A Precocious Trending of Literary Theory?
I wanted to know what is considered to be the literary critical theory du jour.
Throughout our readings, one thing that was becoming annoyingly glaring, or haunting was, in addition to the dated editions we are reading – Elmaz even mentioned concern regarding this ‘dilemma’ in last Tuesday’s class – is the dated theoretical body of knowledge/works that was being referenced or drawn upon therein, at least, those that were being cited. Just a fraction of the litany: the New Criticism; Structuralism; Deconstruction; Post Modernism; Traditional Literary Criticism; Formalism. Interesting and informative? Yes… from a historical point of view. Satisfying? Well…. In my previous academic life which ended over thirty years ago, we were at that time examining literary texts per the exigencies of Structuralism - which itself was still being refracted through the lenses of the New Criticism – “la Nouvelle Critique”. Argh! It’s all coming back.
My patience was tested when I undertook to read “Reading the Creative Writing Course: The Teacher’s Many Selves”, by Patrick Bizzaro (think he should have changed his name? - I only pose the question) of East Carolina University, and published in Colors Of A Different Horse. Let me just say here that I think our 3 texts are invaluable reading for anyone wanting to understand creativity and its fulcrum in all its iterations. They contain, in fact, wisdom for the ages. It is this particular essay by Bizzaro which stirred in me an appreciation of collaborative writing, offering a perspective I had not previously considered, especially the idea that when collaborating, there has to be a third or other voice for the collaboration to take root. Collaborative writer is one of the “selves” a teacher has to be: “One of the goals of the creative writing teacher should be…showing students not how to change individual texts, but introducing students to the many selves writers might become. To do so, however, teachers must relinquish power in the classroom.” (p. 235). It led me to think more deeply about the delicate and potentially shifting balance of instructor/student, master/apprentice, and teacher/learner dynamic in a creative writing workshop. Just before class last Tuesday when my group met, I had mentioned the idea of a collaborative free write as part of our teaching assignment, so impressed had I been.
Shifting gears - on the third page, p. 236 in Colors of a Different Horse, there it was: the first mention of the old workhorse “ the New Criticism”. And I was impressed by the number of instances it appeared again and again either as an authoritative point of reference or departure. Bizzaro compares the New Criticism to “current thinking about evaluating student writing” (“current” being sometime before the copyright of Colors in 1994) and concludes that “they hold a great many things in common”. All fine and good. But that got me to thinking about what is the current thinking in 2010 with regards to evaluating student writing, and from there I wondered if there exists now a ‘school of thought’ or a new critical theory. Colors of a Different Horse, which I have found to be engaging and informative reading, was copyrighted in 1994. Not so long ago? Mr. Bizzaro’s essay is replete with citations from William Cain, “The Crisis in Criticism”, 1984 (p.237), with works by Richard Lloyd-Jones, “Primary Trait Scoring”, 1977 (p.238), Alberta Turner, “Poets Teaching: The Creative Process”, 1980 (p.237), Wendy Bishop, “Released into Language: Options for Teaching Creative Writing”, 1990 (p.238). With the exception of Wendy Bishop, these critical assays are older than my daughter! An entire generation aged even further, particularly in light of the fast-paced cyberspace era. Things have to have changed, I said to myself. After all, we had an ass as an illegal president in the White House for eight crippling years, and the first, ever, black U.S. president - with an African name, to boot – go Obama! - whose legitimacy continues to plague certain less than fully informed Tea Party goers whose shortsightedness has failed to underscore the subversive character of the previous administration. My apologies – politics are as much a part of the literary terrain as they are the corporate or governmental (Bizzaro: “…the New Criticism, by virtue of its elevation of the text as the authority for meaning, made the study of literature apolitical…”). I do understand that literary criticism, like all things written, has a history - a past - and can/should be regarded under the gels of honorary distinction, at the very least. But I couldn’t help but ask myself over and over what is new. What are the new trends in critical thought and theory? Is there not a new face of the field, to be bow-tied and tuxedoed for the literary prom, to walk the catwalk and strut its stuff on the red carpet to receive its accolades, no matter how transitory or ephemeral?
A brief jog on the Internet highway led me to an article, “Professing Literature in 2008”, by William Deresiewicz, published in The Nation’s March 11, 2008 issue. A generation younger than myself, Deresiewicz confronts the same issue by addressing the then reissued Professing Literature (after twenty years have fled past) by Gerald Graff, a “history of American English departments”, Deresiewicz goes on to say. To quote: “What’s happened since? Graff’s new preface reaffirms his belief that the answer to the mutual isolation of competing critical schools is to ‘teach the conflicts’, but it doesn’t tell us what’s happened in the past twenty years (which happens to be the twenty years since I decided to go to graduate school)”. One senses Deresiewicz‘ frustration, and perhaps disappointment, when he suggests, after making his case, and not without irony, that floundering English departments are desperately trying to keep up by appealing to the continually changing tempo of popular cultural demands, mutating to keep up with the times, such that, he concludes, the “profession’s” agenda is being set by teenagers. His ultimate conclusion: “It’s the fact that no major theoretical school has emerged in the eighteen years since Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble revolutionized gender studies. As Harvard professor Louis Menand [of the New Yorker article, “Should Creative Writing be taught?”, read first off in the semester] said three years ago, our graduate students are writing the same dissertations, with the same tools, as they were in 1990”. And, I might add, as they were in 1978.
