I've never liked year-end top ten lists, though I'm a sucker for looking at them, because it seems strange to me that good films, books, albums should occur in multiples of ten. What's so special about the number ten that causes newspapers to make a festish of it every year?
With books, this practice seems more than a little suspect given that no one can possibly have read all the books that have come out in a certain year and from those select the ten "best." Therefore, I'd just like to note a few books I read in 2009 (where they were published in that year or not) which gave me pleasure:
1. The Big Sleep and Lady in the Lake by Raymond Chandler: This guy knows his way around a metaphor like few writers I've seen. I love the plots, I love the worlds he creates, but above all I love hard-bitten, wisecracking Philip Marlowe.
2. Lake Overturn by Vestal McIntyre: A fun, old-fashioned, Dickensian style novel bursting with characters and incidents.
3. Reading Jesus by Mary Gordon: A chance to explore the New Testament with a stirring and sensitive reader.
4. Status Anxiety by Alain de Botton: The first half of this book is a devastating take down of our obsession with status. The second half, in which de Botton advises us on how to deal with the problem of status, is not as strong as the first.
5. Don't Cry by Mary Gaitskill: Why this book wasn't more celebrated is beyond me, especially since it so radically outshines other clunkier efforts (like the new Lorrie Moore novel) to capture the tragedies of the Bush era. Stylistically and emotionally, a triumph.
6. The Scenic Route by Binnie Kirshenbaum: A former teacher of mine and a wonderful, wry stylist, Kirshenbaum creates a vivid profile of a passive life.
7. A Friend of the Family by Lauren Grodstein: Lauren is also a friend of mine, but trust me, this book well rewards your reading. It's a gripping emotional thriller about a man determined to protect his son to a fault. Read this book.
8. Unaccustomed Earth and The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri: Lahiri's first book, Interpreter of Maladies left me baffled about all the praise it received. Her second two have made me a believer. I can't think of another contemporary author who musters so much sympathy for her characters. I loved these two books.
9. The Believers by Zoe Heller: I read this in one day. Heller makes you care about her characters, even if you don't particularly like them.
10. Dreams from My Father by Barack Obama: Whatever you think of the politician, you have to be impressed by the writer. A surprisingly naked and moving self-portrait.
11. Perfume by Patrick Susskind: A terrific ode to the senses, with many beautiful passages.
12. The Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain: The kind of book you dip in and out of rather than read cover to cover. The anti-European bias is unintentionally hilarious and a fascinating portrait of American reverse snobbery when it's offensive.
13. Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh: I've read it before, but I reread it this year. What a strange book! The first half is one of the most beautiful portraits of young love I've ever read. The second half is a lame apology for it.
That's it for now. I'd love to hear from other people about books they enjoyed...
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
This is Just to Say...
I'm busy as hell right now with the end of the semester, but I thought I'd leave a quick note to say I've been immersing myself in the novels of Raymond Chandler and they are indeed, delicious...
Monday, November 02, 2009
I Like You, You Like Me, We're a Happy Family
If there's one word I'm sick of hearing in a literary context, it's "likable." Then again, maybe I'm sick of hearing it in any context.
Remember when it was fashionable for political pundits to say that the reason Bush Jr. was elected was because he was more "likable" than his opponents, Al Gore and John Kerry? Or in the last campaign, when Hillary Clinton was accused of the grave charge of not being "likable." It seems a little odd to me that one of the standards for being elected leader of the free world should be "likability," but if that is a measure voters are using, then it's a tendency to be decried, rather than analyzed.
Or, on a much more mundane level, imagine if a friend came up to you and said, "I just wanted to tell you, you're really likable." Would you take that as a compliment? Would you even know how to interpret such a remark? One possible response: "Gee, thanks for telling me that it's possible, even probable, that people like me."
And yet, in literary criticism, it's become accepted, even fashionable, for readers, critics, and editors to routinely charge writers with the crime of creating characters who are "unlikable." Forgive me for thinking that my job as a writer was to create characters with distinct and recognizable traits, characters with lifelike complexity, characters who do and say memorable things. No, it turns out that what writers are really supposed to do is create characters with whom a reader might like to split a salad with at lunch. Or, rather, we're supposed to create characters whom editors in New York imagine that readers in such exotic locales as St. Louis, Chicago, or Seattle might like to split a salad with at lunch.
In the past few months, I've read three novels by Raymond Chandler and The Education of Hyman Kaplan by Leo Rosten, and reread A Passage to India by E. M. Forster. These books all had two qualities in common. First, they were brilliant works of literature that were fun and absorbing to read. Second, they featured oodles of characters who could not be called "likable." Coincidence? I think not.
If I want an agreeable lunch partner, I'll call up one of my friends. If I want to read a great novel, the last thing I'll do at the bookstore is scan the jacket copy as if it were a personal ad in the hopes that the characters might be plausible BFF candidates. In fact, what I'm often looking for is quite the opposite.
In life, I would not want to hang out with Philip Marlowe, Hyman Kaplan, or Miss Quested and Dr. Aziz. They'd probably be too much to take after a short while. But in literature, I get the chance to spend time in their company for as long or as little as I wish and whenever I wish, without the burdens of courtesy, comparing schedules, remembering birthdays, etc. Furthermore, the authors who've created these characters have done me the favor of excluding the un-interesting parts of their lives and saving all the interesting stuff for the page. And I'd rather have unlikable and interesting than likable and boring.
I guess what it comes down to is that I read to expand my knowledge of the universe, not to confirm what I already know. As I open each new book I read, my hope is that I will get to observe people and places and storylines that I may not come across in my daily routine. If all I wanted were the latter, I could always go on Facebook.
Remember when it was fashionable for political pundits to say that the reason Bush Jr. was elected was because he was more "likable" than his opponents, Al Gore and John Kerry? Or in the last campaign, when Hillary Clinton was accused of the grave charge of not being "likable." It seems a little odd to me that one of the standards for being elected leader of the free world should be "likability," but if that is a measure voters are using, then it's a tendency to be decried, rather than analyzed.
Or, on a much more mundane level, imagine if a friend came up to you and said, "I just wanted to tell you, you're really likable." Would you take that as a compliment? Would you even know how to interpret such a remark? One possible response: "Gee, thanks for telling me that it's possible, even probable, that people like me."
And yet, in literary criticism, it's become accepted, even fashionable, for readers, critics, and editors to routinely charge writers with the crime of creating characters who are "unlikable." Forgive me for thinking that my job as a writer was to create characters with distinct and recognizable traits, characters with lifelike complexity, characters who do and say memorable things. No, it turns out that what writers are really supposed to do is create characters with whom a reader might like to split a salad with at lunch. Or, rather, we're supposed to create characters whom editors in New York imagine that readers in such exotic locales as St. Louis, Chicago, or Seattle might like to split a salad with at lunch.
