Magnificat

How about a bit of classic literature?
Luke records for us what Mary said when she was told she would bear the Christ Child.
One of the earliest recognized and most enduring of Christmas liturgies, the Magnificat or the Canticle of Mary.

“My soul magnifies the Lord,
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for He has looked on the humble estate of His servant.
For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for He who is mighty has done great things for me,
and holy is His name.
And His mercy is for those who fear Him
from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with His arm;
He has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts;
He has brought down the mighty from their thrones
and exalted those of humble estate;
He has filled the hungry with good things,
and the rich He has sent away empty.
He has helped His servant Israel,
in remembrance of His mercy,
as He spoke to our fathers,
to Abraham and to his offspring forever.”

Angry. Sad. Mad.

Angry. Sad. Mad. Happy. Scared. Worried. These are emotional labels that beginning writers will often use to tell their reader what a character is feeling. Any character in any story might be afraid. What makes this scare unique? One sure way never to discover that is by labeling your character’s response as “afraid”.
Sure, these words form operable prose, but they lack meaning and they certainly lack creativity. One way we know they lack meaning is the great temptation to put modifiers on either side of them in order to pump them up – really mad, super scared, worried sick.
You don’t need extra words when you write strong, specific prose. Here’s an example.
Make a choice between the following two options.
1) I could tell from the way he was acting, he was really mad.
OR
2) He grew quiet and stared at me as he stood. I could see a faint tremor in his fists as he spoke in a low, rattling growl.
You might get by with #1, but your reader is getting bored. You are telling them the emotion instead of showing it to them.

So what are the solutions?
Simply write the emotion without these words. Better yet, use dialogue to let us hear the emotion. Well written dialogue will allow your reader to accurately infer the emotion while at the same time giving them insight into the character feeling it. This is an elegant solution, and one that gives your reader what they came for. Tweaks such as this will increase the quality of your writing pronto, without a lot of heavy lifting.

He grew quiet and stared at me as he stood. I could see a faint tremor in his fists as he spoke in a low, rattling growl.
“You should have called before you came over here,” he said.
“You would have only given me one of your hundred excuses – given some lame reason why you weren’t going to see me.”
He took a step forward. “That’s your mistake. I guess you’ll find out in person why I would’ve told you to stay home.”

To Focus Beginning Writers

One recent evening I had the opportunity to listen as a panel of college writing professors discussed various aspects of their job – from generating interest in writing to grading to syllabus creation.
The panel spent several minutes discussing the question of where to focus beginning writers – on quantity or quality. One of the panelists stated without opposition that the focus for beginning writers must be on process and production over, but not to the exclusion of, revision.

The beginning writer should not be concerned with finding a high concept (a “great idea”) and executing it, or achieving perfection by the end of the semester on a ten-page short story or a set of three poems. Make either of these a focus – or allow the student to – and then he or she will not gain the foundation for craft but will instead develop the false concept that writing a story or poem or essay is simply another problem to be solved (like solving an algebraic equation or calculating molecular weight).
One teacher wisely has students write in volume – as much as 40,000 words over a two-semester freshman year seminar (FYS). This accomplishes two things. First, the student is a better writer at the end of that year than they were at the start. Indeed, this is inevitable for anyone who writes so many words in a year. Second, their relationship to writing is changed. It is no longer intimidating to stare at a blank page. Any mental blocks that suggest to the student that they are not a writer or that they lack “material” are eliminated. Essentially, this quantity-based approach makes a writer of the student, a collegiate who sees the value of writing as a cross-disciplinary skill.
Revision of a single piece remains important and is not to be abandoned. Revision allows the student to apply instruction, especially comments written on their paper by a professor.
Part of this mass of writing should be spent in a revision or two of a couple of pieces. However, most of the writing should be either in response to reading (a perfect alternative to the quiz) or in discovery writing – writing not to produce a fully faceted piece but to understand better some idea or observation.
By design this writing is done every day, or at least three times a week. This creates an opportunity for the beginning writer to see how scheduled and disciplined work acts as an engine for productivity.