Okay, so it takes me a while to get it…but I think I did.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
"On The Syllabus"
1. What are the goals of this course and how do I want to communicate this to my students:
In this class you will develop the confidence to analyze the readings that are assigned, the works of your peers, and your own work, as well as gain the comfort to be open to new ideas, genres, and styles.
2. What teaching style do I plan to use and how much are the students involved in the pedagogy of the class:
Participation, discussion, and staying on top of reading are vital so that you can embark on your own journey and writing experience, as well as stay on track in the course.
3. What are the formal expectations of this class:
Your semester's goal is to have one piece of writing that you are confident with, keeping in mind what you did to take your writing where it is.
4. What are the pitfalls of the class:
Workshopping can be a rewarding experience if all students in the class follow the guidelines, are respectful of each other, and are open to new experiences and ideas.
5. What is the role of reading in your class:
A reading is due for each class. The focus of the reading is what the writer does and how. I want students to think of the authors as peers--no matter what the style, time period, genre, etc. They are who students must learn from--make connections with, have conversations with while reading. A reading response is due about whatever sparks your interest or inspires you to write.
Sorry for the delay!
In this class you will develop the confidence to analyze the readings that are assigned, the works of your peers, and your own work, as well as gain the comfort to be open to new ideas, genres, and styles.
2. What teaching style do I plan to use and how much are the students involved in the pedagogy of the class:
Participation, discussion, and staying on top of reading are vital so that you can embark on your own journey and writing experience, as well as stay on track in the course.
3. What are the formal expectations of this class:
Your semester's goal is to have one piece of writing that you are confident with, keeping in mind what you did to take your writing where it is.
4. What are the pitfalls of the class:
Workshopping can be a rewarding experience if all students in the class follow the guidelines, are respectful of each other, and are open to new experiences and ideas.
5. What is the role of reading in your class:
A reading is due for each class. The focus of the reading is what the writer does and how. I want students to think of the authors as peers--no matter what the style, time period, genre, etc. They are who students must learn from--make connections with, have conversations with while reading. A reading response is due about whatever sparks your interest or inspires you to write.
Sorry for the delay!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Teaching Observation- Berkeley Community College
Logistics
Class title: English 92B, Poetry Workshop, through Berkeley Community College, on the campus of UC Berkeley
Class instructor: Professor Sharon Coleman
Date observed: March 9, 2010
Size of class: 30, approximately
Make up of the class: Huge age range, emblematic of many community colleges. There were students in their 20s, there were students in their 60s, and all ages in between. But definitely a large contingency of folks from both poles of that range (i.e. a good number of students just beginning their undergraduate studies, and a good number of older participants just taking one or two evening classes, to re-engage with topics of interest). This was a very multi-racial/multi-ethnic group. I would estimate roughly 50% white students, 50% students of color, mostly black and Latino/a. A similarly 50/50 balance of women and men.
Physical arrangement of the class: Because of the class size, it seemed tough to have any seating arrangement other than a series of rows. One full circle would have been impossible to create, given the space restrictions. There were probably five rows of desks, each row consisting of six or so students. This made the classroom feel quite large, and the gap from first to last row created something of a disconnect between students at the front and at the back of the class.
Social atmosphere of the class: There was a lighthearted mood before and throughout the course of the evening. A series of cliques had certainly already formed over the course of the semester, seemingly on the basis of age and similar poetics (i.e. younger students seemed to interact primarily with one another, and the same was true for the older students). The teacher had a very warm, student-centered approach, enabling a lot of commentary from students over the course of the first half of the class, which entailed a presentation and discussion of a specific text. Sometimes, though, it seemed as though the conversation could have benefited from the teacher directing the conversation a little more directly/concretely.
Time class started: 6:40 pm, about ten minutes after its stated start time.
Substance
The class was broken up into two halves, each roughly an hour and fifteen minutes in length. For the first half, students read aloud and discussed excerpts from a text Professor Coleman brought in and made copies of, entitled Erotic Love Poems From India, a collection of mostly short poems written by unspecified/anonymous scribes from between the years 800 and 1000, translated from ancient Sanskrit. The framing questions for the readings/discussion included: ‘What is the difference between love and eroticism?’ (which somehow morphed into a conversation about differentiating between pornography and the erotic) and ‘How do these poets imbue everyday objects with a sense of the erotic?’ The first half of the class concluded with a ten minute group free writing period, in which students were first asked to create a list of ten everyday objects with which they regularly interact, then write vignettes styled similarly as the short poems just read, in which those everyday objects are endowed with properties that transcend their obvious use or utility. For the second half of the class, students broke up into groups of five, and workshopped individual poems (each student allotted roughly ten to twelve minutes for discussion of the writing they brought in). Professor Coleman circulated throughout the room, dipping into the various small groups to ensure folks were talking and to support the discussion/engagements with student writing.
