Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Diving Into Wrecks: Revision as Response in the Hypoxic Creative Writing Class

Dawn, Ryder, Me, Ching-In
Hello again...

I am yet again presenting at a conference this coming weekend - woo hoo! This time its the Creative Writing and Innovative Pedagogies Conference in Warrensburg, Missouri. I created a prezi to go along with it if you're interested (so much prettier than PowerPoint...).


Meanwhile, enjoy pics of me and my girlz at the Steel Pen Conference last weekend. We rocked that panel all right...



The Hypoxic Creative Writing Workshop
Diving Into Wrecks, or Response by Revision
“The traditional workshop regards the written work as one product always already complete and finished. The environment is hostile by definition, and the gag rule that seeks to defuse tension actually forces the writer to anticipate and confront all possible criticism before he or she even gets to the workshop. Ironically, workshop, though the term connotes working on a work in progress, actually produces for its consideration a finished product.”

“A workshop should be a generative space not a curatorial one. Other classes can teach how a story works via means of models. An hypoxic workshop teaches by doing. It is about process not product. Just saying. You don’t have to order textbooks for this kind of workshop. You are not “norming” your students. Their work is the textbook.”
…Michael Martone on the Hypoxic Workshop

The principles expressed here reflect my own teaching philosophy on the importance of revision, of seeing a written work as always in process, always alive and fluid, not done. Thanksgiving turkeys are done. Stories never are.
But part of that philosophy also involves a relationship with the reader, for whom writing exists. Especially in a world where students are given feedback in the form of grades every semester, and where they expect that grade to be a reflection of their performance. Students may not enjoy giving feedback, or critiquing…on which the traditional workshop is based. But they get more satisfaction in writing if they know there will be some response by a reader. One of my mentors told me that feedback was important, to let those with talent set themselves apart from others. I don’t know about that…but I do think that a piece of writing really exists somewhere between the writer and the reader.
The issue with the traditional creative writing workshop is that in the typical undergraduate classroom, it means that students spend the overwhelming majority of their time during the semester critiquing or reviewing creative work instead of actually writing. The hypoxic workshop seeks to increase the amount of writing practice, and reduce the time devoted to critique to only minutes per class. I’ve reimagined some writing exercises with that spirit in mind, while preserving the element of feedback and reader response we’ve traditionally defined as critique. In these exercises, the writing is the feedback. Students read each other’s work and respond by rewriting it. The emphasis is not so much on “constructive criticism,” but on what kind of vision and inspiration a readers draws from the work.

Exercises for Collaborative Revision: Response by Revision

1)      Choose your own adventure…(fiction)
Reader chooses an alternate ending, or alternate beginning if preferred, for the story, removing the writer’s original idea and changing the outcome.

2)      Fan fiction…(fiction)
The reader writes a scenes that exists offstage, or is not featured in the writer’s story, and includes the characters designed by the writer. This can be just a random exploration of the characters, and the scene need not necessarily push the narrative forward.

3)      Rearranging…(poetry)
The reader will rearrange the structure of the writer’s poem or poems. Students can take out all the line breaks, transforming the poem into a prose form. They can also cut and paste the lines into different order, insert spacing or line breaks where none exist, or reform stanzas.

4)      Mad libbing the poem…(poetry)
The reader replaces all nouns in the poem that are not sensory images (can’t be heard, seen, smelled, tasted, touched) with blanks. The same can be done with overfamiliar images, cliché’s and word packages, or with non-energetic verbs and “thought verbs.” Fill in the blanks with nouns that represent concrete images, or active, energetic verbs. These can be chosen at random, resulting in something silly or bizarre, OR the reader can select words and phrases that they genuinely feel would work for the poet’s purpose.

5)      Borrowing the recipe…(poetry or fiction)
The writer shares the “recipe” (see below) that was used for the story/poem in addition to the work itself. The response then is to use the same recipe to write something else.