Inside or outside the classroom everyone in the writing world sees it as fact – writing as often and as much as you can is the sole route to successful practice of the craft. Quantity is the sole route to quality*.

*If you end up talking with someone that doesn’t agree on this point, you can presume they don’t write on a regular basis, if at all. They are either a reader or a weekend writer – their writing is a hobby. Ask them how often they write, ask them about their process. This will clear it up.

Between the Crafts

This last Monday evening I had a great conversation with one of my colleagues, the poet Mark Lilley. Mark was gracious enough to read a few of my poems and one of my short stories. I in turn had the delight of reading a couple of Mark’s unpublished poems. (They’ll not be unpublished for long. Trust me on that.)
The core of our conversation was spent in uncovering and discussing, via these samples of our work, some of the similarities between crafting prose and poetry.
I wish you had been there to listen in, but since you weren’t here are four take-aways.

1. The goal of both genres is to produce scenes in which things happen, are observed, or are learned by characters and readers. It is always a weakness to tell the reader what has happened rather than showing them what is occurring and letting them come to the conclusion you had in store for them. In both genres this slight-of-hand is at work, thus allowing the reader the sense of control.

2. Beginning writers think that conflict is found in either fever-pitch emotion or in a rut of depression. What is learned as one practices these crafts is that conflict is found not in high or low emotion, but in the balance of everyday life, where characters walk the narrow ledge of making due, of somehow just holding their lives together.

3. Word choice matters, always. During a reading here in Indianapolis on November 8th Billy Collins said that he writes a few words at a time and that this is the best way to write. Both Mark and I were at that reading. Billy is right. It acts as a rule of thumb…the faster the pace of putting words on paper, the narrower the vocabulary that is employed.

4. There is a place for elaborate, highly produced writing. But direct, concrete concepts tend to carry more weight than high and lofty proclamations. Concrete and Specific are the two vehicles that will take you where the reader lives. Meet your reader there. The alternative risks inaccessibility, where meaning may be veiled or muddied.

So there you go. From Mark and me to you, four points that will take all of us the rest of our writing lives to master.

Sisters and Successors

A pair of weeks ago I went to a reading by the author Jonathan Franzen. He read from his new novel (just finished, not yet published) and took a fair amount of Q&A. Someone asked a question about “why he thought people should read stories” or some derivative of that. Franzen, as he’d done all evening, took the question and went where he wished. Most of the questions were as poor as this one, so I’m glad he did that.

He answered by saying that he doesn’t think people should read stories. He said he doesn’t see it as some sort of cultural dictate. Stories are for escape. They are optional. Then he talked about TV. He said that he wrote an essay called “Why Bother” for Harper’s [now his most well-known essay] in which he spoke of TV as the enemy. He said that he’s changed his mind on that and now sees the cable TV drama as a sister to the novel.
Nearly everything we consume, said Franzen, is in tiny bites and is often a comment on something someone has produced, or a comment on a comment on something someone has produced. Cable TV dramas are the last place, besides the novel, where you can get lost for five or six hours (via Netflix) in a story and in the lives of characters unlike you. Both cable TV dramas and the modern novel are successors to the nineteenth century social novel – Dickens for example – where people went to learn about other people, cultures and places.

Now, I don’t watch cable TV dramas. (Although I’m beginning to think I’m missing some good literature.) I saw one episode of “The Wire” several years ago, and I’ve seen a little bit of Downton Abbey – who hasn’t? But Franzen is making sense here. Indeed, as he said while he was signing my books, “we have to find friends where we can”.
So here are the battle lines. On one side we have a fragmented universe with no through-line (e.g. your FaceBook news feed) and on the other side we have the long-form story. One could say both have their place, but I guess you can easily figure out which camp I’m in. Just follow me on Twitter @marshjdavid.

You Are In No Position

“You are your own worst critic.”
This is assumed to mean that you are harder on yourself and on what you produce than anyone else. This is probably true. You know more than anyone else. You see mistakes or hear a missed note. You know your vision for what you’ve created and this vision is your measure of success.
You probably do have some degree of understanding if something is working or not, but that is where it ends. You are entirely too familiar with and invested in your work to know how good or bad it is. Your understanding is subject to all sorts of tampering. You’ll find your own criticism of your work is usually more about meeting some ideal you’ve imagined than a fair evaluation of the work you’ve actually done.