There were no specific goals stated for the first half of the class, though the questions Professor Coleman offered to frame the discussion, as well as the readiness to speak a good portion of the students displayed, kept the conversation lively and constant. Of course, given the size of the class, there were also a number of students who spoke rarely, if at all, and I didn’t get a sense that the teacher was doing anything extra to invite them into the conversation (perhaps she’d already made a point of urging quieter students to contribute earlier in the semester?). As mentioned, though, she had a very affable, approachable personality, and never claimed final authority in terms of her perspectives on the poems studied. Her teaching method was consistently Socratic, and while she critiqued the ‘New Age-y, Berkeley’ packaging of the text, she also named the usefulness of some of the writing therein to the creative projects her students were pursuing. I gathered that the students had a good deal of respect for her, and appreciated her personality as one component creating a safe space for them to explore new avenues in their writing.
Outcome
As for the impact of the substance of the class, the clearest impression I could garner was really through the free writing activity, and the work some students were willing to share immediately afterwards. It did seem as though the students were able to make good use of the framework Professor Coleman offered (i.e. taking everyday objects, and giving them some depth/layering beyond their apparent/evident function). Folks were able to tinge plants, desks, cooking pots, even car dashboards with hints of the erotic, and some spoke of the activity stirring up ideas for longer, more focused writing endeavors. On that basis alone, I’d say the activity was a success. Similarly, the teacher’s willingness to circulate during the workshop half of the class, sitting in and offering gentle but specific feedback to students whose writing was being discussed, seemed both appreciated and valuable.
(Post Script: If someone cares to tell me why the font on my blog posts always seems to change for the last couple paragraphs, when I cut and paste Word documents into the blog window, I'd be quite grateful!)
A Rough Draft on the Syllabus
In this class you will explore three different genres (fiction, nonfiction, poetry) and imitate author’s style and email me your piece, so that I can give you feedback before small group and large class discussion.
Group work, pair work, and discussions are an important part of the class. In-class participation will affect your progress in this class.
You will produce three pieces (from five to seven pages long) of craft from each genre you have learned and revise one of your favorite pieces as your final paper.
For the first half of the workshop, you select a paragraph from your piece to let the class dissect the narrative techniques and discuss how sentence structure function in your narrative. For the other half, the larger class will discuss and dissect and comment your piece for further development.
You will write a 1-2 paragraph response to assigned close reading and will read it to class each week. In your response you will explain what is and what is not effective, in terms of narrative techniques and devices and elements.
Group work, pair work, and discussions are an important part of the class. In-class participation will affect your progress in this class.
You will produce three pieces (from five to seven pages long) of craft from each genre you have learned and revise one of your favorite pieces as your final paper.
For the first half of the workshop, you select a paragraph from your piece to let the class dissect the narrative techniques and discuss how sentence structure function in your narrative. For the other half, the larger class will discuss and dissect and comment your piece for further development.
You will write a 1-2 paragraph response to assigned close reading and will read it to class each week. In your response you will explain what is and what is not effective, in terms of narrative techniques and devices and elements.
Syllabus
The proposition: I want each student to recognize at least a glimpse of their inner voice, develop a small preference for a genre they are inclined toward, and develop a working familiarity with literary terms and processes.
On the Syllabus: Congratulations! If you are scanning this syllabus you are more than likely enrolled in Introduction to Creative Writing. In this class you will be reading for pleasure and writing for enjoyment. As students you will be reading a collage of fiction, poetry, and non-fiction. You will explore various crafting techniques and literary vocabulary that introduce you to the basic foundation of writing. You will complete a final project of your choice (I’ll provide options, wise-guys) and will speak up during class discussion (a shy whisper is certainly permissible but remember a non-existent voice is no fun and disrespectful to your classmates and the author we are studying).
******
The Proposition: I want students to feel confident and in command of the subject. Engaging in classroom discussion is a must. I also want students to feel comfortable about approaching me during office hours. Gaining a simple understanding of the history, influences and roots of a genre or the piece of literature that we are studying is also important. I would like to do ½ lecture and ½ discussion or workshop.
On the Syllabus: I will introduce the history, influences, and roots of the reading or author at the beginning of each class. During the second half of the class you will engage in discussion or workshop. Your thorough preparation and enthusiasm is necessary in maintaining a strong and invigorating learning environment. Remember to respect others when commenting; your words are powerful and may impact your peers in a positive or negative way. If you have any questions or want further discussion of a topic sign up for office hours and I’ll try to be as helpful as possible.
**
The Proposition: I want the class to complete a proposal outline and a final draft of the actual project i.e. chapbook, short story. A steady progression of work throughout the course of a semester will develop discipline and be rewarding when the student sees their final project.
On the Syllabus: You are expected to participate to the best of your ability in all class requirements. Specifically you are responsible for all writing exercises, providing positive and constructive feedback on your peers writing, and completion of a final project. You should come to class having read the assigned material. No ifs, ands, buts, or maybes, will be accepted and I reserve the right to give an unexpected and unplanned “pop” quiz. To be a good writer one must be well read, therefore you should not be alarmed by the word “quiz”.
Above all I want you to have fun. I am flexible and when presented with a well-thought argument I am more than willing to negotiate the terms and conditions of this syllabus.
**
The Proposition: I’m worried that students won’t stay motivated and may think that the class is dragging or lacking in material students can relate to.
On the Syllabus: I will limit my lectures to the first twenty minutes of the class on the day that a new piece of literature has been assigned. If time permits I will integrate outside sources like film and music into the class agenda. More importantly I am committed to providing each student the opportunity to workshop a significant portion of their final project.