In the past few months, I've read three novels by Raymond Chandler and The Education of Hyman Kaplan by Leo Rosten, and reread A Passage to India by E. M. Forster. These books all had two qualities in common. First, they were brilliant works of literature that were fun and absorbing to read. Second, they featured oodles of characters who could not be called "likable." Coincidence? I think not.
If I want an agreeable lunch partner, I'll call up one of my friends. If I want to read a great novel, the last thing I'll do at the bookstore is scan the jacket copy as if it were a personal ad in the hopes that the characters might be plausible BFF candidates. In fact, what I'm often looking for is quite the opposite.
In life, I would not want to hang out with Philip Marlowe, Hyman Kaplan, or Miss Quested and Dr. Aziz. They'd probably be too much to take after a short while. But in literature, I get the chance to spend time in their company for as long or as little as I wish and whenever I wish, without the burdens of courtesy, comparing schedules, remembering birthdays, etc. Furthermore, the authors who've created these characters have done me the favor of excluding the un-interesting parts of their lives and saving all the interesting stuff for the page. And I'd rather have unlikable and interesting than likable and boring.
I guess what it comes down to is that I read to expand my knowledge of the universe, not to confirm what I already know. As I open each new book I read, my hope is that I will get to observe people and places and storylines that I may not come across in my daily routine. If all I wanted were the latter, I could always go on Facebook.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Yom Kippur Reflections
One of the many things I like about the synagogue where I attend High Holiday Services is the fact that the rabbi opens services by giving us permission to let our attention lag. That's right, if we find ourselves getting bored during prayers and find ourselves daydreaming, reading ahead through the prayer book, even dozing off, we have our rabbi's blessing.
The idea here is not to indulge the ever-diminishing attention spans of a contemporary congregation, but in fact to give our minds some valuable time to pause and breathe between moments of pious contemplation.
During one of these moments, I happened to read through some of the anecdotes printed in my book, and I came across one that I found particularly inspiring. A prophet goes to the city of Sodom to try to get its citizens to change their evil ways. Predictably, he has no success. Still, he keeps preaching. A child goes up to the prophet and asks why he bothers, since there's no sign he'll ever succeed and getting the Sodomites to reform themselves. "At first I did it to try to get others to change their ways," says the prophet. "Now, I do it so that I don't change my ways."
This story is the perfect analogy for being an artist at a time when the arts are hurting, not just for money, but also for passionate and discerning audiences. Why write, paint, act, dance, compose, on and on, when there is so little hope of being read or watched or listened to? In order to preserve one's soul from getting sucked into the vapid wasteland otherwise known as our contemporary culture. Every minute I'm working on a book, story, or essay is a minute I'm not spending answering the latest Facebook poll, researching the lives of John and Kate (whoever they are), or downloading some useless "app" for my iPhone. Every precious minute I'm sitting quietly reading a book, I'm not checking email, watching TV, or doing some other activity that feeds my candylike craving for instant gratification, but leaves my soul to starve.
The idea here is not to indulge the ever-diminishing attention spans of a contemporary congregation, but in fact to give our minds some valuable time to pause and breathe between moments of pious contemplation.
During one of these moments, I happened to read through some of the anecdotes printed in my book, and I came across one that I found particularly inspiring. A prophet goes to the city of Sodom to try to get its citizens to change their evil ways. Predictably, he has no success. Still, he keeps preaching. A child goes up to the prophet and asks why he bothers, since there's no sign he'll ever succeed and getting the Sodomites to reform themselves. "At first I did it to try to get others to change their ways," says the prophet. "Now, I do it so that I don't change my ways."
This story is the perfect analogy for being an artist at a time when the arts are hurting, not just for money, but also for passionate and discerning audiences. Why write, paint, act, dance, compose, on and on, when there is so little hope of being read or watched or listened to? In order to preserve one's soul from getting sucked into the vapid wasteland otherwise known as our contemporary culture. Every minute I'm working on a book, story, or essay is a minute I'm not spending answering the latest Facebook poll, researching the lives of John and Kate (whoever they are), or downloading some useless "app" for my iPhone. Every precious minute I'm sitting quietly reading a book, I'm not checking email, watching TV, or doing some other activity that feeds my candylike craving for instant gratification, but leaves my soul to starve.
Friday, September 04, 2009
Leaving Umbria
I've been living next to a castle in Umbria for a month, but now my time here is drawing to a close. For the most part it's been a wonderful remove from daily life, though thanks to the Internet, I haven't found it possible to be totally removed.
Aside from a few pounds, I've gained the chance to take a deep breath and hit the "reset" button in my life. As a writer, I find that sometimes it's easy to get lost in the minutiae of editing words or sentences, or the latest ups and downs that are the inevitable condition of an artistic career.
So what's it all about? What's it really all about? Here's my latest guess.
When I was a kid, I used to go down to the basement and act out stories, performed by my stuffed animals. Today, I do the same thing, though generally without the stuffed animals. As a kid, I didn't worry about whether I'd sell my stories, whether they'd be favorably reviewed, or in what quantities they'd be sold. These are the illusions that come with adulthood, because you feel that as an adult, you don't have the right to play. In fact, you do have a right to play, just not the right to expect that anyone else cares.
And so as I move forward with my writing, the one thing I want to focus on is preserving as much as possible that sense of play. We play not only because it amuses us but also because it defines us, shapes our experience, transforms life's inexplicability and randomness into bite-sized morsels of order and beauty.
We know all this without having it taught to us when we're kids. Now as adults, we have to learn it all over again.
Aside from a few pounds, I've gained the chance to take a deep breath and hit the "reset" button in my life. As a writer, I find that sometimes it's easy to get lost in the minutiae of editing words or sentences, or the latest ups and downs that are the inevitable condition of an artistic career.
So what's it all about? What's it really all about? Here's my latest guess.
When I was a kid, I used to go down to the basement and act out stories, performed by my stuffed animals. Today, I do the same thing, though generally without the stuffed animals. As a kid, I didn't worry about whether I'd sell my stories, whether they'd be favorably reviewed, or in what quantities they'd be sold. These are the illusions that come with adulthood, because you feel that as an adult, you don't have the right to play. In fact, you do have a right to play, just not the right to expect that anyone else cares.
And so as I move forward with my writing, the one thing I want to focus on is preserving as much as possible that sense of play. We play not only because it amuses us but also because it defines us, shapes our experience, transforms life's inexplicability and randomness into bite-sized morsels of order and beauty.
We know all this without having it taught to us when we're kids. Now as adults, we have to learn it all over again.