While I can still stand behind this definition and agree that it has some value, I think there is a more helpful meaning. There is one that can do more to guide us and provide a bit more nuance, one that puts our focus where it should be.
I think the phrase means that you are in no position to evaluate your own work. Criticism of your own work is not good criticism. It is flawed. Your criticism is not balanced. It can’t be. It is not objective.

It is surprising how often my peers walk into the graduate writing workshop and make small talk before class starts about the work we’re about to workshop – their work. They say it is awful, just not good at all. Sometimes this depreciation of their work devolves into apologies and discussion of the next draft, as if this draft – the one we’re about to look at – is a loss.
This is not only bad form, but it is also making a terrible assumption. While it assumes that you can objectively evaluate your own work, it also assumes that the discussion we’re about to have in workshop is academic, that the outcome is set.
I’ve gone into a workshop submission very unsure of the quality of my writing and found my readers appreciated it more than I did. I’ve also gone into workshop with a piece that I thought was working quite well, only to received feedback that it wasn’t – feedback I could objectively only agree with.

You are your own worst critic, so find someone else to review your work. Put your energy into finding your own best critic, and then trust them to do their job. Make them your reader.
Your job is producing work. Focus there.

English Grammar – Principles and Facts

Confession: I know/remember little about English grammar. Like math, I think any of the grammatical structures I learned in my formative years have since leached out of me like salt from a marathon runner.

This is on my mind because late last month I was in a graduate writing class and we were looking at a poem by W.B. Yeats. As we worked though Yeats’ use of metaphor and line breaks, our professor suggested we look at Yeats’ use of verbs. I looked down at the five stanzas lying in front of me. Instead of looking at Yeats’ verbs I began clearing the cobwebs – verbs…verbs…oh yes, action verbs…verbs ‘do something’ – it was like I was having to remember how to figure a percentage or convert a fraction to a decimal.
(BTW…Corporate America is who I blame. They have stupefied me with an excess of emails and meetings.)
My wife edits my writing. All my drafts go through her. This blog post was proofread and edited by her. You are fortunate for that. She said she is trying to teach me to quit spreading commas like grass seed.
I feel like a plumber who doesn’t know the difference between the fresh water line and the sewage main; doesn’t know when to use putty or epoxy. Does that metaphor carry? Does the one I used in the first lines about the marathon runner carry? Do I need to study up on metaphor, too?

So, I am going to take action (no word play intended). I have what I think is a good English grammar text called “English Grammar – Principles and Facts” by Jeffrey P. Kaplan. I got it at the bookstore at IU Fort Wayne about 20 years ago. It is fairly readable. I think I’m going to begin to hack my way through it.
My motivation is more than avoiding feelings of stupidity, although that will be a fine peripheral outcome. I want to be able to look at my writing from a technical as well as aesthetic perspective. Grammar is important. It affords predictable clarity to writing and gives ideas structure. I am a writer. I ought to know how the words I’m using are related to each other and see where I can improve the mechanics.
Tough to argue with that. [sentence fragment]

The Absolute Worst Thing That Could Happen

Steve is a friend of mine. He is also an improv and stand-up comic. A couple of weeks ago we were having lunch at a local Mexican joint. We do this once a month and talk about the mechanics of telling people stories. This is something we both care about, a lot.
As we were covering some common ground, Steve made a point that is simply fundamental to story-telling of all kinds. He mentioned the thing that ensures your story will keep moving and your audience will stay tuned. It struck me that I hadn’t mentioned this point here, and it would be irresponsible for me to allow you to go any further without knowing.

One of the books nominated for the National Book Award this year is called “Wolf in White Van” by John Darnielle. It is the story of a troubled teen who attempts suicide, shooting himself in the face. He survives but is horribly deformed and so becomes a recluse, retreating to the world of pre-Internet computer gaming.

[Now I’m going to hook these two together.]

