a writer's journal

Thursday, August 18, 2005

To finish out the 2005 Sewanee Writers' Conference portion of this journal, here a few miscellaneous notes jotted down in craft lectures and workshops.

-- As readers we turn pages to see how the story works out, not to learn what the author is hiding from us. (Bausch)

--Use the dream-side of your brain in early drafts. Use your shrewdness later. (Bausch)

--Every good character needs a vice, every bad character a virtue. (Livesey)

--Implicit in a story opening: Today something important happened, and things will never be the same. (Bausch/McCorkle)

--In first-person narration, a character will tell regret, but not humiliation. (Bausch)

--Characters have complex feelings and contradictions--"Yes, no, yes, I don't know." (Earley/Livesey)

--Good fiction arises from the friction of two things in a box, two things forced by circumstance together that do not belong together. (Earley/Livesey)

--In fiction, proportion and placement give a subtle message to your reader, setting up importance and significance. (Bausch/McCorkle)

--What your story is about should be there in the first sentence. (Bausch/McCorkle)

--Don't keep back the good stuff. Use it now. There will be more. (Livesey/Shakespeare)

--Begin dramatically. (Livesey/Shakespeare)

--Negotiate your own standards of plausibility. (Livesey/Shakespeare)

And with that, I'll leave the subject of SWC 2005 and get back to writing, which is the whole point anyway. Right?

Monday, August 15, 2005

Sewanee Writer's Conference is workshops, craft lectures, and more readings than any one human can attend. But there are also social events, some scheduled, some spontaneous, all enriching in one way or another. Again, more than one person can do, so you pick and choose.

On Sunday, nineteen of us hiked about two miles along a wide stream to a waterfalls. The day was hot, and several of us swam there. And once we'd hike back out, we posed for the obligatory group photo. There were other swims those two weeks. A softball game, too. And one evening, Pia Taavila played a much too brief dulcimer concert for writers in the dorm lounge.

On the final Thursday night, there were two more or less spontaneous events, the first a porch gathering to exchange information and experiences with on grant programs, writing residencies, awards, and other conferences. Meanwhile, in the lounge, an informal poetry recitation and reading event was going on. Here are a few of the dozen or more who contributed their voices to the evening: Jennifer Maier, Ralph Birdsey, Cheryl Whitehead, and Elizabeth Cooper. There were other get-togethers during the conference, some small, some large. I am amazed at how smoothly this all seemed to happen. Maybe it has something to do with the isolation of the place. And with our like-mindedness, too.

Friday, August 12, 2005

The University of Kentucky PBS radio station, WUKY, is the one station I listen to regularly, primarily for the music and for a daily dose of poetry, courtesy of Garrison Keillor. Now the station manager has dropped The Writer's Almanac from the station due to the content of the poems, which he deems unsuitable for a central Kentucky listenership. Were this a blog, I'd give you an earful of opinion, a major rant. It's not, and I won't.

I cut the short story collection down to what I consider the 'core six stories,' and, after redrafting two in light of craft things picked up at Sewanee Writers' Conference, I sent them off to North Texas University, entering the bunch in The Katherine Anne Porter Prize competition, first prize being cash and book publication. The guidelines called for a relatively small word count, so I'm less worried about uniformity of quality in what I sent. It's all good...or not.

Richard Bausch talked at Sewanee about anticipating what readers may think. His advice was to not try to finesse plausibility. Rather, face into those expected doubts and address them early. Set up the expected and potentially implausible event well before its story significance surfaces. And sometimes it may help to have a secondary character express the reader's doubt, to let the reader know subliminally that the author is aware.

The discussion of plausibility evolved into the filmmaker's trick of "shooting it on the nose." With a cliché scene and a cliché outcome, sometimes the best thing to do is simply to write the scene so it passes as quickly and cleanly as possible. Get through it in a paragraph or two, rather than trying for pages to make it something other than what it is.

About clarity in writing: Fiction is life organized. Yes, life can be confusing. But fiction should always be lucid. Write the story as clearly as possible. And don't pile on the metaphors just to be poetic. (This from my final day in the Bausch/McCorkle workshop.)