Friday, August 07, 2009
An Italian Adventure
I'm about to leave for a month's adventure in Umbria, Italy. I was lucky enough to receive a fellowship from the Civitella Ranieri Foundation, which gives writers, artists, and musicians a chance to live for six weeks in an Italian castle in the countryside between Rome and Florence. You can check it out at: www.civitella.org
After working on a novel set in Berlin, I'm ready to begin doing a little groundwork for a new project set in Italy, filled with sunshine and pasta. However, writing an Italian story presents its own challenges, namely, that it's been done thousands of times before. Usually the story involves uptight fair-skinned people from northern countries coming to Italy and losing their inhibitions. I'll be looking for some way to give that story a new spin.
When I tell people I'm going to Umbria, they usually give me a blank look. Today, Umbria is probably best known for three things: 1) Perugia chocolates 2) the truffle 3) "Foxy Knoxy" a.k.a. American exchange student Amanda Knox, who was accused of murder and is right now languishing in jail while the Italian court system takes its summer vacation.
Sadly, my partner has to stay home for this trip, but his spirit will be with me, inspiring me, teaching me, encouraging me, as always. In the meantime, I'll be posting my impressions on this site, so stay tuned...
After working on a novel set in Berlin, I'm ready to begin doing a little groundwork for a new project set in Italy, filled with sunshine and pasta. However, writing an Italian story presents its own challenges, namely, that it's been done thousands of times before. Usually the story involves uptight fair-skinned people from northern countries coming to Italy and losing their inhibitions. I'll be looking for some way to give that story a new spin.
When I tell people I'm going to Umbria, they usually give me a blank look. Today, Umbria is probably best known for three things: 1) Perugia chocolates 2) the truffle 3) "Foxy Knoxy" a.k.a. American exchange student Amanda Knox, who was accused of murder and is right now languishing in jail while the Italian court system takes its summer vacation.
Sadly, my partner has to stay home for this trip, but his spirit will be with me, inspiring me, teaching me, encouraging me, as always. In the meantime, I'll be posting my impressions on this site, so stay tuned...
Monday, August 03, 2009
Shocking News
Last week, a madman dressed in black entered a gay youth club and began shooting. As a result, two are dead, including a sixteen-year-old girl.
It's heartening (if it's possible to use such a term in connection with such a tragedy) to see the uniform condemnation of this heinous act from so many different levels of Israeli society. I wish that the sources of some of these same voices, such as that of the religious Shas Party leader Eli Yishay, had thought about the consequences of their words when they earlier described gay people with words like "sick," "perverse," and "filth."
Many of the accounts of the tragedy describe Israelis' sense of shock in reaction to the shootings. In reality, however, there is nothing shocking about this story. It is in fact the logical result of a long history of hate, intolerance, and worse, indifference that has been taking place not only in Israel but around the world. It's gratifying that old prejudices of all stripes are on the wane, but tragedies like this one remind us they haven't died entirely, that in fact, hatred dies hard.
I'm not just talking about anti-gay prejudice. Think of some of the ridiculous amped-up rhetoric used lately to describe President Obama. (Glenn Beck, if you're listening, this one's for you.) Think of the insulting treatment of Judge Sonia Sotomayor before the Senate Judiciary Committee, during which Senator Lindsey Graham had the nerve to deliver a lecture on manners to a middle-aged woman based solely on anonymous comments about her made online. (Perhaps Senator Graham also ought to be held publicly accountable for every stray rumor about HIS personal life that have made online.) Think of Dr. George Tiller, assassinated for the crime of carrying out legal medical procedures.
When will we learn the difference between attacking ideas versus attacking people? The answer: when we learn that words matter. Rhetoric matters. Attacking people with words leads to attacking them with fists, knives, and as was so regrettably the case in Israel last weekend, bullets.
It's heartening (if it's possible to use such a term in connection with such a tragedy) to see the uniform condemnation of this heinous act from so many different levels of Israeli society. I wish that the sources of some of these same voices, such as that of the religious Shas Party leader Eli Yishay, had thought about the consequences of their words when they earlier described gay people with words like "sick," "perverse," and "filth."
Many of the accounts of the tragedy describe Israelis' sense of shock in reaction to the shootings. In reality, however, there is nothing shocking about this story. It is in fact the logical result of a long history of hate, intolerance, and worse, indifference that has been taking place not only in Israel but around the world. It's gratifying that old prejudices of all stripes are on the wane, but tragedies like this one remind us they haven't died entirely, that in fact, hatred dies hard.
I'm not just talking about anti-gay prejudice. Think of some of the ridiculous amped-up rhetoric used lately to describe President Obama. (Glenn Beck, if you're listening, this one's for you.) Think of the insulting treatment of Judge Sonia Sotomayor before the Senate Judiciary Committee, during which Senator Lindsey Graham had the nerve to deliver a lecture on manners to a middle-aged woman based solely on anonymous comments about her made online. (Perhaps Senator Graham also ought to be held publicly accountable for every stray rumor about HIS personal life that have made online.) Think of Dr. George Tiller, assassinated for the crime of carrying out legal medical procedures.
When will we learn the difference between attacking ideas versus attacking people? The answer: when we learn that words matter. Rhetoric matters. Attacking people with words leads to attacking them with fists, knives, and as was so regrettably the case in Israel last weekend, bullets.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Michael Jackson and Me
When I was nine, I remember a classmate of mine brought into school a 45 single of a song I'd never heard before by a singer I didn't know. The song was "Billie Jean" by Michael Jackson.
My ignorance was soon rectified. Jackson's Thriller album was not just popular; it was a necessity like food, shelter, clothing. Or rather, a fact of life, like air, water, and earth. It was just there, inescapable, immovable, irresistible.
Though I knew the entire cassette by heart, and I had images of Michael Jackson on buttons and posters all around my room, had seen all of his videos several times and repeatedly practiced the "Beat It" dance moves in my backyard though never learned them, I knew almost nothing about Jackson the man. I had never heard his speaking voice. I had never listened to his previous solo record Off the Wall, and was only remotely aware of his career as a child star because a new group called New Edition was being touted as "the next Jackson Five." In fact, I knew almost nothing about him other than his image from his videos and megahit album. He wore sequined jackets. He sang and danced better than anyone alive. And he was shy.
Being shy myself, I became desperately infatuated with Jackson. I deeply coveted his zipper jacket from the Beat It video, which a lot of the boys in school were wearing. However, because it cost forty bucks, my parents were initially reluctant to buy it for me. Unfortunately, by the time they finally broke down and got me one, it had gone out of style. I wore it exactly twice. The second time, I was in a store and I saw two kids pointing at me and snickering, "Look, he's wearing the Michael Jackson jacket."
I dreamed of meeting Jackson, perhaps by writing him an eloquent fan letter that would so move him, that he would invite me to his ranch at Neverland to become his best friend. We'd watch movies together, go on rides, play with the animals in his zoo, have sleepovers. He'd dedicate a song to me. He would love me. I even wrote an unfinished story about our adventures called "Me and Michael," that I felt sure would get his attention.