Steve reminded me that one of the keys to great story telling is to take your protagonist(s) and follow these three “easy” steps:
1. Imagine: what is the absolute worst thing that could happen to him/her/them. Don’t go with your first idea. It is not awful enough. Don’t go with your second either. Take your third idea. Don’t worry in fiction there is nothing that is too horrible. Horrible = better. More horrible = more better.
2. Once you have that in hand, start writing and make that happen to your protagonist ASAP. Don’t get cold feet. Go ahead, write that ugliness down.
3. When the dust starts to settle, when your protagonist seems to be regaining their footing: repeat. Once your protagonist is permanently and eternally changed such that the truth of humanity is on display, write the ending.

Mr. Darnielle made the move of an expert.
Now you can too.

On Teaching Creative Writing

This semester I am taking a course on Teaching Creative Writing. We are gaining instruction on and practicing teaching an imagined freshman Intro to Creative Writing course. We role play being college freshmen for each other as we take turns leading the “class”.
In October I will be teaching one piece of literature of my choice, and I’ll be leading one workshop of a freshman student’s writing (that piece is being provided).
Which piece of literature – short story, essay, or poem – to teach to the class?
By way of this blog post, I am opening the field to suggestions.

I have several collections of short stories/essays/poetry from which I am considering a piece (all of which, btw, I would suggest you read):
Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons – Kurt Vonnegut
Horoscopes for the Dead – Billy Collins
Kentucky Straight – Chris Offutt
If I Loved You, I would Tell You This – Robin Black
The Bridegroom – Ha Jin

In the Vonnegut collection is a piece called “Address to the Graduating Class at Bennington College, 1970”. This is an actual address (I assume) given by KV and is a snapshot of the writer at his height. I am leaning toward it. There would be a lot to talk about regarding the piece, a lot around setting the piece in its period as well as how freshly it translates to 2014. And plenty to investigate around what hallmarks make it a great piece of writing. There are craft points to take away from the piece. For instance there is a lot to learn about the value of making provocative claims in writing that draw in your reader.

My son suggested Ray Bradbury’s “A Sound of Thunder”. I am considering it as well. This would be a classic story to teach, a well-known standard. There is a lot of benefit to that. One can research the questions that have swirled around it since its publication in 1952. The story first appeared in Collier’s and then a few years later in Playboy (June ’56). You may not recognize the title, but I’ll bet you read the story in high school. http://www.lasalle.edu/~didio/courses/hon462/hon462_assets/sound_of_thunder.htm

Regardless of which piece I pick it’ll be a hoot to try my hand at teaching lit and leading a workshop. I wasn’t an English major, so I don’t have a lot of preconceived notions of how this should go. I hope I know whether it went well or not.

A Part That I Want to Get Right

I am currently working on the ending of the latest draft of my novel…the last ten pages.

As I edited the ending this last couple of weeks and prepared to rekey it, I thought seriously about the ending for only the third or fourth time. I thought about what it is and what I expect of it.

It is not the most important part of the story and is not anything anyone will talk about (unlike a short story, where the ending is much more critical), but it is a part of the structure of the book, and it is a part that I want to get right.

I made a brief list of several things I don’t want to happen to the end of my novel:

  • I don’t want it to stumble to an end, like a drunk leaving a party – thoroughly spent, sweaty and stinking, its clothing a mess, wandering the streets looking for a place to crash.
  • I don’t want it to fizzle out like a cheap firework – my loyal reader with the last bits of prose under their thumb left groaning to a spark, a pop and silence.
  • And I don’t want my novel to meander on like a chatty stranger, a voice you find at the last stop on the way home, full of words that keep you from finishing your journey, dribble they think you must hear but you clearly don’t need.

I want the end of my novel to be a designed conclusion, like the farthest reaches of a sculpture or the last chords of a nocturne.

I want to end the story, my conversation with the reader, not before or after they are ready, but right at the moment they are content to drop the back cover shut and switch the light out.

I want my novel to resolve with a clear, low tone. I want its arc to sink in such a way that it leaves the reader gratefully alert, staring at the dust jacket as they pick up their phone to post to FaceBook.