**
The proposition: Knowledge is power. I want students to develop an affinity for flipping open a page. I want students to find universal themes, specifically using Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, in literature that is considered to be more popular culture and those considered to be more academic. Finding a happy medium is ideal.
On the Syllabus: Please refer to the assignment page in this syllabus for reading due dates. The literature read in this class will provoke thought that centers on class, morality, racial tension, and the loss of innocence.
On the Syllabus: Congratulations! If you are scanning this syllabus you are more than likely enrolled in Introduction to Creative Writing. In this class you will be reading for pleasure and writing for enjoyment. As students you will be reading a collage of fiction, poetry, and non-fiction. You will explore various crafting techniques and literary vocabulary that introduce you to the basic foundation of writing. You will complete a final project of your choice (I’ll provide options, wise-guys) and will speak up during class discussion (a shy whisper is certainly permissible but remember a non-existent voice is no fun and disrespectful to your classmates and the author we are studying).
******
The Proposition: I want students to feel confident and in command of the subject. Engaging in classroom discussion is a must. I also want students to feel comfortable about approaching me during office hours. Gaining a simple understanding of the history, influences and roots of a genre or the piece of literature that we are studying is also important. I would like to do ½ lecture and ½ discussion or workshop.
On the Syllabus: I will introduce the history, influences, and roots of the reading or author at the beginning of each class. During the second half of the class you will engage in discussion or workshop. Your thorough preparation and enthusiasm is necessary in maintaining a strong and invigorating learning environment. Remember to respect others when commenting; your words are powerful and may impact your peers in a positive or negative way. If you have any questions or want further discussion of a topic sign up for office hours and I’ll try to be as helpful as possible.
**
The Proposition: I want the class to complete a proposal outline and a final draft of the actual project i.e. chapbook, short story. A steady progression of work throughout the course of a semester will develop discipline and be rewarding when the student sees their final project.
On the Syllabus: You are expected to participate to the best of your ability in all class requirements. Specifically you are responsible for all writing exercises, providing positive and constructive feedback on your peers writing, and completion of a final project. You should come to class having read the assigned material. No ifs, ands, buts, or maybes, will be accepted and I reserve the right to give an unexpected and unplanned “pop” quiz. To be a good writer one must be well read, therefore you should not be alarmed by the word “quiz”.
Above all I want you to have fun. I am flexible and when presented with a well-thought argument I am more than willing to negotiate the terms and conditions of this syllabus.
**
The Proposition: I’m worried that students won’t stay motivated and may think that the class is dragging or lacking in material students can relate to.
On the Syllabus: I will limit my lectures to the first twenty minutes of the class on the day that a new piece of literature has been assigned. If time permits I will integrate outside sources like film and music into the class agenda. More importantly I am committed to providing each student the opportunity to workshop a significant portion of their final project.
**
The proposition: Knowledge is power. I want students to develop an affinity for flipping open a page. I want students to find universal themes, specifically using Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, in literature that is considered to be more popular culture and those considered to be more academic. Finding a happy medium is ideal.
On the Syllabus: Please refer to the assignment page in this syllabus for reading due dates. The literature read in this class will provoke thought that centers on class, morality, racial tension, and the loss of innocence.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Classroom Observation
Class Title: Creative Non-Fiction
Class Instructor: Maria Hummel
Location: Stanford University
Date Observed: March 8,2010
What is the size of the class? 16 class total
What is the make up of the class? undergraduates, all majors, 1:15 B/G ratio
How is the class physically arranged? A small room with windows (at eye level) in 2 of the 4 walls. Students sat around a large rectangular conference table. A chalkboard was at one end of the classroom.
What is the social atmosphere of the class? Everyone seemed friendly and well acquainted. However many of the students only met one another at the beginning of this class. Out of the sixteen only 2 are creative writing majors. The students were anxious to begin class when the teacher entered the classroom. They were excited to discuss plans for the upcoming final class (Stanford U. is on a quarter system).
What time did the class start? 1:15-3:05 The teacher dismissed the class fifteen minutes early.
******
What were the activities of the class? The class discussed business (entry into the CW class lottery and the class list for the next quarter), critiqued three 15 page pieces, and made plans for the final class (CUPCAKE PARTY!!!!! How awesome, is that?)
Were goals stated for the activities? The teacher stressed that the class was not specifically focused on memoir writing but pieces should still attempt to incorporate would could be considered literary emotion into the journalism/ non-fiction essays.
How were the activities conducted? Each piece was discussed individually and began with the student reading an excerpt chosen by the glass. The teacher only spoke to diffuse a negative comment or introduce another example/topic of interest into the workshop. Each piece was critiqued for 20-30 minutes.
Was text used? No text.
Lecturing? Discussion? Exercises? In-class writing? None, other than the expected discussion for workshop.
How many students participated? 3 pieces. All of the students joined in the conversation. If a student had spoken less than their peers the teacher would ask that student to begin the discussion about the next piece.
Described interactions among peers and with professor? The students and professor had a positive rapport and maintained a strong student/teacher relationship.
*****
What was the atmosphere of the class? The atmosphere was very healthy and encouraging. The majority of the feedback was positive and all of it was constructive.
Were the students involved? Yes, the students were involved and contributed with selfless comments that were well-thought and designed to help the writer being workshopped.