Saturday, August 6, 2005

Tried to get back to the novel this week, but the idea for a short-short kept shoulder-tapping until finally I wrote it. It's a morbid little funny piece, I think, the tone inspired by several stories I heard read by scholars and fellows at Sewanee. It's all about voice, meant to be read aloud. I'm wondering if it works as words on a page. I'll send it out somewhere, see if there's a response.

Sewanee Writers Conference is primarily about the workshops, of course. My workshop leader was Richard Bausch, whose work I've been reading this past year after a recommendation by Lee Smith. Richard was paired with Jill McCorkle. There were fifteen in the combined workshop, a couple fellows, maybe three scholars, the rest contributors. They represented a range of writing development. All offered useful feedback on my work, some of it extremely useful. Jill McCorkle was most encouraging in her comments, as was Richard Bausch on my three stories. In our one-on-one conference at Sterling's Coffee House, Bausch offered detailed thoughts on 'The Accomplished Son,' which was the story workshopped by everyone, and he suggested markets for 'First Husband, First Wife,' another of my stories he read. By itself, my primary workshop made the conference worthwhile. But of course, there was much more.

Scheduling at Sewanee allows participants to attend a second workshop. I went to the fiction workshop of Margot Livesey and Tony Earley. The tone of feedback there was more critical, with a sharper edge to comments in general. But participants seemed well-adapted to the tone after the first day, and it was probably as useful an experience for them as the Bausch/McCorkle workshop was for us. And there were brief craft talks at the beginning of each Livesey/Earley workshop session that were most valuable--Earley's "Thing/Other Thing' talk, for example. See July 29 entry.

Still to come -- social life, impromptu readings, participant readings, hikes and swims, a few craft nuggets panned from the two weeks, and whatever else comes to mind.

Monday, August 1, 2005

I'm ambivalent about cameras. Always have been. They invite an odd awareness: life-as-event, an awareness that detracts from the very event you want to record. And you look like a tourist carrying one to a conference like this, a sightseer, not at all a professional, a real conferee.

So it was with considerable discomfort that I packed my digital camera for the trip to Sewanee Writers' Conference. A few others brought cameras, I noticed, but they took them out timidly, furtively, and primarily at social events. And I followed suit. Except for a few quick shots, unobtrusive, I hoped, during two evening readings at Bairnwick Women's Center.

Each night one workshop leader read -- John Casey, Margot Livesey, Wyatt Prunty, Randall Kenan, Jill McCorkle, Daisy Foote, Tony Earley, Brad Leithauser, Mary Jo Salter, Mark Winegardner, and on the final night, Richard Bausch. Some conferees had already left by time Richard read, but the room was still nearly full. From my seat at the back, I snapped this picture of the room and crowd. (Sculptural portraits on the wall are: Gore Vidal, Robert Stone, Diane Johnson, Romulus Linney, and Barry Hannah.) What a treat, not only listening to their craft lectures each afternoon, but also hearing them read each night.

All meals were served buffet style at The Sewanee Inn, most evenings including wine. At every meal, I sought out new people. Workshop leaders, editors, agents, etc. were not button-holed, besieged with attention, and monopolized by a few people. For the most part, civility and consideration ruled. A little patience would net you an adjacent seat at breakfast or lunch and a pleasant conversation. Next time, you'd leave that seat vacant for someone else. Several workshop leaders brought family with them--a spouse and sometimes children, too, which added to the conference's family feel.

More another day--

Friday, July 29, 2005

Sewanee Writers Conference was a wonderful experience. I'm tempted to gush and expound and reflect at great length in this journal. But this is cyberspace. Succinct is the rule. So I'll piece away at things, spread the experience over several entries in weeks to come.

I've been home since Sunday, but I've had a couple submission deadlines--an abbreviated version of my short story collection, Things Kept, Things Left Behind, to Sarabande, and a short story to Harper's. (Hey, we aim high!) They're in the mail now, and I'm organizing notes from the conference, sorting through photos, labeling them with people's names while I still remember.

My manuscript reader was Richard Bausch. He and Jill McCorkle lead the 15-member workshop I attended. More on that later.

