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| Going green to be lean. |
Friday, December 28, 2012
Juggernaut or Coming Through
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The End of Print
Since my days in journalism, I’ve heard about the end of print media and the fall of the daily paper. In a recent East Bay Express article, the question: “Can the dailies survive by charging online?” was asked. This made me think three things. One, no they cannot because most people will get their news free from other sources. Two, newspapers can’t be called “papers” without actual paper. If they go online, they will have to be information centers or something like that. Three, if newspapers and magazines disappear, what next? Novels (in paper form)?
It’s true that technology makes things obsolete or archaic, and forces change. I think about all the letters I used to write by hand to girlfriends before the advent of e-mail. These days, handwritten letters are a big to do. There is no <---backspace button (erasable ink does not count) and it takes at least two days for the person to get it—and in that time, multiple e-mails or phone calls may have already taken place. So, why send anything handwritten at all?
Some would argue that technology has revolutionized the way we listen and purchase music, that people no longer buy CDs (which impacted vinyl, cassettes and the gnarly eight-track), but rather, download whole albums or single songs. The difference is that recorded music is still being played electronically. The containers or storage devices may be different, but energy is still needed to play them. Print, on the other hand, is battery free, portable, and, if it’s too dark to read, candles can be lit.
Robert Coover writes in his essay “The End of Books” that:
“…in the world of video transmissions, cellular phones, fax machines, computer networks, and in particular out in the humming digitalized precincts of avant-garde computer hackers, cyberpunks and hyperspace freaks, you will often hear it said that the print medium is a doomed and outdated technology, a mere curiosity of bygone days destined soon to be consigned forever to those dusty unattended museums we now call libraries.”
If there were no print, if there were no books readily available (only at the library), what would happen if the electricity stopped or the gadgets failed? Y2K-type pandemonium? What would become of the information? Backup storage units are not useful if the power to operate the computer is not available. What about viruses? Also, there is something to be said about holding a book. It’s hard to imagine getting comfortable on a rainy afternoon and reading a novel from an iPad or Kindle or a similar device. The eye strain is not fun. Reading from a book feels more natural and connected…even if it’s typed, even if it’s mass-produced, something about the paper and the binding and the cover is magical and still very practical. A dictionary, for example, you just pick it up and find a definition. True, it cannot be updated without buying another version of the dictionary, which some may argue is wasting paper, but having to boot up a device or rely the internet seems like just as much of an energy waste.
Coover goes on to talk about how “hypertext provides multiple paths between text segments, now often called ‘lexias’.” This is convenient. And, to be clear, technology and the internet are crazy useful. Downloading and linking and submitting files and data help to get things done fast. But going from print to digital only seems like an unnecessary extreme.
Coover also writes that:
“‘Hypertext’" is not a system but a generic term, coined a quarter of a century ago by a computer populist named Ted Nelson to describe the writing done in the nonlinear or nonsequential space made possible by the computer...With its webs of linked lexias, its networks of alternate routes (as opposed to print's fixed unidirectional page-turning) hypertext presents a radically divergent technology, interactive and polyvocal, favoring a plurality of discourses over definitive utterance and freeing the reader from domination by the author. Hypertext reader and writer are said to become co-learners or co-writers, as it were, fellow-travelers in the mapping and remapping of textual (and visual, kinetic and aural) components, not all of which are provided by what used to be called the author.’”
This is insane. When my novel is published, I don’t want a hypertext version to be created for the simple fact that it would break the atmosphere I will have worked so hard to create. If the reader can click click away to other places, I might as well write a news article. Not to knock the news or say that journalism isn’t creative, but novels carry more weight than just delivering information via words on a page. There are emotions and thoughts and craft that go into their creation and to have a point and click adventure while reading them is undermining unless the author is creating a point and click adventure. Who wants to read a hypertextualized Faulkner? Save that shit for notes at the end of the book. Footnotes could be seen as sort of hypertext, but the reader can glance down and stay inside the story (depending on how the footnotes are done—not everyone digs footnotes) as opposed to clicking and having another window pop up.
Coover makes a good point that something is happening in “the subversion of the traditional bourgeois novel and in fictions that challenge linearity,” and I agree. It’s good to challenge the norm and find new modes and avenues. But to make obsolete a system that works and is more organic seems unnecessarily extreme. Why not have both and end the talk about the end of books? Otherwise, there will be war. There will be fire.
