(no subject)
So, for those of you that don't already know, Cacee and I are toying with the idea of taking an undergraduate workshop in the fall. There's a point to this...one that I keep having to remind myself of. The creative writers, in my opinion, have the best of both worlds. They have the workshops that teach them to hone their writing, to read others' writing with a critical eye. They have the lit classes to teach them how to read, period (at least I *think* that's what those lit classes are supposed to do). We lit people miss out on that first part. Not that many of us will ever write jack, much less anything worthy of publication, either because we suck and are smart enough to know it, or because it's just not why we're here in the first place. But the important part, I think, is the reading with a critical eye. Those lit classes...they don't do that for us. We talk about what the writer is doing, why, and how. We debate the meaning of every text we encounter. We read criticism and (ack) theory and sickeningly long papers about topics less than 1% of the population gives a shit about and then off we go to the next lit class.
But we never talk much about whether the writer does a good job of writing. We never talk much about how the writer could've made it better, where the text itself is weak, why, exactly, the story is a great story in the first place. It's just assumed that if it's on our syllabus, it's good, or important, or both, and generally, I think that's a safe assumption. But it's also assumed that enough exposure to great literature will teach us to recognize other great literature once we're out there on our own and I don't think that's such a safe assumption. Maybe I'm just a little too dense, but my criteria, even after all these years of "training," are still the same. Do I like the text I'm reading? If yes, good. If no, bad. Simple enough equation and it works just fine for me, but I'm not foolish enough to believe that'll cut it once I'm done with my degrees and getting paid to mold young minds.
So, that leaves me here, knowing I'll be up to my eyes in thesis next semester and trying to get a nice head start. Sitting in front of the computer for the third time in as many weeks, working on the third page of the third story I've tried so far (these threes are killing me lately). Up at one when I'll have to get up at seven, trying to write. And I've discovered one thing.
Writing sucks.
I've been writing stories since well before I could spell worth a damn and it's always been something I've loved. Ask me what I'd do if I could do anything in the world and I'd say, "Write." I see little glimmers of potential in myself often enough (read: once or twice a year) to keep me toying with it, but it's always just that with me. Toying. It's never serious. Until now, that is. Now, I've told myself I'll get serious because, well, it's one of the Barthelme brothers that's going to read this story. And of all the stories I've written over the years (which I couldn't even count if I tried), only three or four have been read and those only by three or four people (mainly my mother, who doesn't count because, well, she's the same woman that thinks I'm one of the most beautiful women in the world). And it's dawned on me that I'm going to have ten or twelve people reading this thing...people I don't even know. And they're all going to sit there and CRITICIZE me. ME.
Oh my God.
What the hell was I thinking?
But we never talk much about whether the writer does a good job of writing. We never talk much about how the writer could've made it better, where the text itself is weak, why, exactly, the story is a great story in the first place. It's just assumed that if it's on our syllabus, it's good, or important, or both, and generally, I think that's a safe assumption. But it's also assumed that enough exposure to great literature will teach us to recognize other great literature once we're out there on our own and I don't think that's such a safe assumption. Maybe I'm just a little too dense, but my criteria, even after all these years of "training," are still the same. Do I like the text I'm reading? If yes, good. If no, bad. Simple enough equation and it works just fine for me, but I'm not foolish enough to believe that'll cut it once I'm done with my degrees and getting paid to mold young minds.
So, that leaves me here, knowing I'll be up to my eyes in thesis next semester and trying to get a nice head start. Sitting in front of the computer for the third time in as many weeks, working on the third page of the third story I've tried so far (these threes are killing me lately). Up at one when I'll have to get up at seven, trying to write. And I've discovered one thing.
Writing sucks.
I've been writing stories since well before I could spell worth a damn and it's always been something I've loved. Ask me what I'd do if I could do anything in the world and I'd say, "Write." I see little glimmers of potential in myself often enough (read: once or twice a year) to keep me toying with it, but it's always just that with me. Toying. It's never serious. Until now, that is. Now, I've told myself I'll get serious because, well, it's one of the Barthelme brothers that's going to read this story. And of all the stories I've written over the years (which I couldn't even count if I tried), only three or four have been read and those only by three or four people (mainly my mother, who doesn't count because, well, she's the same woman that thinks I'm one of the most beautiful women in the world). And it's dawned on me that I'm going to have ten or twelve people reading this thing...people I don't even know. And they're all going to sit there and CRITICIZE me. ME.
Oh my God.
What the hell was I thinking?