're here with the National Writing Project being told that everyone is a writer."
I like J. Not only is she an experienced teacher who obviously loves the kids she teaches, but she's an informed professional, someone who is thoughtful about education. So when she noted the irony of my statement juxtaposed with the rhetoric of the NWP that I'd already spent the first week of our program espousing, I was immediately embarrassed that I had so summarily dismissed the efforts of the competitors whose work I read. I attempted to amend my comment, to place myself in a more favorable light. "I know it! Isn't that crazy?!" I cried, "We tell people that everyone can write and then we tell them that only a particular type of writing is acceptable." Except I am the one telling these poor, hopeful suckers that the stories they're trying to tell are unworthy.
And, as Hamlet observes, "There's the rub." I enjoy writing myself but then I feel as though for it to be legitimate I have to get it published and I subject myself to the same pressures-- and disappointments-- as the competitors whose work I am asked to judge. I am constantly caught between these two worlds. I want to nurture students' writing, but I have to grade it. I want my students to love writing, to believe it is personal and valuable and an opportunity for expression that gives them deeper insight into what it means to be human but I also want them to be able to compete-- to get into those 'good' schools, to get the jobs they want, to effectively research and argue their ways to success. It feels sometimes as though I not only wear different hats, but that they sit on completely different heads. There's the academic, standards-driven, literary establishment brain and then there's the expressive, creative, head-in-the-clouds noggin. And even though I tell myself that my core values lie more with the latter, I am beginning to suspect that I live most of my writing life in that former head.
This afternoon I will read the first twenty entries for the fiction contest the competiton master e-mailed to me earlier this week. I will read them and I will sort them. Sometimes I will not go beyond the first paragraph. If the story is not good from the get-go, I know it will never win and I don't pass it on. I am instructed not to waste the panel's time with mediocre submissions. After reading for the contest for three years, I am attuned to the kind of work the magazine expects to reward and I can often recognize a competitor after the first sentence. Some of the writers have not taken enough time to hone their craft-- to even proofread in some cases-- and those first sentences and those first sentences can be a hard read. Occasionally I will read ahead, engrossed in the story despite the fact that the writing itself does not measure up; it is clunky or inappropriately unsophisticated or lazy. These are the stories that really kill me. They are, at the same time, both wonderful and awful. The writer just needs more practice in shaping her ideas. Some of the stories are gorgeously written. Their sentences sing and I continue reading, lured by the beauty of the language or the vividness of the voice, but these stories are like confections-- they tempt but do not satisfy. Like many fashion models, they are lovely but vacuous.
Despite my criticisms, however, I love reading them-- even the bad ones. I try to imagine the writer settled in his writing space, hunkering down before the word processor to feed his dream. I know how hard it is to craft a story and I have the utmost respect and admiration for the perseverence and, yes, ego, that a story requires of its maker. Many of the stories are manifestations of their writers' lives. The men often write of war, the women of divorce and broken families and despite the fact that these submissions are fiction, I know they are true in the ways that good books are true even when they happen in places like Narnia or the Shire. What I do wonder is why these writers feel compelled to submit this very personal work to a contest for judgment. It puzzles me and it forces me to confront some of the duality I experience in my approach to my own writing. These people obviously want to write-- some for very cathartic reasons. Why do they need others to validate this writing? Why do I? Especially when, as the Highlander exclaims when he beheads another poor sucker seeking immortality, "There can be only one!?"
12.7.10
On Being A Writer (Continued)
A few years ago, I took a poetry workshop with a certain poet whose work I just loved. Said poet is progressive in her manipulation of language-- she saturates her poems with sound and kicks them around with rhythm. Her work is characterized by energy and a funky sensibility grounded in alliteration and image, a driving pace and linguistic pop. Needless to say, I was really looking forward to working with her. Part of the workshop guaranteed an hour-long critique of a short portfolio of work that you could share with the writer ahead of time. In my mind, this was the best part of the day! When I finally sat down with the poet to talk about my poems, she proceeded to recite a list of no fewer than five rules a poet should follow. Naturally, I had broken all of them. During the hour we were together, the poet could not identify one thing she liked about my work. Not even when I asked her, point blank. Needless to say, I didn't feel very good that day. I had only recently revisited poetry in my writing repertoire and I was excited about the possibilities of playing with language and I felt that some of my poems were pretty good. That some readers might consider them beautiful. But I was wrong. Not only was I embarrassed that my poems didn't measure up to this poet's assessment of what a good writing should look like, but I was ashamed of myself that I had even thought to try. She may as well have looked at the papers I handed her with tentative anticipation and declared me "Unclean!" right on the spot. I felt that stained by my-- obviously-- misplaced pride in my work. I couldn't even look at the other workshop participants for the rest of the day. I was so embarrassed that I had even tried. That I had the temerity to think that anything I had to say mattered.