In the hypoxic class, students will write a poem and a fictional scene twice a week. This would be processed as a document posted as a journal in a digital format, such as through Blackboard or other electronic location. As Martone envisions, students learn to write by writing. However, since it is indisputable that better writing comes from reading and lots of it, I would also argue for the preservation of the assigned reading in the creative writing class. This tends to be an epic failure in the traditional format as well, since students either don’t read it, or vehemently resist commenting on it in discussion. In the hypoxic workshop centered on revision, students will write in response to published writers, not by critiquing or analyzing their work, but by revising it. For an early unit in which reading assignments are incorporated, students would continue to journal using published poems and stories as scaffolding for their own writing.

Exercises Inspired by Assigned Readings: Permission to Plagiarize
Poetry:
1)      Replace all the images that appear in an assigned poem, and replace them with your own. For inspiration, you may go to Pinterest and use images that come up on the feed at random.
2)      “Scaffold” a poem (thanks to Heather Sellers). Copy and paste a poem, replace the language with its generic category (place, person, animal, vegetable, mineral, etc…). Then replace those parts with an image, word or phrase that fits the category.
3)      Write a poem that repeats your favorite 3-5 lines or phrases from the reading at least 3-5 times.
4)      Turn a poem into a fictional scene.

Fiction:
1)      Put yourself in one of the stories as a character and write your scene.
2)      Turn a story into a fraudulent artifact: a letter, diary entries, or crime notes.
3)      Turn a story into a poem by cutting everything out but a list of images.
4)      Write what you think is the “recipe” for one of the assigned stories. Use that recipe to write your own story.

Addendum: Assigning Creative Assignments with “Recipes” 101
Another roadblock to success in the hypoxic creative writing class might be inspiration. Students who fall behind the frenetic pace may do so for lack of ideas. But using the principle of revising as response, which involves repurposing existing writing into something new, exercises can incorporate constraints that supply students with direction. These constraints might require students to seek language from other locations to supply. This might involve asking students to follow what Heather Sellers would call a “recipe.” My version of the recipe has the advantage of allowing students the opportunity to come up with their own ideas, while at the same time giving them a scaffold to work with, and getting them used to the idea of borrowing language and structure from other people’s work.
A “recipe” for poetry would include not only line, syllable, and language constraints set by forms like sonnet and sestina, but also would ask students to seek outside help and inspiration, as from other texts, for their work. Fiction exercises would encourage a version of completeness by limited the narrative to a scene or scenes that cover the space of one hour. Beyond that, students may come up with their own recipes that fill in the following blanks: a) idea/intention, b) borrowed material/inspiration, c) constraints/limits, and d) research done. 
For instance:
A poetry recipe:
a)      Extended metaphor for a social climber
b)      A recipe for kudzu jelly
c)      Sonnet form
d)     Wikipedia on kudzu, kudzu news articles, kudzu recipes
A fiction recipe:
a)      Snake Pit: my high school reunion
b)      Class reunion games found online: esp. “match the artist and song title”
c)      Five paragraphs: each headed by a song…action must take no longer than the song is and must relate to memories of the song
d)     Song lengths, song lyrics, clothing styles and films from my high school years
You can give the students parts of the recipe and let them fill in the rest at first until they are comfortable with building their own. Some students may complain about the limits this places on their creative expression. They may come in with a pre-conceived story about vampires they just have to write. But in the end, they may find these limitations and the freedom to borrow language and content helps them realize their story.
A vampire fiction recipe:
a)      Death Scene: becoming a vampire
b)      The Lost Boys dir. Joel Schumacher (bridge scene)
c)      Story begins with jumping off a bridge or building, ends when you would have hit the ground when you were mortal. In the same moment, you become a vampire.
d)     Physics of falling velocity, sky diving videos and descriptions
Students tend to have more issues coming up with the right language than with the original inspiration for writing. They struggle with what words to use, and therefore fall back on cliché and abstractions. In the spirit of repurposing the texts of others, you can make part of a recipe include language from the assigned readings, or from other locations, as in the following recipes.
1)      Make a list of the food you ate this week, and the Google each one, and make a poem using the language that comes up about that food.
2)      Find an advice document online, copy it and paste it into your doc. Take a word that keeps repeating and replace it with a word of your own.
3)      Write an ode to a celebrity made up of language from the comments that appear in blogs about them.
4)      Choose three frames in your favorite comic/graphic novel, and write a fictional scene of what’s happening.
5)      Write a scene from the bible in a modern setting.
6)      Write a fictional scene retelling a scene from your favorite film.



