Story Time
I kind of lied in yesterday's post. I said that Lorelei is my number-one anxiety producer at the moment, but I have another simmering worry that is probably, to normal people, laughable. And I just didn't feel like getting into it yesterday. But seeing as how it's the last thing I think about at night, and I'm dreaming of it thereafter, well, let's just get it out there.
This class I'm taking--the one on short stories, the one I had to be accepted into--has been oh so very educational and super scary. On Tuesday, I handed in my short story and this coming Tuesday, I'll be at the whipping post.
I've done workshops before, but lord have mercy, this particular format is intense. And, I have to admit, facking brilliant. First, everyone is scary smart, knows the mechanics and craft of writing, is WAY older than me (except for one woman), and is coming to each session incredibly prepared.
Next, the instructor does not want to waste time on praise or generating warm fuzzies for the author. This is not a workshop where, when delivering your critique of a story, you soften a blow by pointing out something good followed by criticism. That wastes precious time and attention. No, only the story matters. Only improving the story matters. You want to feel good about your story, send it to your mom and have her tell you how clever you are with them words. (Not surprisingly, my mom is one of only three people [Chris and my friend Lauren are the other two] who read my story, up until I submitted it.)
Third, the author is not permitted to speak. After he or she reads one or two pages to get the class back into and re-familiarized with the story, he or she is expected to stay silent, preferably NOT with arms crossed or tears running down his or her face. No explaining, no asking for clarification, no DEFENDING, no agreeing or disagreeing, nada. The brilliance of this is that it frees the other ten people to really get at the story as though the author is not there, discussing among themselves, arguing a little, and really getting to the heart of where the problem areas are and clearing a path of how to substantially improve the story. After about 25 minutes of flagellation, the author gets one minute to ask for clarification or other questions.
It is BRTUAL.
And my turn is next week.
Everyone is kind, though. There's an understanding of the pain being inflicted. The author is, after all, offered an extra paper cup of wine to help endure it. (Unlike many, I'll be driving home to The Sticks and not taking metro, so I'll be sticking with just my single cup over the course of 2.5 hours.)
I've decided that I can endure the critiques. After all, this is an amazing opportunity. Ten smart, thoughtful people are going to work on my story this week and then tear it apart on Tuesday, putting in a lot of effort to HELP ME make the story better. Because this opportunity is so golden, so rare, it is why the instructor doesn't want to waste time on gushing on what's working well. Just the crappy parts, the missteps get attention.
But I'm worried. I'm worried they'll hate it, I'm worried I'll cry, I'm worried that I'll discover that no, I really CAN'T write anything "literary"--just snarky blog posts and whatnot.
Also, the other two stories we'll be discussing (we do three per workshop/class) are, like, good. Really good. Stunningly good. Complete joys to read, aside from my realization that MINE WILL TOTALLY SUCK IN COMPARISON.
And that's the kernel of my unease, isn't it? Being publicly exposed as a bad writer?
Anyway. Since submitting my story, I've read and reread and re-reread my piece, cringing at spots I now think aren't quite right, worrying about a phrase that seems overdone, hating how abruptly I ended the story. I'm trying to see it how I think they might see it, which is not a healthy way to create.
So, I've stopped reading my piece. And I wait for Tuesday.
This class I'm taking--the one on short stories, the one I had to be accepted into--has been oh so very educational and super scary. On Tuesday, I handed in my short story and this coming Tuesday, I'll be at the whipping post.
I've done workshops before, but lord have mercy, this particular format is intense. And, I have to admit, facking brilliant. First, everyone is scary smart, knows the mechanics and craft of writing, is WAY older than me (except for one woman), and is coming to each session incredibly prepared.
Next, the instructor does not want to waste time on praise or generating warm fuzzies for the author. This is not a workshop where, when delivering your critique of a story, you soften a blow by pointing out something good followed by criticism. That wastes precious time and attention. No, only the story matters. Only improving the story matters. You want to feel good about your story, send it to your mom and have her tell you how clever you are with them words. (Not surprisingly, my mom is one of only three people [Chris and my friend Lauren are the other two] who read my story, up until I submitted it.)
Third, the author is not permitted to speak. After he or she reads one or two pages to get the class back into and re-familiarized with the story, he or she is expected to stay silent, preferably NOT with arms crossed or tears running down his or her face. No explaining, no asking for clarification, no DEFENDING, no agreeing or disagreeing, nada. The brilliance of this is that it frees the other ten people to really get at the story as though the author is not there, discussing among themselves, arguing a little, and really getting to the heart of where the problem areas are and clearing a path of how to substantially improve the story. After about 25 minutes of flagellation, the author gets one minute to ask for clarification or other questions.
It is BRTUAL.
And my turn is next week.
Everyone is kind, though. There's an understanding of the pain being inflicted. The author is, after all, offered an extra paper cup of wine to help endure it. (Unlike many, I'll be driving home to The Sticks and not taking metro, so I'll be sticking with just my single cup over the course of 2.5 hours.)
I've decided that I can endure the critiques. After all, this is an amazing opportunity. Ten smart, thoughtful people are going to work on my story this week and then tear it apart on Tuesday, putting in a lot of effort to HELP ME make the story better. Because this opportunity is so golden, so rare, it is why the instructor doesn't want to waste time on gushing on what's working well. Just the crappy parts, the missteps get attention.
But I'm worried. I'm worried they'll hate it, I'm worried I'll cry, I'm worried that I'll discover that no, I really CAN'T write anything "literary"--just snarky blog posts and whatnot.
Also, the other two stories we'll be discussing (we do three per workshop/class) are, like, good. Really good. Stunningly good. Complete joys to read, aside from my realization that MINE WILL TOTALLY SUCK IN COMPARISON.
And that's the kernel of my unease, isn't it? Being publicly exposed as a bad writer?
Anyway. Since submitting my story, I've read and reread and re-reread my piece, cringing at spots I now think aren't quite right, worrying about a phrase that seems overdone, hating how abruptly I ended the story. I'm trying to see it how I think they might see it, which is not a healthy way to create.
So, I've stopped reading my piece. And I wait for Tuesday.
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