I don't think this poet was all that different from many teachers. She probably meant no harm. She possessed a particular aesthetic and she felt it her responsibility to communicate it through her critique of my work. It is an author's prerogative to do such a thing. And after all, I had chosen to share... I wanted her opinion. It was unfair of me to resent it when I had, indeed, paid for it! But she was a teacher too! The little voice cries in my head and for that reason, she had a responsibility to develop me and not destroy me. I felt violated. And I most certainly did not feel like a poet that day. And truth be told, I didn't write another poem (that I shared with anyone anyway) for ten years.
I wonder how many students in my classes would like to be writers-- are, indeed, writers-- but because of their inability to name themselves as such, miss the opportunity to practice their craft. After all, one of the reasons I don't like to call myself a writer is that I don't have a regular writing practice. If I did, I would be a writer. But maybe if I called myself a writer, I would have a regular writing practice because, well, If I'm a writer it would be silly not to be writing, right? I don't know. I guess it's a semantic catch-22, but I do think there's something to owning your title. And not limiting the purview of that title's governance. Part of the reason my students fail to see themselves as writers is that the definition of a writer is so narrowly drawn-- especially in the standards-driven, test-bound laboratory that serves as an English Language Arts classroom these days (O, the 5-paragraph essay!). I remember a time (although it seems long, long ago) when students were allowed to write creatively in class-- it was an expectation of an English curriculum that it would provide opportunities for students to express feelings and ideas and explore narratives. Now whenever it happens, I feel guilty-- as if I'm depriving them of a healthy diet of structure and ideas and conventions and replacing it instead with cookies, ice cream and cheetos. So, I wonder why students don't think of themselves as writers, but they often only get limited chances to actually make sense of themselves in that light. My schedule especially has lent itself to these limitations. As a teacher of AP Language and Composition, I felt a tremendous pressure to help my students maximize their performance on the exam and while I can proudly say that I never taught my class as a test prep course, I know that I was guilty of managing my students' writing to such an extent that I am sure I extinguished virtually any creative flame they might have nurtured in private. Now, as an instructor of senior English required electives (I know, "required electives:" oxymoronic...), I am ashamed to admit that one of my students, when asked on an end-of-the-class survey to summarize what he felt he had learned during the course, wrote, "I learned I'm a bad writer." This particular student is bright, ambitious and possessed of an entrepreneurial nature. He will attend a "name" school in the fall. His work ethic is strong and his energy for ideas and images is lively and interesting. His writing does possess myriad syntactical flaws, sometimes making his very cool ideas unintelligible, but instead of coming away from my class with a sense of his personal dynamic as valuable, he thinks, simply that he is a "bad writer." I did that. Because I have been frightened into thinking that the only way to get a writer to write better is to compartmentalize and judge his work.
I don't want to misrepresent myself here. I am not the crazy lady with the red pen who writes "awk" (for "awkward") all over my students' papers as a certain senior English teacher who once taught me was wont to do. I encourage writers. I write lots of positive comments on students' papers. I take them through draft processes. I do all the "right" things. I would never say to a student "You're a bad writer. Don't bother." Not in a million years. In fact, I am probably guilty of what is currently referred to in the childrearing handbooks as "overpraising" students for their diligence and ability. I want them to feel good about their efforts, after all. But with all of that said, that young man still walked away from my class feeling as though he was a "bad writer." This tells me that my fear is more potent and present than I would have imagined and it is making its way subtly into my teaching practice. What frightens me is that I didn't know this about myself until that boy wrote those particular words on that evaluation. What troubles me even more is that I have failed to make the connection between my own disappointments and reactions to criticism as a writer and students' potential reactions to my critiques of their work-- that I, like that poet all those years ago, had disappointed my student in one of the most insidious of ways. Instead of gently guiding him toward improvement, I denigrated his effort. This saddens me immeasurably because even though I don't think about it that often (anymore anyway), I can still call up the deep resentment of that woman's power over me). Now it is possible that poet had something valuable to impart to me that day. Whatever it was, however, got lost in my humiliation over her assessment of my work. On that summer afternoon, sitting at a sun-warmed picnic table under the aromatic lindens there should have been space for learning and growth, but the environment she created with her criticism left no room for that.
I fear the young man in my class feels exactly the same way about me.
I hope it does not take him ten years to recover.