Did the substance of the class have impact? Yes, all of the pieces were well-written about subjects that are locally impacting. The students brought insight from several disciplines including marine biology, computer engineering, journalism, and sociology.
How did the professor engage the students? How did the students engage each other?
The professor treated the students as mature adults who are all capable of success.
Your general impression of the effectiveness of the class? The class was effective and well-organized. Obviously a writing class will make a positive impact on all of their studies.
Did you talk to the professor and what did you learn? I talked to the professor for only a moment and learned more from observing the class than from our discussion. When I complemented the students maturity she replied "well, these are Stanford kids, what do you expect?"
Class Instructor: Maria Hummel
Location: Stanford University
Date Observed: March 8,2010
What is the size of the class? 16 class total
What is the make up of the class? undergraduates, all majors, 1:15 B/G ratio
How is the class physically arranged? A small room with windows (at eye level) in 2 of the 4 walls. Students sat around a large rectangular conference table. A chalkboard was at one end of the classroom.
What is the social atmosphere of the class? Everyone seemed friendly and well acquainted. However many of the students only met one another at the beginning of this class. Out of the sixteen only 2 are creative writing majors. The students were anxious to begin class when the teacher entered the classroom. They were excited to discuss plans for the upcoming final class (Stanford U. is on a quarter system).
What time did the class start? 1:15-3:05 The teacher dismissed the class fifteen minutes early.
******
What were the activities of the class? The class discussed business (entry into the CW class lottery and the class list for the next quarter), critiqued three 15 page pieces, and made plans for the final class (CUPCAKE PARTY!!!!! How awesome, is that?)
Were goals stated for the activities? The teacher stressed that the class was not specifically focused on memoir writing but pieces should still attempt to incorporate would could be considered literary emotion into the journalism/ non-fiction essays.
How were the activities conducted? Each piece was discussed individually and began with the student reading an excerpt chosen by the glass. The teacher only spoke to diffuse a negative comment or introduce another example/topic of interest into the workshop. Each piece was critiqued for 20-30 minutes.
Was text used? No text.
Lecturing? Discussion? Exercises? In-class writing? None, other than the expected discussion for workshop.
How many students participated? 3 pieces. All of the students joined in the conversation. If a student had spoken less than their peers the teacher would ask that student to begin the discussion about the next piece.
Described interactions among peers and with professor? The students and professor had a positive rapport and maintained a strong student/teacher relationship.
*****
What was the atmosphere of the class? The atmosphere was very healthy and encouraging. The majority of the feedback was positive and all of it was constructive.
Were the students involved? Yes, the students were involved and contributed with selfless comments that were well-thought and designed to help the writer being workshopped.
Did the substance of the class have impact? Yes, all of the pieces were well-written about subjects that are locally impacting. The students brought insight from several disciplines including marine biology, computer engineering, journalism, and sociology.
How did the professor engage the students? How did the students engage each other?
The professor treated the students as mature adults who are all capable of success.
Your general impression of the effectiveness of the class? The class was effective and well-organized. Obviously a writing class will make a positive impact on all of their studies.
Did you talk to the professor and what did you learn? I talked to the professor for only a moment and learned more from observing the class than from our discussion. When I complemented the students maturity she replied "well, these are Stanford kids, what do you expect?"
Massoni Reader Response #3
The Domain of the Word
Having not yet responded to Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, I was eager to dive into this chapter, dedicated to the specific creative experiences of novelists and poets. I often find interviews with writers on craft to be some of the more inspiring access points to a writer’s unique world. For how else can we get any closer?
I believe it was Orhan Pamuk who once said writing “is a commitment to being alone in a room.” We all experience this isolation, and we all attempt to release honest renderings of our imagination, experience, and the characters we create and emotions we invoke. Attempts to communicate these other worlds that often spring from solitude seem inherently challenged. We cannot sit by the side of the writer, perch on the edge of his/her desk, and simply observe. So, we read interviews, we read textbooks on creativity, and we engage in dialogue with other representatives of our field. Perhaps when we’re fortunate enough to publish, we communicate with members of our audience. All the while, there is the voice of our critic to contend with, who tells us when to cut, when to start over, and hopefully, finally, when to rest in completion.
I did take away helpful snippets from “The Domain of the Word,” and I’d like to begin forming this response with those. The first point seems obvious, when Csikszentmihalyi writes: “we all write to a certain extent, so the craft of professional writers is not abstruse” (237). This is true. We all need to communicate with one another, despite our professional pursuits, especially today, when so much business is conducted through email. Our verbal communication skills feel like they may only continue to atrophy when one can resort to an email/text rather than a phone call or face-to-face conversation. This digression is meant to reiterate that writing skills are perhaps MORE important than they have ever been before, as the written word continues to pervade the ordering of our professional and social worlds.
Csikszentmihalyi looks back at the evolution of written language. He assesses that “the oldest symbolic systems in the world are those organized around content and the rules of language,” and goes on to state: “the discovery of writing made it possible to preserve memory outside the fragile brain, the domain of the word became one of the most effective tools and greatest sources of pride for humankind” (238). And perhaps this is what writing is fundamentally about: preserving memory and experience outside of ourselves, truly releasing something from our brains through our fingers and out into the world; writing as giving birth if you will.