Monday, October 5, 2015

Keeping it Short to Get It Published: My Steel Pen Presentation

Happy Halloween from Halen
This weekend, I will be traveling to Merrillville, Indiana for the Indiana Writers Consortium Steel Pen Creative Writers' Conference where I will be delivering a presentation on ways to boost your publishing potential by writing shorter stories. You know I love flash...and it does publish easy! After the conference, I and my fellow panel members will be reading our work at the Merillville Radisson as "Milwaukee's Best." Love it! And I'm so excited to be reunited with my beloved Dawn Tefft and my old Milwaukee pals Ryder Collins and Ching-In Chen. Miss those ladies!

Here is the paper I'll be giving (or summing up, given the time constraints.) A bibliography is below as well...

Also find pics of my new nephew, young Strawberry, whether you want them or not.


The Very Very Short Story: An Editor’s View
As an editor working at cream city review, few things produced more joy and relief than clicking on a submission file and finding a story of less than 1000 words. Editors place word limits on fiction submissions because most are pressed for time, and the commitment devoted to the 25 and even 30-page stories that roll in feels like too much. I can tell you that I gave any story five pages to seduce me before rejecting it. However, if a story was four pages or less, I would not only finish reading it, but if it was at all passable, it went into the slush pile – just in case we had extra pages for fiction. Teensy stories like these not only represent a softer time commitment, but a cheaper printing price as well. These are the lower-order considerations that often take over in the frantic mind of an editor – another reason why you shouldn’t take rejection so seriously.
But there are less merely pragmatic reasons the teensy story is sought after and appreciated. Flash fiction is an emerging form in the literary community. It represents a boundary between poem and short story in an age when literary journals are increasingly seeking work that not only represents emerging forms, but blurs the lines of existing genres. It’s also ideally suited for online formats when most literary magazines are publishing online components. Indeed, if a microfiction, flash, or short-short doesn’t make it to print with a journal, it is still likely to be chosen for the online version because of its length. And I would argue that while print gets all the prestige, the online content is more likely to actually be read.
Besides, length is not indicator or literary merit. Keeping a story on the short side, I would argue, is more challenging than working in longer forms. To establish conflict and resolution in such a small space, not to mention carry the burden of completeness that comes with narrative prose, is difficult, and many fiction writers are intimidated by it. But there are certain rules that a shorter length allows a writer to break. For instance, many of the best short-shorts don’t name their characters – and character development is minimal. It seems that fully fleshing out a character – their past experiences, the origins of their present situation, relationships with other people – becomes less crucial when the space devoted to the character is so small. Readers who aren’t asked to spend 20 pages on a character, don’t need to know the character’s life story. What they need is the kind of detail that does not take up space. Their favorite flavor popsicle, their crooked skirt, their allergy to flannel – that sort of thing. Concrete images that do the work of many words. In fact, the expectations of flash resemble those of poetry. Gaps in sequence of events and fragmented sentence structure work well in flash, as they would in poetry. This is not to say that there are no constraints in flash. In fact, writing a good piece of flash is almost entirely about setting certain limitations on the story – other than length.