I don't think this poet was all that different from many teachers. She probably meant no harm. She possessed a particular aesthetic and she felt it her responsibility to communicate it through her critique of my work. It is an author's prerogative to do such a thing. And after all, I had chosen to share... I wanted her opinion. It was unfair of me to resent it when I had, indeed, paid for it! But she was a teacher too! The little voice cries in my head and for that reason, she had a responsibility to develop me and not destroy me. I felt violated. And I most certainly did not feel like a poet that day. And truth be told, I didn't write another poem (that I shared with anyone anyway) for ten years.
I wonder how many students in my classes would like to be writers-- are, indeed, writers-- but because of their inability to name themselves as such, miss the opportunity to practice their craft. After all, one of the reasons I don't like to call myself a writer is that I don't have a regular writing practice. If I did, I would be a writer. But maybe if I called myself a writer, I would have a regular writing practice because, well, If I'm a writer it would be silly not to be writing, right? I don't know. I guess it's a semantic catch-22, but I do think there's something to owning your title. And not limiting the purview of that title's governance. Part of the reason my students fail to see themselves as writers is that the definition of a writer is so narrowly drawn-- especially in the standards-driven, test-bound laboratory that serves as an English Language Arts classroom these days (O, the 5-paragraph essay!). I remember a time (although it seems long, long ago) when students were allowed to write creatively in class-- it was an expectation of an English curriculum that it would provide opportunities for students to express feelings and ideas and explore narratives. Now whenever it happens, I feel guilty-- as if I'm depriving them of a healthy diet of structure and ideas and conventions and replacing it instead with cookies, ice cream and cheetos. So, I wonder why students don't think of themselves as writers, but they often only get limited chances to actually make sense of themselves in that light. My schedule especially has lent itself to these limitations. As a teacher of AP Language and Composition, I felt a tremendous pressure to help my students maximize their performance on the exam and while I can proudly say that I never taught my class as a test prep course, I know that I was guilty of managing my students' writing to such an extent that I am sure I extinguished virtually any creative flame they might have nurtured in private. Now, as an instructor of senior English required electives (I know, "required electives:" oxymoronic...), I am ashamed to admit that one of my students, when asked on an end-of-the-class survey to summarize what he felt he had learned during the course, wrote, "I learned I'm a bad writer." This particular student is bright, ambitious and possessed of an entrepreneurial nature. He will attend a "name" school in the fall. His work ethic is strong and his energy for ideas and images is lively and interesting. His writing does possess myriad syntactical flaws, sometimes making his very cool ideas unintelligible, but instead of coming away from my class with a sense of his personal dynamic as valuable, he thinks, simply that he is a "bad writer." I did that. Because I have been frightened into thinking that the only way to get a writer to write better is to compartmentalize and judge his work.
I don't want to misrepresent myself here. I am not the crazy lady with the red pen who writes "awk" (for "awkward") all over my students' papers as a certain senior English teacher who once taught me was wont to do. I encourage writers. I write lots of positive comments on students' papers. I take them through draft processes. I do all the "right" things. I would never say to a student "You're a bad writer. Don't bother." Not in a million years. In fact, I am probably guilty of what is currently referred to in the childrearing handbooks as "overpraising" students for their diligence and ability. I want them to feel good about their efforts, after all. But with all of that said, that young man still walked away from my class feeling as though he was a "bad writer." This tells me that my fear is more potent and present than I would have imagined and it is making its way subtly into my teaching practice. What frightens me is that I didn't know this about myself until that boy wrote those particular words on that evaluation. What troubles me even more is that I have failed to make the connection between my own disappointments and reactions to criticism as a writer and students' potential reactions to my critiques of their work-- that I, like that poet all those years ago, had disappointed my student in one of the most insidious of ways. Instead of gently guiding him toward improvement, I denigrated his effort. This saddens me immeasurably because even though I don't think about it that often (anymore anyway), I can still call up the deep resentment of that woman's power over me). Now it is possible that poet had something valuable to impart to me that day. Whatever it was, however, got lost in my humiliation over her assessment of my work. On that summer afternoon, sitting at a sun-warmed picnic table under the aromatic lindens there should have been space for learning and growth, but the environment she created with her criticism left no room for that.
I fear the young man in my class feels exactly the same way about me.
I hope it does not take him ten years to recover.