The schedule allowed participants the option of attending one other workshop, to sit quietly in back and listen. I went to every session of the workshop lead by Tony Earley and Margot Livesey. One afternoon, Earley gave a five-minute chalk talk on "the thing" and "the other thing" is short fiction. "The thing" is what the story is about. "The other thing" is another element of the story that lines up somewhat (but not too closely) with "the thing." It operates, on some level, as a metaphor. It usually works best if "the other thing" is introduced first, making it appear less blatant to the reader. This "other thing" can do much of the story work. And at some point, the two elements need to converge in the story action, not just on a thematic level. Earley claims that you will find this "thing/other thing" structure in most successful short fiction. "And that," Earley said, dropping the chalk in the chalk tray, "is a semester of short fiction class."

So when I got home with workshop notes for "The Accomplished Son," I did a quick rewrite. And I added in an "other thing," and tried to get it to do some of that story's work. Now when I read short fiction, I'll look for this structure, the way it's used, how it works.

Thursday, July 7, 2005

After a quick edit on The Sin-Eater's Son pages, based of House Writers' feedback, I've printed off a copy to take with me to Sewanee next Tuesday. With no idea what I may want once there, I'm printing off several stories, several novel excerpts and plot summaries. Better to have and not need them than the other way around. I'd hoped to have a copy of the summer issue (#94) of Wind magazine, too, thinking my story, "Paragon Tea," might be something to read if there's an open-mic evening. It's bogged down with the printer, not out yet.

The best writing happens in the writing. As much as we'd like to think that all our research and contemplative time is what feeds the writing, the truth is often otherwise. Those things that seem most authentic to a reader are often the things that just happen, things that come about during the act of writing, of stringing words and sentences together. That's my experience, anyway, reinforced yet again this past week.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Fifty pages into The Sin Eater's Son, I'm taking a few days off, watching and re-watching DVD's, listening to writer/director commentaries. There's always an index card nearby. Even while watching movies, writing is never far from my mind. I jot down nuggets about character or story, things gathered from movies that I might use. Examples from recent days:

"He gets on base twice, I'll paint your porch." This is a background dialogue fragment from Mystic River, a way characters sometimes say something obliquely, playfully, reflecting their relationship (friendship, in this case). The less artful version of this would be, "I'll bet he doesn't…."

In dialogue, a character sometimes responds to what he expect the other to say, not what is really said. Don't remember now what prompted this note. I have noticed, though, that the most realistic-sounding dialogue is filled with jumps and disconnects, with cross-purposes of intent. It's a balance, because this can be done to the point of reader confusion. That is not a good thing.

"What makes the scene work is that are both right." This is probably a quote from someone on the House of Sand and Fog commentary track. I take it to mean not only are both characters convinced of their 'rightness,' but the reader agrees with both, too, that the writer needs to lead the reader there before the scene.

Sometimes characters act 'entitled.' A reminder to make sure that characters act/react out of many different mindsets ('entitled' being but one). These are not stickmen or rocks.

"Oh God! I didn't mean to do this!" This a dialogue line immediately after a character does something rash. Again, actions erupt from emotion, conscious intentions trying to take back what was just done. A short snip of dialogue can say so much.

All this DVD-viewing helps my writing. Or maybe it's just an excuse to watch movies.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

They say (they being people who write/talk/think about writing fiction) that you should write what you feel compelled to write in a way that feels natural to you. They're right, of course. Still, you can't help but notice what is succeeding in the marketplace, what new waves are breaking there, as abhorrent and crass as such noticing might seem.

That said--The New Yorker magazine new fiction issue features the work three emerging writers this week, all three stories narrated in first-person by underage characters, all amazing precocious and astute for their young, coming-of ages. Okay, maybe TNY has developed a sudden prejudice for what has been, until recently, the messy playground of the amateur writer. But no. Witness the new Poets and Writers magazine, their fabulous 'Five Fiction Debuts,' novels by those P&W considers rising stars. Along with author profiles, they give brief samples from the text. Four of five are first person narratives, and three (maybe four, I really can't tell from the snip) are in the voice of youngsters busy trying to learn the ways of the world. The one trend-breaker is a third-person narrative by an adult character.

I've written my adolescent narrator first-person manuscript, Tucson Winter. Now I'm writing third-person, adult viewpoint--my novel-in-progress, The Sin Eater's Son. But I can't help looking at what publishers are excited by these days, and worrying that I'm again out of step. I know. I know. You should write what compels you. I'm doing just that. Still, it's hard to ignore certain signs.

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