Building the Story in Miniature: Some Exercises
One: Work Under a Strict Algorithm (Set of constraints that programs the work.) Take for example Michael Martone’s “Diagnostic Drift,” which is made up of a short paragraph for each miscarriage experienced by the narrator as his wife. Then there’s Gordon Lish’s “Fear: Four Examples” which contains four very short episodes in which a father experiences fear. In Opal Palmer Adisa’s “Fruit Series,” very short paragraphs are headed with the name of the fruit, and an emotion, realization, or brief action occur in which each fruit plays a role.  My favorite algorithm though is used in Robert Olen Butler’s “Seven Pieces of Severance.” There are seven paragraphs, each describing the narrator’s experience of being beheaded, each reflecting the amount of time a person is said to remain conscious after having their head severed. You can use numbers to guide your prose (bible verses, numbers in nature, athletic jersey numbers), or propose of alliterative formula for language (include all words with a certain letter combination, or completely avoid certain consonants, follow the sound patterns reflected in someone’s name…what have you.)
Two: Focus on a particular image or set of images. (Recall the “lint” of memory.)
Ann Beattie’s “Snow” is just a collection of images she remembers from a particular winter. Even the actions, that which “happens,” are told as moments of imagery. Yasunari Kawabata’s “The White Horse” is the story of a young man’s obsession with an image associated with a childhood love. Instead of a chronological account of their relationship, which was fleeting, we get this white horse who occasionally enters the protagonist’s mind’s eye, telling us just enough that we are moved. You might also simply describe a photograph as in Paul Lisicky’s “Snapshot, Harvey Cedars:1948,” in which a single image contains an entire tragic story.
Three: Focus on an object. (A thing is the star of the show.)
 In “The Paring Knife” by Michael Oppenheimer, a couple shares a moment of remembrance over a piece of silverware that ends up being all that we need to see the unfolding of their current love for each other. Tim O’Brien’s “Stockings” and “The Sock” by Lydia Davis are able to create the same amount of depth of character with those objects. Objects sometimes contain for us a huge amount of memory. Flash can do the same by devoting that small space to an object that has that meaning.
Four: Make a list. (Verbs or nouns.)
“Girl” by Jamaica Kincaid for instance is a list of commands reflecting a daughter’s place in Caribbean culture. There’s also a story called “How to Set a House on Fire” by Stace Budzko, also written in second person as a set of instructions. “Subtotals” by Greg Burnham is structured as a kind of inventory that lists meaningful items and events and totals them, so that a numeral is part of each sentences. So it need not be a “to-do” kind of list. It can be a list of moments, of contents, of items in someone’s room, a receipt – there are a lot of possibilities. I think fiction writers naturally list things anyway as they are working up a story – at least I do.
Five: Create a fraudulent artifact. (Using constraints of common forms.)
One way to experiment with form while usefully constraining a short-short story is to write in the form of common everyday textual forms, like obituaries, crime notes, recipes, playbooks, invitations, letters (like “Letter to a Funeral Parlor” by Lydia Davis), acknowledgements (Contributor’s Note” by Michael Martone), diaries, notes left on the fridge, advertisements, fan mail, newspaper articles. One of my favorites is “Class Notes” by Lucas Cooper, which is essentially a newsletter for a class reunion, in which an entire class of people and their lives in brief are listed in both ordinary and unexpected ways.
Six: Write only what happens in a short time period. (Story of an hour or less.)
In Kate Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour,” for instance, we get exactly that – one hour after a woman learns of her husband’s death. Michael Martone’s long-titled story, “The Mayor of the Sister City Speaks to the Chamber of Commerce in Klamath Falls Oregon, on a Night in December 1976,” covers the amount of time between the beginning of the mayor’s speech and the moment the narrator stops listening just one sentence in. In Robert Kelly’s “Rosary,” we get the momentary and fleeting exchange between a man sitting by a window and the woman he sees outside as she walks past. If you not only leave out the character’s past, remaining in the present, but also cover only those events which occur in a single moment, you might surprise yourself with what you can do. Focus on images and emotions and let them do the work of story for you.