9.7.10
On Being A Writer
I have always wanted to be a writer. And it is, as V.S. Naipul notes in his reflection on his own path to becoming a writer, "...mysterious, for instance, that the ambition should have come first—the wish to be a writer, to have that distinction, that fame—and that this ambition should have come long before I could think of anything to write about." But it does make sense in light of the difficulties I have experienced in the pursuit of that dream. For although I have always wanted to be a writer, I am not one. At least I am not the kind of writer I always wanted to be. I want to write fictions. To tell stories. To make magic. Except I'm not very good at any of those things. I can never think of what happens next. So, instead, I write applications. And proposals. And reflections. And evaluations. And models and essays. And letters. And now, blog posts. In other words, I write everything but what I want really to write: Stories and books and plays. And despite an MFA in writing with a concentration in fiction, I still cannot do the thing I would so like to do. And what's even more upsetting to me is that I cannot figure out why this is so.
I have been writing since I can remember. I still have one of my earliest stories, "It Happened on Manioc," the heroic journey of a breadfruit with a single leg who grew to great stature having saved his planet, Manioc, from hostile invaders. Upon his victory, he is given the hand of the princess in marriage and they live happily ever after. My command of the narrative arc-- rising action, conflict, climax and denoument-- was unself-conscious and bold. I was not afraid of cliches because I had no idea what they were; instead, I blithely told my breadfruit story. Readers raved (my parents, siblings and teacher) and I was content. And I called myself "writer."
Where did that abandon go? I imagine it went the way of other delights such as lazy summer days that promised to last forever in the same way that childhood feels as though it is a world without end. In other words, I grew up. I became conscious and I developed fear-- along with an incredible willingness to consistently trust the assessments of others over what I knew I liked, allowing so-called "experts" to judge my writing and continually find it wanting. I learned to hate the blank page. I always tell my students that sculptors are fortunate. They simply have to let hand and chisel do the work and shape and form emerge. Writers have it hard. First they have to make the rock. By the time I get around to sculpting the rock, I am so much part of its composition, its sedimentary makeup, that I cannot free myself from its origins. Revision, for example, undoes me.
Perhaps, because I was so interested in others' response to my work, I failed to actually nurture the work itself. My writing became a means to and end-- one that never came. I wonder if the desire for recognition that drove my earliest writing efforts somehow impaired me from actually being able to write truthfully. Although Naipul also notes in his essay that "...it is mysterious still—that out of artifice one should touch and stir up what is deepest in one’s soul, one’s heart, one’s memory..." which makes me think that I should not judge my youthful desire to be extraordinary too harshly. And it is true that even the act of attempting to become the writer I so longed to be taught me things about myself that I, quite possibly, would not have learned otherwise. And so, with that knowledge in mind, I wonder if it is time to re-cast my view of what writing means to me. To validate the writing that I do. To make it count in my own mind. To be able to call myself a writer... despite my reluctance to do so.
I have been writing since I can remember. I still have one of my earliest stories, "It Happened on Manioc," the heroic journey of a breadfruit with a single leg who grew to great stature having saved his planet, Manioc, from hostile invaders. Upon his victory, he is given the hand of the princess in marriage and they live happily ever after. My command of the narrative arc-- rising action, conflict, climax and denoument-- was unself-conscious and bold. I was not afraid of cliches because I had no idea what they were; instead, I blithely told my breadfruit story. Readers raved (my parents, siblings and teacher) and I was content. And I called myself "writer."
Where did that abandon go? I imagine it went the way of other delights such as lazy summer days that promised to last forever in the same way that childhood feels as though it is a world without end. In other words, I grew up. I became conscious and I developed fear-- along with an incredible willingness to consistently trust the assessments of others over what I knew I liked, allowing so-called "experts" to judge my writing and continually find it wanting. I learned to hate the blank page. I always tell my students that sculptors are fortunate. They simply have to let hand and chisel do the work and shape and form emerge. Writers have it hard. First they have to make the rock. By the time I get around to sculpting the rock, I am so much part of its composition, its sedimentary makeup, that I cannot free myself from its origins. Revision, for example, undoes me.
Perhaps, because I was so interested in others' response to my work, I failed to actually nurture the work itself. My writing became a means to and end-- one that never came. I wonder if the desire for recognition that drove my earliest writing efforts somehow impaired me from actually being able to write truthfully. Although Naipul also notes in his essay that "...it is mysterious still—that out of artifice one should touch and stir up what is deepest in one’s soul, one’s heart, one’s memory..." which makes me think that I should not judge my youthful desire to be extraordinary too harshly. And it is true that even the act of attempting to become the writer I so longed to be taught me things about myself that I, quite possibly, would not have learned otherwise. And so, with that knowledge in mind, I wonder if it is time to re-cast my view of what writing means to me. To validate the writing that I do. To make it count in my own mind. To be able to call myself a writer... despite my reluctance to do so.
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