Thankfully my fantasy never came true, as it did for other young playmates of a troubled grown man who'd formed a profoundly unhealthy attachment to childhood. Though never found guilty in a court of law of his actions, Jackson horribly betrayed the trust of these boys who looked to their idol for friendship and comfort. For this reason, much as I appreciate his music and career achievements, I cannot cry for the man who died yesterday or feel sad that he's gone. Furthermore, I find it nauseating that so many people, in their rush to participate in the orgy of celebrity glorification that defines our culture, are eager to whitewash this man's loathsome legacy. I wonder if these same people might also shed tears for the deaths of their local child molesters who aren't famous and don't have Grammys and gold albums to distract from their unsavory acts.
My ignorance was soon rectified. Jackson's Thriller album was not just popular; it was a necessity like food, shelter, clothing. Or rather, a fact of life, like air, water, and earth. It was just there, inescapable, immovable, irresistible.
Though I knew the entire cassette by heart, and I had images of Michael Jackson on buttons and posters all around my room, had seen all of his videos several times and repeatedly practiced the "Beat It" dance moves in my backyard though never learned them, I knew almost nothing about Jackson the man. I had never heard his speaking voice. I had never listened to his previous solo record Off the Wall, and was only remotely aware of his career as a child star because a new group called New Edition was being touted as "the next Jackson Five." In fact, I knew almost nothing about him other than his image from his videos and megahit album. He wore sequined jackets. He sang and danced better than anyone alive. And he was shy.
Being shy myself, I became desperately infatuated with Jackson. I deeply coveted his zipper jacket from the Beat It video, which a lot of the boys in school were wearing. However, because it cost forty bucks, my parents were initially reluctant to buy it for me. Unfortunately, by the time they finally broke down and got me one, it had gone out of style. I wore it exactly twice. The second time, I was in a store and I saw two kids pointing at me and snickering, "Look, he's wearing the Michael Jackson jacket."
I dreamed of meeting Jackson, perhaps by writing him an eloquent fan letter that would so move him, that he would invite me to his ranch at Neverland to become his best friend. We'd watch movies together, go on rides, play with the animals in his zoo, have sleepovers. He'd dedicate a song to me. He would love me. I even wrote an unfinished story about our adventures called "Me and Michael," that I felt sure would get his attention.
Thankfully my fantasy never came true, as it did for other young playmates of a troubled grown man who'd formed a profoundly unhealthy attachment to childhood. Though never found guilty in a court of law of his actions, Jackson horribly betrayed the trust of these boys who looked to their idol for friendship and comfort. For this reason, much as I appreciate his music and career achievements, I cannot cry for the man who died yesterday or feel sad that he's gone. Furthermore, I find it nauseating that so many people, in their rush to participate in the orgy of celebrity glorification that defines our culture, are eager to whitewash this man's loathsome legacy. I wonder if these same people might also shed tears for the deaths of their local child molesters who aren't famous and don't have Grammys and gold albums to distract from their unsavory acts.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
How Do You Write a Novel?
Gee, I wish I knew, so I could sell my advice in bottles. Still, in an attempt to answer that question, I'm going to be teaching a workshop addressing novel-writing at the Stonecoast MFA program next month.
The idea behind the class is that the traditional workshop, while good for getting at what's wrong with a story or an individual novel chapter, is not ideally suited toward fixing what can go wrong with a project that spans two to three hundred pages. A workshop can't usually handle manuscripts that are more than twenty pages. Consequently, workshopping novel excerpts tends to lead to somewhat frustrating conversations that usually involve the author chiming in, "Well, if you'd read Chapter Five, you'd know that..."
To get around this dilemma, I've asked the students to provide what I'm calling "samples" rather than excerpts from their work. The idea is to get a sense of the whole from a part, rather than examine the scenes at hand as if they were stand-alone pieces. I've also asked students to provide a description of their projects, an outline of the major plot developments organized under the rubrics of "Beginning," "Middle," and "End," and a list of their major questions. Finally, I've asked the students to read two short novels and think about how they're structured.
When we meet next month, my plan is to work with exercises that get students to thinking about their books as a whole, rather than a series of scenes. The course will be divided into four themed days, in which discussion of student work will be interspersed with exercises on Plot, Character, Line-Editing & Setting, and finally, Getting Your Work Out into the World. I'm also hoping that as we go along, students will give me ideas for teaching tools that suit the longer form of the novel rather than a story or a scene.
I'm excited about this new venture, which I hope may eventually provide a useful model for the future...
The idea behind the class is that the traditional workshop, while good for getting at what's wrong with a story or an individual novel chapter, is not ideally suited toward fixing what can go wrong with a project that spans two to three hundred pages. A workshop can't usually handle manuscripts that are more than twenty pages. Consequently, workshopping novel excerpts tends to lead to somewhat frustrating conversations that usually involve the author chiming in, "Well, if you'd read Chapter Five, you'd know that..."
To get around this dilemma, I've asked the students to provide what I'm calling "samples" rather than excerpts from their work. The idea is to get a sense of the whole from a part, rather than examine the scenes at hand as if they were stand-alone pieces. I've also asked students to provide a description of their projects, an outline of the major plot developments organized under the rubrics of "Beginning," "Middle," and "End," and a list of their major questions. Finally, I've asked the students to read two short novels and think about how they're structured.
When we meet next month, my plan is to work with exercises that get students to thinking about their books as a whole, rather than a series of scenes. The course will be divided into four themed days, in which discussion of student work will be interspersed with exercises on Plot, Character, Line-Editing & Setting, and finally, Getting Your Work Out into the World. I'm also hoping that as we go along, students will give me ideas for teaching tools that suit the longer form of the novel rather than a story or a scene.
I'm excited about this new venture, which I hope may eventually provide a useful model for the future...
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Kindling
A few years ago, when I met people and told them I was a writer, the first question they asked me was, "What have you written?"
Today, their face lights up with a big smile, and they say, "Oh, have you tried the new Kindle?"
The answer I say out loud is no. The answer I'm thinking is, completely not interested.
Somehow I have a feeling that the electronic revolution we've been promised in the book industry may be more of a whimper than a roar. It's not like digital music, where an iPod or digital music player improves upon the existing technology. Remember the days of carrying around a portable CD player? (Let alone a walkman!)
Books, by contrast, are a technology that's already been perfected. They never skip between tracks or run out of battery power. They're easy to carry (at least paperbacks are), the right size and shape to hold in your hand, affordable. If you lose one, you can easily buy another. The only advantage I can see to replacing an actual book with a Kindle is that the Kindle can hold many books at one time, replacing an entire library.
I suppose carrying a library with you everywhere you go is a useful thing when you're going about your day and you're struck by a sudden urge to check a passage in Howards End, and another from Ulysses, and another from Pride and Prejudice. Or maybe you're a voracious reader who likes to make sure to have a back-up book at the ready just in case you finish the one you're reading.