Here is a quote about the end of print books that I found on the internet (kind of ironic):
“The loss of print in books magazines and newspapers means the loss of historical perspective.These things have stood immutable in the face of those wishing to change history for centuries.
Their loss is tragic.
The past can now be changed with a keystroke.
None of those embarrassing witnesses in print,or those tedious book burnings.
How tidy!
A book shelf is cold storage, the Internet is a huge garbage can!
Each has enormous capacity to store information, but the loss of print simply makes the revisionist's job that much easier.
The people can now be "re-VISIONed" at will,leaving everyone with an Orwellian view....except pigs’”
It’s true that technology makes things obsolete or archaic, and forces change. I think about all the letters I used to write by hand to girlfriends before the advent of e-mail. These days, handwritten letters are a big to do. There is no <---backspace button (erasable ink does not count) and it takes at least two days for the person to get it—and in that time, multiple e-mails or phone calls may have already taken place. So, why send anything handwritten at all?
Some would argue that technology has revolutionized the way we listen and purchase music, that people no longer buy CDs (which impacted vinyl, cassettes and the gnarly eight-track), but rather, download whole albums or single songs. The difference is that recorded music is still being played electronically. The containers or storage devices may be different, but energy is still needed to play them. Print, on the other hand, is battery free, portable, and, if it’s too dark to read, candles can be lit.
Robert Coover writes in his essay “The End of Books” that:
“…in the world of video transmissions, cellular phones, fax machines, computer networks, and in particular out in the humming digitalized precincts of avant-garde computer hackers, cyberpunks and hyperspace freaks, you will often hear it said that the print medium is a doomed and outdated technology, a mere curiosity of bygone days destined soon to be consigned forever to those dusty unattended museums we now call libraries.”
If there were no print, if there were no books readily available (only at the library), what would happen if the electricity stopped or the gadgets failed? Y2K-type pandemonium? What would become of the information? Backup storage units are not useful if the power to operate the computer is not available. What about viruses? Also, there is something to be said about holding a book. It’s hard to imagine getting comfortable on a rainy afternoon and reading a novel from an iPad or Kindle or a similar device. The eye strain is not fun. Reading from a book feels more natural and connected…even if it’s typed, even if it’s mass-produced, something about the paper and the binding and the cover is magical and still very practical. A dictionary, for example, you just pick it up and find a definition. True, it cannot be updated without buying another version of the dictionary, which some may argue is wasting paper, but having to boot up a device or rely the internet seems like just as much of an energy waste.
Coover goes on to talk about how “hypertext provides multiple paths between text segments, now often called ‘lexias’.” This is convenient. And, to be clear, technology and the internet are crazy useful. Downloading and linking and submitting files and data help to get things done fast. But going from print to digital only seems like an unnecessary extreme.
Coover also writes that:
“‘Hypertext’" is not a system but a generic term, coined a quarter of a century ago by a computer populist named Ted Nelson to describe the writing done in the nonlinear or nonsequential space made possible by the computer...With its webs of linked lexias, its networks of alternate routes (as opposed to print's fixed unidirectional page-turning) hypertext presents a radically divergent technology, interactive and polyvocal, favoring a plurality of discourses over definitive utterance and freeing the reader from domination by the author. Hypertext reader and writer are said to become co-learners or co-writers, as it were, fellow-travelers in the mapping and remapping of textual (and visual, kinetic and aural) components, not all of which are provided by what used to be called the author.’”
This is insane. When my novel is published, I don’t want a hypertext version to be created for the simple fact that it would break the atmosphere I will have worked so hard to create. If the reader can click click away to other places, I might as well write a news article. Not to knock the news or say that journalism isn’t creative, but novels carry more weight than just delivering information via words on a page. There are emotions and thoughts and craft that go into their creation and to have a point and click adventure while reading them is undermining unless the author is creating a point and click adventure. Who wants to read a hypertextualized Faulkner? Save that shit for notes at the end of the book. Footnotes could be seen as sort of hypertext, but the reader can glance down and stay inside the story (depending on how the footnotes are done—not everyone digs footnotes) as opposed to clicking and having another window pop up.