Repurposing Old Stories as Flash: Some Methods
If you have a story or stories that you’ve been hanging onto that haven’t found a place anywhere, you might consider melting them down until the core of the story, or the most memorable moment (in my student’s papers, I call it the Dragon’s Egg.) Often, we begin to write around a particular scene or moment that first entered our minds. We supply that moment with background, give lives to the characters involved, and then place the moment somewhere within a narrative arc that includes other scenes which came before and/or after it.
If the story doesn’t place, consider returning the story to that moment and that moment alone. See what it looks like if you take out all the flesh from the fruit of the story and let the seed be the story. You may also find the Dragon’s Egg came after the original inspiration, but either way, if you can make that moment stand alone, it may become a perfectly acceptable piece of flash. When I read stories in lit journals now, I often find myself zeroing in on a scene that I think could or even should stand alone.
Example: “Bad Girl” by Leslie Pietrzyk in River Styx vol. 94
The beginning is a little cryptic, but we know enough to appreciate the very descriptive scene that follows. You can see too, that the line at the end of this excerpt works well as the kind of tah-dah ending that flash tends to privilege.
If you’re at a loss as far as what might go and what might stay in your story, there’s an idea that is similar to a suggestion made by Michael Martone in the Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Flash Fiction. Martone, a speaker at this conference, is famous for titles that are almost as long as his stories. He suggests taking lines from a story and turning them into titles, then writing a paragraph-long story for each and every line, producing a huge pile of flash pieces instead of one long story.
What I would suggest is comparable, but it’s more a method inspired by the way in which flash resembles poetry and much as fiction. I would even admit that the difference between prose poetry and flash sometimes seem completely negligible to me. Again, when I read work in lit journals, I find myself imagining what a poem would be like in paragraph form, or what a paragraph would look like divided into line breaks.
Try this:
First, turn the story into a poem by inserting a line break after each period and/or comma in the story. Then, trim off as much as you can so that it looks like a poem (removing abstract or unspecific verbiage, “to be” verbs and the like). You might even consider imposing a kind of meter or form: making it into a ghazal or sestina by repeating certain language, or making an abecedarian, or a series of sonnets out of it. Remove anything that does not fit the form or that does not represent strong, specific, vivid imagery. Embrace the sentence fragment! Finally, return the periods and/or commas to what’s left and rebuild the paragraphs. What you’re left with may read like a poem to you; so does most flash. When I tried this with a piece of mine that I’ve had trouble placing, I reduced a story that was already only four pages to a two-page story. What I found was that I was able to identify those moments where I had cluttered the text with unnecessary words and phrases. I could also easily see parts of the story that didn’t lend as much power as others – character details that were distracting or extraneous – that the story simply didn’t need to be effective. Now that I’ve cut the story in half, my chances of getting it placed have likely doubled.

Bibliography
Bausch, Richard and R.V. Cassill. The Norton Anthology of Short Fiction 8th Ed. New York:
Norton, 2015.
Masih, Tara Ed. The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Writing Flash Fiction: Tips from Editors,     Teachers, and Writers in the Field. Brookline: Rose Metal, 2009.
Pietrzyk, Leslie. “Bad Girl.” River Styx. 94(2015).
Shapard, Robert and James Thomas. Flash Fiction Forward: 80 Very Short Stories. London:
Norton, 2006.
-         New Sudden Fiction: Short-Short Stories from American and Beyond. New York: Norton, 2007.
-         Sudden Fiction: American Short-Short Stories. Salt Lake City: Peregrine Smith, 1986.
Shields, David and Matthew Vollmer. Fakes: An Anthology of Pseudo-Interviews, Faux
Lectures, Quasi-Letters, “Found” Texts and Other Fraudulent Artifacts. New York:
Norton, 2012.
Stern, Jerome. Microfiction: An Anthology of Really Short Stories. New York: Norton, 1996.
Thomas, James, Denise Thomas and Tom Hazuka. Flash Fiction: 72 Very Short Stories. New
York: Norton, 1992.

Flash Fiction Markets:
Smokelong Quarterly: www.smokelong.com
Postcard Poems and Prose: postcardpoemsandprose.wordpress.com
Glimmer Train Very Short Fiction Award: glimmertrain.stores.yahoo.net/veryshort.html
Fiction Southeast Ernest Hemingway Flash Fiction Prize: fictionsoutheast.org/ernest-hemingway-flash-fiction-award/
Monkeybicycle: monkeybicycle.net
River Styx Schlafly Beer Micro-Brew Micro-Fiction Contest:  www.riverstyx.org/contests/index.php