This exteriority is coupled with a complex interiority, for “the written word allows us to understand better what is happening within ourselves. In recording real or imaginary events, the writer arrests the evanescent stream of experience by naming its aspects and making them enduring in language. Then by reading and repeating a verse or passage of prose, we can savor the images and their meanings and thus understand more accurately how we feel and what we think” (238). This summation sounds lovely in theory, and certainly the process of expressing ourselves through writing often leads to a clarity of mind we might not have arrived at without the filter of translating thought into text. However, it sounds all too easy. Elmaz asked us an interesting question last class when it came to writing our syllabuses: Who needs to be served/satisfied here? The teacher or the student? I found this compelling as I’ve been wondering if it has to be one or the other? How do we ensure the progression of our students’ creativity and productivity and hold ourselves accountable as teachers and derive a sense of self-satisfaction from that? Are these mutually beneficial always? Exclusive on occasion?
Does the same theory hold for writing? Should we be concerned about serving/satisfying our audience? Or with achieving this personal understanding as Csikszentmihalyi suggests? Shouldn’t we focus more on living up to the authenticity of the creative piece at hand and serving THE WORK? I’m not sure that I’m motivated by understanding more accurately how I feel or what I think. At least not while I’m in process, which is what the portions of Creativity: Flow and the Psychology of Discovery and Invention that we have read seem to be concerned with thus far.
This chapter seems specifically concerned with the intersection “between the intellect and the intuition” (239), which calls to my mind a rather formal and scientific visual rendering of creativity, and one that needs to be defined by the very material at hand: language. This week in my Craft of Fiction class with Professor Powell, we discussed Aureole by Carole Maso and themes of language and desire. Our conversation culminated in the idea that many of the books we’ve read this semester illustrate where language CANNOT go, and other failings of text. For these books often challenge even the way we conventionally read a book or can be read quite differently depending on the reader’s current emotional or mental state. What happens when language does fail us? Perhaps in terms of how we express the experience of reading a particular book or perhaps here with what Csikszentmihalyi is discussing: how we write?
Mark Strand mentions patience as one element that is required when language may be failing or not conforming to the images or emotions the writer wants to express. He says of his poetry that “the secret of saying something new is to be patient,” (240), that reacting too quickly might yield a superficial cliché rather than a deeper, original meaning. He suggests that the same patience is required of the reader: “Poetry is about slowing down…There’s no rush to find out what happens in a poem. It’s really 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, the next” (240).
When Strand specifically addresses language, however, he claims that “Writers are people who have greater receptivity to language, and I think that they will see something in a phrase, or even a word, that allows them to change it or improve what was there before” (241). While I adore Strand’s work and I want to believe this, and it certainly sounds true of writers, particularly during editing phases, it sounds rather conceited to assume the writer’s receptivity is greater than any other’s. Doesn’t the perceptivity of the words we place next to one another dependent upon the receptivity of our readers? Who’s to say one is any greater than the other?
For often isn’t it the experience that precedes language that may give us something to say in the first place? I appreciated the candor of Hilde Domin and the “chronic state of psychological dislocation” (244) that appears in her work, which she presents as a kind of salvation, saying that “flight into a world of symbols saves the writer from the unbearable reality where experience is raw and unmediated” (245). Again here though, the writer seems to be the one served, and readers an after thought in order to preserve the integrity required to package a difficult experience in language.
Domin also speaks directly to my previous point about the limitations of language. As she learned up to five different languages, she observed “the same word may have a certain set of connotations in one and a very different network of meanings in another. Or that one language could express some emotions or events more accurately than another” (245). While this is not a novel observation, it suggests the borders of any one language and its ability to be the best mode of expression for a certain experience. Despite her great knowledge of multiple languages, Domin ultimately gravitated back to her native tongue, German, and that is the language where she found her utmost refuge for “she could not live where that language was not spoken” (245). This further suggests something about how we absorb spoken language as well. Perhaps it’s never enough simply to push words in one direction, away from ourselves; so much also depends on the ways we take in those words (reading is relevant here, too).
I was flabbergasted to have it confirmed that Domin’s fair instinct to concentrate “on the merits of the writing instead of the personality or politics of the writer” when judging literary prizes so starkly contrasts with the way it is commonly done in her experience. How then do we take the field to task? How can it be fair that politics should count more than the writing itself? I truly don’t understand how “jealous and antagonistic critics” are permitted “to silence the artist’s voice” (246). I understand the dynamics of competition, but I don’t understand the places jealousy or antagonism have earned in the field. How does that serve anyone? Finally, I appreciate the time and practical advice Domin gives to aspiring writers she believes she can help, so I reiterate it here: “mainly to simplify, to cut out whatever is redundant, flabby, unnecessary” (247).
Madeleine L’Engle seems an example of a writer who could have been silenced altogether by a field that did not want to let her into the domain, rejecting her manuscript A Wrinkle in Time as many times as it did, saying it didn’t fit neatly into conventional notions of genre or either adult or YA prose. While success didn’t arrive until after 40, admirably, L’Engle “was never tempted to compromise her vision in order to play it safe” (257). While “the enjoyment of writing comes first” for L’Engle, it’s soon followed by “a sense of responsibility for what she writes” (255), which seems a conscious serving of both writer and audience, and is why her stories preserve “some kind of hope” (255).