Coover makes a good point that something is happening in “the subversion of the traditional bourgeois novel and in fictions that challenge linearity,” and I agree. It’s good to challenge the norm and find new modes and avenues. But to make obsolete a system that works and is more organic seems unnecessarily extreme. Why not have both and end the talk about the end of books? Otherwise, there will be war. There will be fire.
Here is a quote about the end of print books that I found on the internet (kind of ironic):
“The loss of print in books magazines and newspapers means the loss of historical perspective.These things have stood immutable in the face of those wishing to change history for centuries.
Their loss is tragic.
The past can now be changed with a keystroke.
None of those embarrassing witnesses in print,or those tedious book burnings.
How tidy!
A book shelf is cold storage, the Internet is a huge garbage can!
Each has enormous capacity to store information, but the loss of print simply makes the revisionist's job that much easier.
The people can now be "re-VISIONed" at will,leaving everyone with an Orwellian view....except pigs’”
On Chpt. 10 ('The Domain Of The Word') of 'Creativity...' by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi- Reading Response #3
While I resonate quite a bit with the critiques of this chapter Gina offered in her reading response to it about a month back (excess “psychobabble,” tiny sample pool, all of the writers interviewed being white, etc), and agree that drawing conclusions about creativity in general from so small a group of individuals whose experiences may not parallel those of the vast majority of writers or artists across the globe is a questionable move at best, I want to share some thoughts on what I find worthwhile/useful about the comments the interviewed writers, and the author himself, put forth in this section of the book, in part because I’m trying to push past my well-trained readiness to fiercely critique texts with which I take issue, and instead cull something useful from even those I probably wouldn’t pick up were it not for assigned readings in academic contexts.
To begin, I appreciated the validation of writing Csikszentmihalyi offered early on, framing the act as a means by which people with access to stories in book form can push past the limits of “knowing only what happened to us or to those whom we have met.” It’s an obvious truth he’s naming, but in some ways, one that often gets overlooked. Were people dependent only on mass media in the form of televised news program, Hollywood films, and the oftentimes skewed reporting of corporate newspapers for information on the world beyond their fingertips, it’s frightening to think about how much less informed our planet would actually be. Beyond mere pleasure, literature serves a profound social role, namely by making tangible and noteworthy that which readers in one geographical area of a country, a continent, or the world, would have limited access to without the presence of books. I found this assertion a powerful jumping-off point for the discussion that followed on how writers actually go about crafting their work.
While I’m not especially familiar with the writings of most of the authors Csikszentmihalyi cited, I thought each had something to say about how they write that I could apply to my own creative process. Madeleine L’Engle’s remarks on “intuition and intellect working together… making love,” as prerequisite to effective writing, read like a gem of a quote, and had me thinking back on both some rewarding and some frustrating creative writing experiments I’ve engaged with this semester. Not surprisingly, it seemed, in reflection, that the more gratifying of the bunch were created with that balance L’Engle hints to, whereas the more stalled of the projects were (and remain) stuck on using either intuition or intellect alone.
Though I’m not a big fan of his work, Mark Strand’s comments on poetry being “about feeling one syllable rubbing against another, one word giving way to another, and sensing the justice of that relationship between one word, the next, the next…” rang very true for me. I enjoy and prioritize the music of poetry, both written and verbal, and sometimes feel as though the primacy I afford the sound and musicality of writing endeavors is regarded as elementary or immature, especially so by authority figures in academic settings. So, though Strand wasn’t necessarily speaking about the sonic qualities of poetry in this quote, I read into his words an appreciation for the musicality born of close attention to the rapport between words and syllables in any text, and appreciated garnering some sense of this consideration as important to a widely canonized writer whose poetics and politics I’d previously all but dismissed. (Here reappears the idea of garnering something useful from even artists whose creative output doesn’t do much for me.) Strand’s cited “constant alternation between a highly concentrated critical assessment and a relaxed, receptive, nonjudgmental openness to experience,” as required balance for cultivating “good new work,” along with his comments on “something always going on [in the back of his mind]… always working, even if it’s sort of unconsciously, even though I’m carrying on conversations with people and doing other things,” sounded very familiar to me, as I read my own creative processes mirrored in those words. Finding that connection, I was able to open myself up to some of Strand’s sentiments that didn’t seem as recognizable, namely that of sitting down to write “without anything specific in mind.” I found myself wondering why my impetus to write is and has so often been because I feel like I have something very specific to explore, and what I might gain from pushing myself to write, even if there’s no concrete “point” or “purpose” to the project.