But I never find myself in these situations. If I want a book, I'm perfectly happy to stroll to my neighborhood bookstore and buy it or order it and wait for it to come later. I have time. I can wait. Reading is an activity that cultivates patience and quiet reflection. It is not like the quick fix of ordering a song on iTunes. In fact, reading a book is the perfect antidote to the extremes of our Internet-driven age, when we buzz about like electrons with our websites and text messages and all the rest.
For those of you who want or own a Kindle, God bless you. But as for me, I don't want to replace my library with a screen. The books on my shelves are beautiful. They are covered in thumbprints, scrawled notes, food stains. The pages are dogeared, the covers wrinkled. They sit above my desk and wait for me. And when I have a few moments, I choose one, sit in a quiet corner, open the covers, and begin to read.
Today, their face lights up with a big smile, and they say, "Oh, have you tried the new Kindle?"
The answer I say out loud is no. The answer I'm thinking is, completely not interested.
Somehow I have a feeling that the electronic revolution we've been promised in the book industry may be more of a whimper than a roar. It's not like digital music, where an iPod or digital music player improves upon the existing technology. Remember the days of carrying around a portable CD player? (Let alone a walkman!)
Books, by contrast, are a technology that's already been perfected. They never skip between tracks or run out of battery power. They're easy to carry (at least paperbacks are), the right size and shape to hold in your hand, affordable. If you lose one, you can easily buy another. The only advantage I can see to replacing an actual book with a Kindle is that the Kindle can hold many books at one time, replacing an entire library.
I suppose carrying a library with you everywhere you go is a useful thing when you're going about your day and you're struck by a sudden urge to check a passage in Howards End, and another from Ulysses, and another from Pride and Prejudice. Or maybe you're a voracious reader who likes to make sure to have a back-up book at the ready just in case you finish the one you're reading.
But I never find myself in these situations. If I want a book, I'm perfectly happy to stroll to my neighborhood bookstore and buy it or order it and wait for it to come later. I have time. I can wait. Reading is an activity that cultivates patience and quiet reflection. It is not like the quick fix of ordering a song on iTunes. In fact, reading a book is the perfect antidote to the extremes of our Internet-driven age, when we buzz about like electrons with our websites and text messages and all the rest.
For those of you who want or own a Kindle, God bless you. But as for me, I don't want to replace my library with a screen. The books on my shelves are beautiful. They are covered in thumbprints, scrawled notes, food stains. The pages are dogeared, the covers wrinkled. They sit above my desk and wait for me. And when I have a few moments, I choose one, sit in a quiet corner, open the covers, and begin to read.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
The Joy of Not Knowing Everything
I am in the not unique position of both teaching and practicing creative writing. An obvious questions emerges: Do I practice what I preach?
Almost every day when I sit down to write, I feel a heavy nostalgia for the days when I was in school and I had fellow students and mentors I could pull aside and ask for help whenever I felt stuck. (Of course at the time it didn't feel like nirvana. In fact, I felt anxious to get out of school and become a Published Author as quickly as possible.)
But then it occurred to me: I am a teacher. In numerous classes, I disseminate advice, exercise, quotes from famous writers on writing, anecdotes of my and other writers' experiences, all to encourage students. Yet there are times when I need a little encouragement too, and I'm currently writing without a teacher to guide me.
So why not be my own mentor and encourager-in-chief?
I began by doing some of the exercises I give others: character quizzes, freewriting on a theme, setting questionnaires. I plucked several of the craft guides on my shelf, which I bought to help me guide others, and reread the sections on character. As I read fiction by others (I've just finished three extraordinary new books: The Believers by Zoe Heller, Don't Cry by Mary Gaitskill, and Lake Overturn by Vestal McIntyre), I paid special attention to the way the writers constructed their stories, characters, and settings, even though I don't have a class to report back to about my findings.
The most important lesson of all that I've learned through teaching is to forgive myself for my mistakes, for my utterly wretched passages of ugly prose, for my laziness at times, for my stubbornness in refusing to confront a sticky paragraph or troubling feeling on the part of a character. Though we as writers have to play God, we are not God. Maybe it's that rude disjunction that makes every writer I know feel like an impostor.
Nowhere do I feel more like an impostor, however, in the classroom, where I sit mandarinlike at the head of a table and tell other people what they ought to do. In reality, there's so much left for me to learn about this business. And that comforts me, because in that knowledge gap, I know, lies the potential for my greatest achievements, the ones of which I don't yet know that I'm capable.
Almost every day when I sit down to write, I feel a heavy nostalgia for the days when I was in school and I had fellow students and mentors I could pull aside and ask for help whenever I felt stuck. (Of course at the time it didn't feel like nirvana. In fact, I felt anxious to get out of school and become a Published Author as quickly as possible.)
But then it occurred to me: I am a teacher. In numerous classes, I disseminate advice, exercise, quotes from famous writers on writing, anecdotes of my and other writers' experiences, all to encourage students. Yet there are times when I need a little encouragement too, and I'm currently writing without a teacher to guide me.
So why not be my own mentor and encourager-in-chief?
I began by doing some of the exercises I give others: character quizzes, freewriting on a theme, setting questionnaires. I plucked several of the craft guides on my shelf, which I bought to help me guide others, and reread the sections on character. As I read fiction by others (I've just finished three extraordinary new books: The Believers by Zoe Heller, Don't Cry by Mary Gaitskill, and Lake Overturn by Vestal McIntyre), I paid special attention to the way the writers constructed their stories, characters, and settings, even though I don't have a class to report back to about my findings.
The most important lesson of all that I've learned through teaching is to forgive myself for my mistakes, for my utterly wretched passages of ugly prose, for my laziness at times, for my stubbornness in refusing to confront a sticky paragraph or troubling feeling on the part of a character. Though we as writers have to play God, we are not God. Maybe it's that rude disjunction that makes every writer I know feel like an impostor.
Nowhere do I feel more like an impostor, however, in the classroom, where I sit mandarinlike at the head of a table and tell other people what they ought to do. In reality, there's so much left for me to learn about this business. And that comforts me, because in that knowledge gap, I know, lies the potential for my greatest achievements, the ones of which I don't yet know that I'm capable.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Some Good News about the Book Biz
It's so easy to feel gloomy about the prospects of book publishing these days, I thought I'd pass along a few notes of encouragement.
1. Apparently, while most other industries are tanking as a result of the Bush/Cheney Economic Depression, the book business has actually flatlined, having found its bottom a while ago. It seems that we've hit a bedrock of readers who despite the bad economic news aren't willing to give up their literary habits. Which is quite an inspiring and wonderful thing. Let's keep it up! (Indie Book-buying day is May 1st, by the way, which means everyone who reads this post should visit their local independent bookstore or online retailer and buy a book on the 1st.)