As for Richard Stern, I don’t mean to belittle his literary accomplishments, but he sounds like one more Caucasian male who had the good fortune to study at Iowa (among other Caucasian males) and who began to publish prolifically in the mid-20th century. Yet, he too, it seems, must “overcome the pain of existence” (261) through writing. While his observations earned their place in the domain, I’m not sure how relevant his personal story is to aspiring writers, many of whom will undoubtedly be of different age, race, gender, or socio-economic bracket (I found it interesting that Mark Strand was the only writer to mention the financial constraints brought on by career choice).
So does Csikszentmihalyi fulfill this chapter’s hypothesis: to present “a number of cases from the same domain, in order to get a more detailed understanding of what is involved in producing a cultural change” (238). Alas, he wraps up his chapter by generalizing the similarities of these five writers, all of whom “keep notebooks handy for when the voice of the Muse calls…usually start a working day with a word, a phrase, or an image” and their “work evolves on its own rather than the author’s intentions” (263). What’s more, if one does not maintain the two processes of trying not to “miss the message whispered by the unconscious and at the same time force it into a suitable form” … “the flow or writing dries up.” Well, this is certainly a daunting threat, since, “after a few hours the tremendous concentration required for this balancing act becomes so exhausting that the writer has to change gears and focus on something else, something mundane” (264).
I still have to wonder what other methods are out there for cultural change? I admit that I do not write fiction everyday. In some ways, I will consider myself a failure until I do. I also try to acknowledge that I’m in a demanding program while I work a virtual full-time job. But I know Elmaz did this, too. And she confided that she writes all day some four times a week on her writing days. Oh, the dedication that can inspire! I seriously doubt that after a few hours, she finds she can do nothing else but turn to the mundane.
Having not yet responded to Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, I was eager to dive into this chapter, dedicated to the specific creative experiences of novelists and poets. I often find interviews with writers on craft to be some of the more inspiring access points to a writer’s unique world. For how else can we get any closer?
I believe it was Orhan Pamuk who once said writing “is a commitment to being alone in a room.” We all experience this isolation, and we all attempt to release honest renderings of our imagination, experience, and the characters we create and emotions we invoke. Attempts to communicate these other worlds that often spring from solitude seem inherently challenged. We cannot sit by the side of the writer, perch on the edge of his/her desk, and simply observe. So, we read interviews, we read textbooks on creativity, and we engage in dialogue with other representatives of our field. Perhaps when we’re fortunate enough to publish, we communicate with members of our audience. All the while, there is the voice of our critic to contend with, who tells us when to cut, when to start over, and hopefully, finally, when to rest in completion.
I did take away helpful snippets from “The Domain of the Word,” and I’d like to begin forming this response with those. The first point seems obvious, when Csikszentmihalyi writes: “we all write to a certain extent, so the craft of professional writers is not abstruse” (237). This is true. We all need to communicate with one another, despite our professional pursuits, especially today, when so much business is conducted through email. Our verbal communication skills feel like they may only continue to atrophy when one can resort to an email/text rather than a phone call or face-to-face conversation. This digression is meant to reiterate that writing skills are perhaps MORE important than they have ever been before, as the written word continues to pervade the ordering of our professional and social worlds.
Csikszentmihalyi looks back at the evolution of written language. He assesses that “the oldest symbolic systems in the world are those organized around content and the rules of language,” and goes on to state: “the discovery of writing made it possible to preserve memory outside the fragile brain, the domain of the word became one of the most effective tools and greatest sources of pride for humankind” (238). And perhaps this is what writing is fundamentally about: preserving memory and experience outside of ourselves, truly releasing something from our brains through our fingers and out into the world; writing as giving birth if you will.
This exteriority is coupled with a complex interiority, for “the written word allows us to understand better what is happening within ourselves. In recording real or imaginary events, the writer arrests the evanescent stream of experience by naming its aspects and making them enduring in language. Then by reading and repeating a verse or passage of prose, we can savor the images and their meanings and thus understand more accurately how we feel and what we think” (238). This summation sounds lovely in theory, and certainly the process of expressing ourselves through writing often leads to a clarity of mind we might not have arrived at without the filter of translating thought into text. However, it sounds all too easy. Elmaz asked us an interesting question last class when it came to writing our syllabuses: Who needs to be served/satisfied here? The teacher or the student? I found this compelling as I’ve been wondering if it has to be one or the other? How do we ensure the progression of our students’ creativity and productivity and hold ourselves accountable as teachers and derive a sense of self-satisfaction from that? Are these mutually beneficial always? Exclusive on occasion?
Does the same theory hold for writing? Should we be concerned about serving/satisfying our audience? Or with achieving this personal understanding as Csikszentmihalyi suggests? Shouldn’t we focus more on living up to the authenticity of the creative piece at hand and serving THE WORK? I’m not sure that I’m motivated by understanding more accurately how I feel or what I think. At least not while I’m in process, which is what the portions of Creativity: Flow and the Psychology of Discovery and Invention that we have read seem to be concerned with thus far.
This chapter seems specifically concerned with the intersection “between the intellect and the intuition” (239), which calls to my mind a rather formal and scientific visual rendering of creativity, and one that needs to be defined by the very material at hand: language. This week in my Craft of Fiction class with Professor Powell, we discussed Aureole by Carole Maso and themes of language and desire. Our conversation culminated in the idea that many of the books we’ve read this semester illustrate where language CANNOT go, and other failings of text. For these books often challenge even the way we conventionally read a book or can be read quite differently depending on the reader’s current emotional or mental state. What happens when language does fail us? Perhaps in terms of how we express the experience of reading a particular book or perhaps here with what Csikszentmihalyi is discussing: how we write?