Hilde Domin’s emphasis on needing to write when she felt most “alone and helpless,” following her mother’s death, and “[flying] into language,” when such tragedy struck, spoke volumes about the utility of writing as a form of personal (and, potentially, collective) healing or therapy. I imagine this is one of the key reasons our psychoanalyst Csikszentmihalyi included her comments here. Additionally, I found Domin’s take on tuning out the world of critics, and the priority placed in writing circles on big names or recognizable personalities—instead learning how to be her own critic, by cultivating a blend of closeness to and distance from her craft—hugely relevant to my, and probably many other emerging writers’, struggles for validation, and attempts to maintain integrity in the course of cultivating creativity and promoting one’s work. “While you are doing it, you are in it,” she states. “But you must always keep also a distance. And evidently the more you have the skill, the craft, the more you are able to at the same time be in it and also keep the distance and know what you are doing.” I would imagine this quote could apply to artists working across multiple disciplines, and I think it connects well to Csikszentmihalyi’s earlier stated notions about “inhabiting the field” you aim to make art in; that is, if your aim is to excel as a poet, you need be immersed in reading, listening to, and engaging in constant dialogue with other poets. To the extent that one is engrossed in her/his field of interest, clarifying what schools of thought s/he most aligns with, most runs counter to, etc, one can likely nurture an inner critic capable of honestly determining what’s working, and what’s not, in any given project. I appreciate this perspective, in large part because I find the idea of relying on the feedback of peers who may not know one’s creative work over the course of an extended period of time, or may not grasp the aims and purposes of a creative project to the same extent as the creator her/himself does, to be a fault-riddled paradigm for generating useful criticism or evaluation. This is not to say external feedback doesn’t have an important role to play in developing or editing any creative work, just that Domin’s emphasis on being able to nurture your own inner critic, and not growing entirely reliant on assessment from without, feels to me an important endeavor for any self-proclaimed artist.
Lastly, I though the discussion of internalizing rules and limitations in one’s creative pursuits, as related to Anthony Hecht’s work as a lyric poet, offered some essential insights on the role of discipline and clarity of intentions, specifically in achieving success (not commercial success, but personal fulfillment). Hecht’s emphasis on putting order, or crafting a “formal structure,” to “the stuff I get out of the unconscious,” as distinguished from Allen Ginsberg’s project of “annotating the activity of his mind,” seemed to highlight the role revision, editing, “fussing and fiddling,” play in his own creative process. Since I’m also often invested in communicating some idea, or perspective on a social issue, clearly and effectively to a readership or listening audience (though, like Hecht, also find great value and pleasure in that “Ginsberg-ian” ethos of documenting the mind’s moment-to-moment workings, even if it’s not a pursuit with which I align myself), I found in Hecht’s perspectives validation for what, at my most self-critical moments, I can deem an excessively scrupulous attention to detail, structure, and lucidity of conveyed ideas in my own written work. Though my and Hecht’s poetry are probably galaxies away from each other in terms of content or even physical appearance on a page, his inclination towards discipline, as a precondition for liberation “from the jumbled onslaught of raw experience,” left me affirmed in and with my own such propensities.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Reading Response 3: Reconsidering The Workshop (and classroom)
I had wanted to use the idea I am about to explain as my final paper topic, but gleefully, will explain it here instead. In _Colors of a Different Horse_, The first few pages of the chapter titled "Reconsidering the Workshop" expresses a tension that is often felt between creative and critical writers. The author writes that these groups
"coexist uncomfortably in the same departments, pretending that what we both do can be subsumed under the larger rubric of education, but nobody's fooled. They interrogate texts; we try to make stories and poems that will remain stubbornly silent under the most rigorous of questioning And what we do inside the schoolhouse, in the company of students, does not, finally, much resemble what they do" (Bishop, 4).