2. I was at a reading Sunday night featuring Ira Sher, Joanna Smith Rakoff, and Stacey D'Erasmo at KGB Bar. I was talking to D'Erasmo afterward, who reminded me that A) She and I were not the only two people on the planet who care deeply about books and reading. B) Publishing may be going through a painful period of transition, but it's a transition that could lead to some wonderful new way of getting books and writing into the hands of readers, a way that we hadn't previously imagined.
3. I was given an article by Robert Darnton, from the New York Review of Books, talking about the fate of libraries in the digital age. It pointed out that while the media for transmitting the written word have changed throughout the ages, the written word itself has not disappeared. Also, though books are increasingly being read in digital form, the sheer number of books that have existed and will exist over time is so vast that even the considerable resources of Google are not enough to encompass them all. Which means that the book still has an important and viable future.
It's rough out there, to be sure, but not apocalyptic.
1. Apparently, while most other industries are tanking as a result of the Bush/Cheney Economic Depression, the book business has actually flatlined, having found its bottom a while ago. It seems that we've hit a bedrock of readers who despite the bad economic news aren't willing to give up their literary habits. Which is quite an inspiring and wonderful thing. Let's keep it up! (Indie Book-buying day is May 1st, by the way, which means everyone who reads this post should visit their local independent bookstore or online retailer and buy a book on the 1st.)
2. I was at a reading Sunday night featuring Ira Sher, Joanna Smith Rakoff, and Stacey D'Erasmo at KGB Bar. I was talking to D'Erasmo afterward, who reminded me that A) She and I were not the only two people on the planet who care deeply about books and reading. B) Publishing may be going through a painful period of transition, but it's a transition that could lead to some wonderful new way of getting books and writing into the hands of readers, a way that we hadn't previously imagined.
3. I was given an article by Robert Darnton, from the New York Review of Books, talking about the fate of libraries in the digital age. It pointed out that while the media for transmitting the written word have changed throughout the ages, the written word itself has not disappeared. Also, though books are increasingly being read in digital form, the sheer number of books that have existed and will exist over time is so vast that even the considerable resources of Google are not enough to encompass them all. Which means that the book still has an important and viable future.
It's rough out there, to be sure, but not apocalyptic.
Friday, April 03, 2009
What's it All For?
One of my creative writing students recently asked me a very important question. In this age when fewer and fewer people are reading, when publishing only gets harder, and when writing doesn't get any easier, what's the point?
I often ask myself the same thing.
Recently the poet Patricia Smith came to visit my story writing class at Barnard, and she gave me a few ideas to help answer this question.
First, she said that in an increasingly chaotic and stressful world, the act of writing is the one thing she can trust, a life preserver that helps her to find comfort and guidance.
She also told the story of when she first began performing in poetry slams, when she would channel the voice of various characters from her life. After one of these performances, a member of the audience came up to her to say, "That was me! You got me!"
This made me think of David Foster Wallace, who said that the point of writing was that it helped people to feel a little less alone in the world.
My feeling is that the purpose of writing, if there is a purpose to it which is a debate in itself, is both inward and outward. When you write fiction, you take your innermost thoughts and feeling and try to communicate them to others. And yet the point of this process of clarifying yourself for other people is to get to know yourself. If other people benefit from it, great for them. It's an added bonus. The danger comes, however, when you come to count on others' approval and it becomes the motivation and guiding principle for what you do.
Sort of weird, but the best way I know how to put it.
I often ask myself the same thing.
Recently the poet Patricia Smith came to visit my story writing class at Barnard, and she gave me a few ideas to help answer this question.
First, she said that in an increasingly chaotic and stressful world, the act of writing is the one thing she can trust, a life preserver that helps her to find comfort and guidance.
She also told the story of when she first began performing in poetry slams, when she would channel the voice of various characters from her life. After one of these performances, a member of the audience came up to her to say, "That was me! You got me!"
This made me think of David Foster Wallace, who said that the point of writing was that it helped people to feel a little less alone in the world.
My feeling is that the purpose of writing, if there is a purpose to it which is a debate in itself, is both inward and outward. When you write fiction, you take your innermost thoughts and feeling and try to communicate them to others. And yet the point of this process of clarifying yourself for other people is to get to know yourself. If other people benefit from it, great for them. It's an added bonus. The danger comes, however, when you come to count on others' approval and it becomes the motivation and guiding principle for what you do.
Sort of weird, but the best way I know how to put it.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Those Weird Brits
The past week I read two weird works of literature by British authors: Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh and The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnhim. Both are wonderful in their own ways, and deeply flawed.
Brideshead begins as a breathless love story between two Oxford students in pre-World War II England. Waugh, who was mostly known as a satirist, forsakes irony for lush, sensitive prose that details the blossoming relationship between Charles Ryder, an emotionally stunted man learning to love for the first time, and the free-spirited Sebastian Flyte, who increasingly depends on alcohol to help him escape the realities of life.
About midway through the novel, however, the story takes a strange turn as Sebastian drops out of it. We watch, confused, as Charles gets married, then has an adulterous affair with Sebastian's sister (who just happens to bear a resemblance to Sebastian himself). I kept wanting to ask, Waugh, what are you doing? You've just wrapped me up in this vivid story of first love, and now you want me to swallow this crap about Charles being in love with a woman without any explanation? Is this meant to be parable of sublimated male sexual desire? Clearly not, as Waugh simply moves Charles from man-love to woman-love like a chess player castling his king with his rook.
By the end of the novel, the meaning of it twists in on itself so completely that I felt angry as I read the book's bizarre, opaque last few pages. The only interpretation that makes sense to me is that Waugh didn't realize he was writing a love story between two men and that the conventions of the heterosexual love story just don't convince for the characters he'd created.
The Enchanted April takes a similarly strange turn. It begins as a wickedly witty satire of the lives of put-upon housewives in England. Their lot is so devastatingly well-rendered that when the housewives arrive in sunny Italy for a vacation from their husbands, we're thrilled... as well as mystified by their decision to invite their husbands to join them. Von Arnhim, I guess, is trying to make some kind of point about the redemptive powers of love and beauty, yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm not quite so forgiving nor so gullible to believe that if your husband's been treating you like shit for twenty years, a day in Portofino is all he needs to change his ways.
Perhaps the strangest thing about these two books is that in spite of (or perhaps because of) their flaws, I've been thinking of them since I put them down, which is more than I can say for a number of polite, nicely crafted works of fiction that have as much tang and bite as a bowl of melted jello.
Brideshead begins as a breathless love story between two Oxford students in pre-World War II England. Waugh, who was mostly known as a satirist, forsakes irony for lush, sensitive prose that details the blossoming relationship between Charles Ryder, an emotionally stunted man learning to love for the first time, and the free-spirited Sebastian Flyte, who increasingly depends on alcohol to help him escape the realities of life.