Mark Strand mentions patience as one element that is required when language may be failing or not conforming to the images or emotions the writer wants to express. He says of his poetry that “the secret of saying something new is to be patient,” (240), that reacting too quickly might yield a superficial cliché rather than a deeper, original meaning. He suggests that the same patience is required of the reader: “Poetry is about slowing down…There’s no rush to find out what happens in a poem. It’s really 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, the next” (240).
When Strand specifically addresses language, however, he claims that “Writers are people who have greater receptivity to language, and I think that they will see something in a phrase, or even a word, that allows them to change it or improve what was there before” (241). While I adore Strand’s work and I want to believe this, and it certainly sounds true of writers, particularly during editing phases, it sounds rather conceited to assume the writer’s receptivity is greater than any other’s. Doesn’t the perceptivity of the words we place next to one another dependent upon the receptivity of our readers? Who’s to say one is any greater than the other?
For often isn’t it the experience that precedes language that may give us something to say in the first place? I appreciated the candor of Hilde Domin and the “chronic state of psychological dislocation” (244) that appears in her work, which she presents as a kind of salvation, saying that “flight into a world of symbols saves the writer from the unbearable reality where experience is raw and unmediated” (245). Again here though, the writer seems to be the one served, and readers an after thought in order to preserve the integrity required to package a difficult experience in language.
Domin also speaks directly to my previous point about the limitations of language. As she learned up to five different languages, she observed “the same word may have a certain set of connotations in one and a very different network of meanings in another. Or that one language could express some emotions or events more accurately than another” (245). While this is not a novel observation, it suggests the borders of any one language and its ability to be the best mode of expression for a certain experience. Despite her great knowledge of multiple languages, Domin ultimately gravitated back to her native tongue, German, and that is the language where she found her utmost refuge for “she could not live where that language was not spoken” (245). This further suggests something about how we absorb spoken language as well. Perhaps it’s never enough simply to push words in one direction, away from ourselves; so much also depends on the ways we take in those words (reading is relevant here, too).
I was flabbergasted to have it confirmed that Domin’s fair instinct to concentrate “on the merits of the writing instead of the personality or politics of the writer” when judging literary prizes so starkly contrasts with the way it is commonly done in her experience. How then do we take the field to task? How can it be fair that politics should count more than the writing itself? I truly don’t understand how “jealous and antagonistic critics” are permitted “to silence the artist’s voice” (246). I understand the dynamics of competition, but I don’t understand the places jealousy or antagonism have earned in the field. How does that serve anyone? Finally, I appreciate the time and practical advice Domin gives to aspiring writers she believes she can help, so I reiterate it here: “mainly to simplify, to cut out whatever is redundant, flabby, unnecessary” (247).
Madeleine L’Engle seems an example of a writer who could have been silenced altogether by a field that did not want to let her into the domain, rejecting her manuscript A Wrinkle in Time as many times as it did, saying it didn’t fit neatly into conventional notions of genre or either adult or YA prose. While success didn’t arrive until after 40, admirably, L’Engle “was never tempted to compromise her vision in order to play it safe” (257). While “the enjoyment of writing comes first” for L’Engle, it’s soon followed by “a sense of responsibility for what she writes” (255), which seems a conscious serving of both writer and audience, and is why her stories preserve “some kind of hope” (255).
As for Richard Stern, I don’t mean to belittle his literary accomplishments, but he sounds like one more Caucasian male who had the good fortune to study at Iowa (among other Caucasian males) and who began to publish prolifically in the mid-20th century. Yet, he too, it seems, must “overcome the pain of existence” (261) through writing. While his observations earned their place in the domain, I’m not sure how relevant his personal story is to aspiring writers, many of whom will undoubtedly be of different age, race, gender, or socio-economic bracket (I found it interesting that Mark Strand was the only writer to mention the financial constraints brought on by career choice).
So does Csikszentmihalyi fulfill this chapter’s hypothesis: to present “a number of cases from the same domain, in order to get a more detailed understanding of what is involved in producing a cultural change” (238). Alas, he wraps up his chapter by generalizing the similarities of these five writers, all of whom “keep notebooks handy for when the voice of the Muse calls…usually start a working day with a word, a phrase, or an image” and their “work evolves on its own rather than the author’s intentions” (263). What’s more, if one does not maintain the two processes of trying not to “miss the message whispered by the unconscious and at the same time force it into a suitable form” … “the flow or writing dries up.” Well, this is certainly a daunting threat, since, “after a few hours the tremendous concentration required for this balancing act becomes so exhausting that the writer has to change gears and focus on something else, something mundane” (264).
I still have to wonder what other methods are out there for cultural change? I admit that I do not write fiction everyday. In some ways, I will consider myself a failure until I do. I also try to acknowledge that I’m in a demanding program while I work a virtual full-time job. But I know Elmaz did this, too. And she confided that she writes all day some four times a week on her writing days. Oh, the dedication that can inspire! I seriously doubt that after a few hours, she finds she can do nothing else but turn to the mundane.
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