I am not sure about you, but I sensed some definitive animosity blaring out of the page. The use of "we" and "they" as separating out groups within the same department read as the two being in some sort of academic battle. I found this to be particularly interesting given the fact that I am both a MA student and a creative writer. I have heard and seen all of the stereotypes for both groups and find them to be rather self-defeating and pointless. Being a literary critic has helped my creative writing and my creative writing has certainly affected my critical writing for the positive.
Thus, my proposal is to bring these two groups together into one class that is half spent in creative writing and half spent in critical writing. Ideally, this would be a class of half creative writers and half critical writers and would likely be an upper division class. As I picture it, the first half of the semester would be devoted to creative writing. The students will learn about various tools and techniques to make their stories or poems more interesting. In the second half, the class will then use the creative works just written by their classmates to analyze in critical papers. The fact that the works being analyzed are written by classmates will hopefully allow the process of literary analysis and creative writing to be slightly demystified by each of the groups.
What led me to this idea specifically was the notion that when I learned and practiced creative writing, I became much more attuned to the techniques and styles of authors that I was analyzing for class papers. Similarly, breaking down texts for literary classes lead me to think of my own work in new and exciting ways. Creative writing and expository writing can go hand in hand, and I think the learning experiences that both would gain from being in a class where both areas are highlighted would be immense.
Now, I think that this would be a fun and interesting class, but do any of you agree that it would be helpful? I really like the idea that instead of there being an animosity between writers in the same department that the two groups can teach each-other and learn together simply as lovers of the written word. It would be a great opportunity to try new things and to play with notions of creativity and analysis in new and exciting ways.
The class would also have weekly readings assigned to discuss in both a creative and literary capacity. Thus, this class could possibly be used as an opportunity for MFA students to fill a literature requirement while getting to write creative at the same time. I know that this is a chief complain the literature classes lead little time for writing, so let's make some classes to fix the problem!
Now, I have thought of a few problems that may arise in a class like this. Can you really teach both creative writing and expository writing successfully in a semester? This question is what lead me to believe that a class of this nature would be better suited to upper division students. This way, the absolute bare-bones basics of writing will not need to be taught and more exciting notions can be introduced. Secondly, how receptive will students be to writing critically about another students work? This one I am not so sure of, but based on workshop experience where people have such diverse opinions about pieces I think it would be truly fascinating. As a critical writer, I can tell you that we are pretty much going balls to the wall crazy trying to look at unique perspectives at works that have been around for decades. To get to analyze something fresh and new would be a lot of fun, and I imagine it would be exciting to think of someone spending the time to analyze my creative work as well.
Another question would be if the class should be devoted to one type of creative work or be open to multiple genres. Do you think it would be more successful for this class to switch off between fiction and poetry or to just give the students the right to choose? I am more inclined to think that breaking it up into poetry one semester and fiction the next might be more successful in that it can be hard to teach multiple genres and expository writing in such a short time-frame. Another Question, who should teach the class? Ideally, I think it would be great to have both a creative writing teacher and a literature teacher, but I am thinking that is not too likely. So, I supposed a teacher versed in both areas would be the second choice (I'm available for hire! haha). Despite these minor issues and questions, I would still be super excited to have a class like this offered.
"coexist uncomfortably in the same departments, pretending that what we both do can be subsumed under the larger rubric of education, but nobody's fooled. They interrogate texts; we try to make stories and poems that will remain stubbornly silent under the most rigorous of questioning And what we do inside the schoolhouse, in the company of students, does not, finally, much resemble what they do" (Bishop, 4).
I am not sure about you, but I sensed some definitive animosity blaring out of the page. The use of "we" and "they" as separating out groups within the same department read as the two being in some sort of academic battle. I found this to be particularly interesting given the fact that I am both a MA student and a creative writer. I have heard and seen all of the stereotypes for both groups and find them to be rather self-defeating and pointless. Being a literary critic has helped my creative writing and my creative writing has certainly affected my critical writing for the positive.
Thus, my proposal is to bring these two groups together into one class that is half spent in creative writing and half spent in critical writing. Ideally, this would be a class of half creative writers and half critical writers and would likely be an upper division class. As I picture it, the first half of the semester would be devoted to creative writing. The students will learn about various tools and techniques to make their stories or poems more interesting. In the second half, the class will then use the creative works just written by their classmates to analyze in critical papers. The fact that the works being analyzed are written by classmates will hopefully allow the process of literary analysis and creative writing to be slightly demystified by each of the groups.