About midway through the novel, however, the story takes a strange turn as Sebastian drops out of it. We watch, confused, as Charles gets married, then has an adulterous affair with Sebastian's sister (who just happens to bear a resemblance to Sebastian himself). I kept wanting to ask, Waugh, what are you doing? You've just wrapped me up in this vivid story of first love, and now you want me to swallow this crap about Charles being in love with a woman without any explanation? Is this meant to be parable of sublimated male sexual desire? Clearly not, as Waugh simply moves Charles from man-love to woman-love like a chess player castling his king with his rook.
By the end of the novel, the meaning of it twists in on itself so completely that I felt angry as I read the book's bizarre, opaque last few pages. The only interpretation that makes sense to me is that Waugh didn't realize he was writing a love story between two men and that the conventions of the heterosexual love story just don't convince for the characters he'd created.
The Enchanted April takes a similarly strange turn. It begins as a wickedly witty satire of the lives of put-upon housewives in England. Their lot is so devastatingly well-rendered that when the housewives arrive in sunny Italy for a vacation from their husbands, we're thrilled... as well as mystified by their decision to invite their husbands to join them. Von Arnhim, I guess, is trying to make some kind of point about the redemptive powers of love and beauty, yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm not quite so forgiving nor so gullible to believe that if your husband's been treating you like shit for twenty years, a day in Portofino is all he needs to change his ways.
Perhaps the strangest thing about these two books is that in spite of (or perhaps because of) their flaws, I've been thinking of them since I put them down, which is more than I can say for a number of polite, nicely crafted works of fiction that have as much tang and bite as a bowl of melted jello.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
The Origin of Genius
This year, I've made a resolution to finally get to all those books that have been sitting on my shelf for years. At last, I've tackled Pnin by Nabokov, Shosha by Isaac Bashevis Singer, and a whole host of other curios I've been meaning to get to for ten years.
The latest book I've knocked off is a biography of Jane Austen by Claire Tomlin. I picked it up initially for the same reason I think most of us are curious about Jane Austen. We wonder, how is it possible that someone with so little experience of life, education, and romance could write such thrilling and perceptive works that rank among the greatest in our language? What's the secret?
After finishing the book, I got a better idea of Austen's artistic journey. Her private life was fairly uneventful, even typical for a woman of her class in 18th and early 19th century England. Her first novel, an early draft of Pride and Prejudice titled First Impressions, was turned down by a publisher after less than a week than it had been submitted. It took her a little less than two decades between the time she started writing Pride and Prejudice to get it published. After years of toil in private (which contrary to myth, she did not hide under blotting paper for fear that unexpected guests might discover what she was up to), Austen managed to find a publisher through a family connection, who grudgingly took Sense and Sensibility on commission. The modest success of that book started her career. However, even Jane Austen had to switch publishers; after the disappointing sales figures of Mansfield Park, the novel Emma was not considered justification enough for her first publisher to take a chance on one more.
Lessons here? Patience and perseverance foremost. Being a writer is an act of faith in any age, but even more so for a woman in Austen's time. Second, Austen's life and work proves Flannery O'Connor's observation that any writer has gathered enough "life material" for an entire career by the age of five. You don't need to have sailed around the world or hunted big game in Africa or any of the other things people do today to write great stories. Another observation: Rejection is the norm in a writer's life, and some cases, is mighty helpful. If rejection caused Austen to turn First Impressions into the masterpiece that is Pride and Prejudice, then what a fortunate rejection!
But perhaps the greatest lesson I take from Austen's story is that genius is just genius. Austen didn't need an MFA program to bring out her talent. She simply had a knack for putting words on paper in a way that made people want to read them for centuries. On the other hand, without her commitment to getting her work done and sticking to her dream of writing in the face of some pretty daunting odds, that genius would not have flowered into her six beautiful books.
The latest book I've knocked off is a biography of Jane Austen by Claire Tomlin. I picked it up initially for the same reason I think most of us are curious about Jane Austen. We wonder, how is it possible that someone with so little experience of life, education, and romance could write such thrilling and perceptive works that rank among the greatest in our language? What's the secret?
After finishing the book, I got a better idea of Austen's artistic journey. Her private life was fairly uneventful, even typical for a woman of her class in 18th and early 19th century England. Her first novel, an early draft of Pride and Prejudice titled First Impressions, was turned down by a publisher after less than a week than it had been submitted. It took her a little less than two decades between the time she started writing Pride and Prejudice to get it published. After years of toil in private (which contrary to myth, she did not hide under blotting paper for fear that unexpected guests might discover what she was up to), Austen managed to find a publisher through a family connection, who grudgingly took Sense and Sensibility on commission. The modest success of that book started her career. However, even Jane Austen had to switch publishers; after the disappointing sales figures of Mansfield Park, the novel Emma was not considered justification enough for her first publisher to take a chance on one more.
Lessons here? Patience and perseverance foremost. Being a writer is an act of faith in any age, but even more so for a woman in Austen's time. Second, Austen's life and work proves Flannery O'Connor's observation that any writer has gathered enough "life material" for an entire career by the age of five. You don't need to have sailed around the world or hunted big game in Africa or any of the other things people do today to write great stories. Another observation: Rejection is the norm in a writer's life, and some cases, is mighty helpful. If rejection caused Austen to turn First Impressions into the masterpiece that is Pride and Prejudice, then what a fortunate rejection!
But perhaps the greatest lesson I take from Austen's story is that genius is just genius. Austen didn't need an MFA program to bring out her talent. She simply had a knack for putting words on paper in a way that made people want to read them for centuries. On the other hand, without her commitment to getting her work done and sticking to her dream of writing in the face of some pretty daunting odds, that genius would not have flowered into her six beautiful books.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Bye-bye, Bush! 1.19.09
For almost four years now, since the depressing result of the `04 election, I've been wearing a pin on my backpack that says simply "1.20.09." Now that that wonderful day of liberation is finally at hand, I've been doing a few things to mark the occasion.
On Friday night, my partner and I hosted a Bye-bye, Bush party. We served pretzels, hung an image of Bush to throw shoes at, handed out Bushisms, offered guests the chance to write down their least favorite moments of the past presidency (to shred) as well as their hopes for the new Obama administration.
This weekend I also watched a documentary called No End in Sight, which lays out exactly how the Bushies got us into the quagmire of Iraq. What was so staggering about watching this film was to see obvious misstep after obvious misstep committed by the president and his top advisors, none of whom had actually served in a war. The incompetence was so pervasive, it was actually impressive. No wonder this is also the president who presided over the Katrina mess, the economic meltdown, the ballooning of the deficit, etc., etc.