What led me to this idea specifically was the notion that when I learned and practiced creative writing, I became much more attuned to the techniques and styles of authors that I was analyzing for class papers. Similarly, breaking down texts for literary classes lead me to think of my own work in new and exciting ways. Creative writing and expository writing can go hand in hand, and I think the learning experiences that both would gain from being in a class where both areas are highlighted would be immense.
Now, I think that this would be a fun and interesting class, but do any of you agree that it would be helpful? I really like the idea that instead of there being an animosity between writers in the same department that the two groups can teach each-other and learn together simply as lovers of the written word. It would be a great opportunity to try new things and to play with notions of creativity and analysis in new and exciting ways.
The class would also have weekly readings assigned to discuss in both a creative and literary capacity. Thus, this class could possibly be used as an opportunity for MFA students to fill a literature requirement while getting to write creative at the same time. I know that this is a chief complain the literature classes lead little time for writing, so let's make some classes to fix the problem!
Now, I have thought of a few problems that may arise in a class like this. Can you really teach both creative writing and expository writing successfully in a semester? This question is what lead me to believe that a class of this nature would be better suited to upper division students. This way, the absolute bare-bones basics of writing will not need to be taught and more exciting notions can be introduced. Secondly, how receptive will students be to writing critically about another students work? This one I am not so sure of, but based on workshop experience where people have such diverse opinions about pieces I think it would be truly fascinating. As a critical writer, I can tell you that we are pretty much going balls to the wall crazy trying to look at unique perspectives at works that have been around for decades. To get to analyze something fresh and new would be a lot of fun, and I imagine it would be exciting to think of someone spending the time to analyze my creative work as well.
Another question would be if the class should be devoted to one type of creative work or be open to multiple genres. Do you think it would be more successful for this class to switch off between fiction and poetry or to just give the students the right to choose? I am more inclined to think that breaking it up into poetry one semester and fiction the next might be more successful in that it can be hard to teach multiple genres and expository writing in such a short time-frame. Another Question, who should teach the class? Ideally, I think it would be great to have both a creative writing teacher and a literature teacher, but I am thinking that is not too likely. So, I supposed a teacher versed in both areas would be the second choice (I'm available for hire! haha). Despite these minor issues and questions, I would still be super excited to have a class like this offered.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
The next big thing?
The following was excerpted from a New York Times article posted on a friend's FB page, and titled "Next Big Thing in English: Knowing You Know That They Know", by Patricia Cohen. In my last response, I wondered about the current state of affairs regarding critical theory. I found the article interesting from that perspective, and also because I'm truly fascinated by science. I've pasted the link at the end of the excerpt if your interest is also piqued.
At a time when university literature departments are confronting painful budget cuts, a moribund job market and pointed scrutiny about the purpose and value of an education in the humanities, the cross-pollination of English and psychology is a providing a revitalizing lift.
Jonathan Gottschall, who has written extensively about using evolutionary theory to explain fiction, said “it’s a new moment of hope” in an era when everyone is talking about “the death of the humanities.” To Mr. Gottschall a scientific approach can rescue literature departments from the malaise that has embraced them over the last decade and a half. Zealous enthusiasm for the politically charged and frequently arcane theories that energized departments in the 1970s, ’80s and early ’90s — Marxism, structuralism, psychoanalysis — has faded. Since then a new generation of scholars have been casting about for The Next Big Thing.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/01/books/01lit.html?pagewanted=1
At a time when university literature departments are confronting painful budget cuts, a moribund job market and pointed scrutiny about the purpose and value of an education in the humanities, the cross-pollination of English and psychology is a providing a revitalizing lift.
Jonathan Gottschall, who has written extensively about using evolutionary theory to explain fiction, said “it’s a new moment of hope” in an era when everyone is talking about “the death of the humanities.” To Mr. Gottschall a scientific approach can rescue literature departments from the malaise that has embraced them over the last decade and a half. Zealous enthusiasm for the politically charged and frequently arcane theories that energized departments in the 1970s, ’80s and early ’90s — Marxism, structuralism, psychoanalysis — has faded. Since then a new generation of scholars have been casting about for The Next Big Thing.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/01/books/01lit.html?pagewanted=1
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