And I read the novel Election by Tom Perrotta, which has no explicit link to this day, but is damned funny and a good read. (You may have seen the film with Reese Witherspoon and Matthew Broderick.) Why is it that so many literary novels are written at such a soporific pace? Why can't they be bright, funny, and smart like Tom Perrotta's writing? Instead so many of these books have this somber, earnest tone, trudging from one carefully chosen word to the next. Nothing ever happens. Everything gets described. People, about whom we couldn't care less, say things. Ruminations unfold. You get the picture.
Finally, I made a donation to the Human Rights Campaign to help them fight for gay equality. Consider it my personal tribute to Rick Warren, Tim Kaine, and a host of others.
A few people I know have remarked on how silly the coverage of the transition has become. The Obama Express! The Obama concert! The Obama dildo! (No, I didn't make up that last one.) Well, maybe we're due for a little euphoria. It's been a long eight years of the American people having an enemy in the White House.
This weekend I removed the "1.20.09" pin from my backpack. I don't need to wear it anymore.
On Friday night, my partner and I hosted a Bye-bye, Bush party. We served pretzels, hung an image of Bush to throw shoes at, handed out Bushisms, offered guests the chance to write down their least favorite moments of the past presidency (to shred) as well as their hopes for the new Obama administration.
This weekend I also watched a documentary called No End in Sight, which lays out exactly how the Bushies got us into the quagmire of Iraq. What was so staggering about watching this film was to see obvious misstep after obvious misstep committed by the president and his top advisors, none of whom had actually served in a war. The incompetence was so pervasive, it was actually impressive. No wonder this is also the president who presided over the Katrina mess, the economic meltdown, the ballooning of the deficit, etc., etc.
And I read the novel Election by Tom Perrotta, which has no explicit link to this day, but is damned funny and a good read. (You may have seen the film with Reese Witherspoon and Matthew Broderick.) Why is it that so many literary novels are written at such a soporific pace? Why can't they be bright, funny, and smart like Tom Perrotta's writing? Instead so many of these books have this somber, earnest tone, trudging from one carefully chosen word to the next. Nothing ever happens. Everything gets described. People, about whom we couldn't care less, say things. Ruminations unfold. You get the picture.
Finally, I made a donation to the Human Rights Campaign to help them fight for gay equality. Consider it my personal tribute to Rick Warren, Tim Kaine, and a host of others.
A few people I know have remarked on how silly the coverage of the transition has become. The Obama Express! The Obama concert! The Obama dildo! (No, I didn't make up that last one.) Well, maybe we're due for a little euphoria. It's been a long eight years of the American people having an enemy in the White House.
This weekend I removed the "1.20.09" pin from my backpack. I don't need to wear it anymore.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
That Thing You Do in Maine
For the past couple of years, I've been on the faculty of a low-residency MFA program in Maine called Stonecoast. The concept of a "low-residency" MFA has proven to be baffling to several of my family members and friends, who tend to refer to it as "that thing you do in Maine."
Actually, the whole concept of the low-res MFA is pretty straightforward and makes a good deal of sense given the solitary nature of the act of writing. Twice a year, students and faculty converge on the low-res program's headquarters (which for some reason often tends to be in New England). For about ten days, they engage in a mad dash of workshops, seminars, lectures, and readings. Then for six months, they return to their respective corners of the country and work on their own. This is done in conjunction with a "mentor" who once a month monitors their progress via the "packet," a compilation of that month's creative and expository output.
The low-res approach has its distinct advantages. First of all, a grad student is probably more likely to develop a close relationship with his or her faculty at a low-res program. Second, the costs of a low-res program tend to be less than in a traditional program (which for some reason is never referred to as a "high residency program"). Third, the sense of competition among students, which sometimes characterizes traditional programs with its weekly writing workshops, has less opportunity to develop in low-res programs. Finally, a low-residency option is a great vehicle for students who don't want to give up their day jobs to devote themselves exclusively to their graduate studies. (And given the current publishing climate, holding on to a day job sounds like a pretty smart idea.)
The downsides? In a traditional program, you may feel less connected to the faculty, but you may also develop a stronger bond with your fellow students. Also, if you go to a traditional program based in New York City, for example, you may have a greater opportunity to make connections and network with editors, agents, and writers. And then of course there is that sort of glazed look of misunderstanding when you try to explain the idea of a "low-residency" MFA to the uninitiated. To those who aren't in the know, the idea of the low-res MFA may sound like getting a degree from the Sears Roebuck catalog in days of yore.
As a teacher who dabbles in leading traditional workshops as well as mentoring, I find that students of each program are highly curious about their counterparts and what they're missing out on by choosing one route or the other. (Though I think that in reality, either approach is effective as long as your program has a strong faculty and you as the student are motivated to make the most of your experience by taking an active role in your education.) Which leads me to wonder, could it be that in the future, a hybrid low-residency-traditional MFA program that features the best of both worlds will somehow emerge?
Stay tuned...
Actually, the whole concept of the low-res MFA is pretty straightforward and makes a good deal of sense given the solitary nature of the act of writing. Twice a year, students and faculty converge on the low-res program's headquarters (which for some reason often tends to be in New England). For about ten days, they engage in a mad dash of workshops, seminars, lectures, and readings. Then for six months, they return to their respective corners of the country and work on their own. This is done in conjunction with a "mentor" who once a month monitors their progress via the "packet," a compilation of that month's creative and expository output.
The low-res approach has its distinct advantages. First of all, a grad student is probably more likely to develop a close relationship with his or her faculty at a low-res program. Second, the costs of a low-res program tend to be less than in a traditional program (which for some reason is never referred to as a "high residency program"). Third, the sense of competition among students, which sometimes characterizes traditional programs with its weekly writing workshops, has less opportunity to develop in low-res programs. Finally, a low-residency option is a great vehicle for students who don't want to give up their day jobs to devote themselves exclusively to their graduate studies. (And given the current publishing climate, holding on to a day job sounds like a pretty smart idea.)
The downsides? In a traditional program, you may feel less connected to the faculty, but you may also develop a stronger bond with your fellow students. Also, if you go to a traditional program based in New York City, for example, you may have a greater opportunity to make connections and network with editors, agents, and writers. And then of course there is that sort of glazed look of misunderstanding when you try to explain the idea of a "low-residency" MFA to the uninitiated. To those who aren't in the know, the idea of the low-res MFA may sound like getting a degree from the Sears Roebuck catalog in days of yore.
As a teacher who dabbles in leading traditional workshops as well as mentoring, I find that students of each program are highly curious about their counterparts and what they're missing out on by choosing one route or the other. (Though I think that in reality, either approach is effective as long as your program has a strong faculty and you as the student are motivated to make the most of your experience by taking an active role in your education.) Which leads me to wonder, could it be that in the future, a hybrid low-residency-traditional MFA program that features the best of both worlds will somehow emerge?
Stay tuned...
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