Monday, November 24, 2014
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
I want to talk about what amazed you about these stories. For me, the striking part of fiction is the "wow" factor, that moment where the story surprised you despite the fact that all the groundwork for the ending was laid out. Was it the odd way that Lisa reacted to the father in "Encounters With Unexpected Animals"? Or were you more attracted to the AA stories in "Chapter Two"?
For me, it was the point of view of the narrator in "Malaria." I was always told that you shouldn't have a passive narrator, and at first, I read Orlando as being passive. Here he was visiting a family that was a novelty to him, coming in as an observer. Of course, my fiction senses are tingling. I'm panicking. What is this guy supposed to do? How is his presence significant?
For me, watching Orlando develop into an active character in this story is something that I want to take note of and put in my writing toolbox. Though he doesn't converse with George much, he has the pivotal conversation about his growing illness, how he's losing himself, and is able to use that information to go on his own journey. Though at the end of the story Orlando admits that he cannot tell George's story, I feel that George's story has altered Orlando in a significant way, even down to how he perceives his own casual sickness.
What about you? Did you find anything in these stories that you would like to steal? Come prepared tomorrow to talk about what you would like to take from these stories. And I encourage to attempt some exercises based on what you responded to.
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
If, as Amy Bloom says in her introduction to Grace Paley, "There is poetry and character, melody and dialogue in Grace Paley's work; there's not much plot," then how do we think more about structure's role? What is the mechanism by which Paley's stories hold together? What the hinges? What the structural planes?
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Wednesday, October 22, 2014
If I were to describe the plot of one of George Saunders’ stories to someone who’d never heard of him before, such as: When a family purchases a quartet of Semplica Girls (four young women from disadvantaged situations attached by wire through the brain as a lawn display) to please their eldest daughter for her birthday, things go wrong when one morning the family awakes to find the SGs stolen, and their financial situation in dire straits—I would get very strange looks. How can such an absurd story be meaningful? In an interview with Heather Sappenfield, Saunders said “The idea that absurdism and humanity might not, or should not, exist in the same story—I don’t feel that way. They’re not different. When Hamlet’s father comes back as a ghost, it’s totally perfect and necessary—the best possible way of objectifying the actual psychological reality of the moment. Plus it kicks ass.” Saunders claims that absurdism in a story not only doesn’t diminish its attempt at meaning, but enhances it. Do you agree with Saunders on this? Is there a place for absurdism in a story trying to grasp at humanity? Do you find that his stories, as bizarre as the situations are, touch at something innately human that we can all relate to?
Aimee Bender in her introduction to Saunders in 3x33 says, “…he does not spare his characters, and his dialogue is heart-sinking and embarrassingly familiar. I talk like that. I know a million people who talk like that. I watch those shows. We are these people. And in the reflection, ugly as it may be, inside the wince, is a clarity. How does he do it?” Saunders somehow manages to make us relate to the weird worlds he creates, despite the fact that the places and the situations seem so entirely fictional. Do you find Saunders’ stories believable? And if so, how is he able to make them so believable in the midst of such strangeness?
Saunders goes on to say “I put a so called ‘absurd element’ in because I think it is the best way of describing the way life really is, and really feels, when we can momentarily shuck off our habituation. Or to be more honest, I put it in there because it seems enlivening at the moment. I am trying to kick ass. It shakes things up, or raises the stakes.” Could you see yourself using ‘absurd elements’ as Saunders does to raise the stakes and ‘kick ass’ in your own stories?
Monday, October 20, 2014
Don't just look at what he's writing about. Look at your own work. Push yourself to look for similarities in plot, character, meaning, etc. in the stories you've written. Are you able to find any? If so, are you surprised by what you found? What do you think it means when writers tend to write about similar things? What does this say about them as a writer or just as a person in general? When a writer doesn't deal with their obsessions in their work, does that still make them a good writer? Are we meant to write about our obsessions? Discuss, too, how different White's stories still are even when they share some aspects. Think about how perhaps these particular obsessions or similarities may be what is linking all of the stories together as a collection.
Note: Mention stories from the first half of the book, if they support this idea, but try to focus on the second half of the book. Besides this, feel free to choose which stories you mention. We are not forcing you to focus on any one in particular.
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
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This sometimes stark, sometimes lush natural beauty is like water for the soul. Necessary element without which the soul dries up, becomes brittle, unseeing, dead. The vital connection is gone. I am so lucky to be here." I also copied quotes in my journal such as: "Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains," and "I went to the woods there to learn what it had to teach." In my youthful enthusiasm, I knew I didn't understand much of what Thoreau was writing, but I loved much of the book, almost as if it gave me language with which to see my life.
When I taught the book to high school students several years later, I had the sense that I understood less about Thoreau's project than I'd believed. I was decent at living, but bad at reading. I had no idea how to question thinking itself. To date, I have not returned to the book.
Now through Dan Beachy-Quick's eyes, I see: borrow, buy, begin. I want to read Walden again. "The Indweller's Aversion" sparks an exhilaration that I had when I was a young adult. Yet now it feels centered on an achievable goal: to make of the Old Parsonnage in Freeburg (the home where Silas and I live) my own wonderful investigation. To make it the center of the world. To do the morning work, the work of song.
In "Meditation in the Hut," Beachy-Quick investigates reading and says, poignantly, that "to read threatens the identity of the reader as directly as reading informs it." Are you open to being double, being multiplied, to be the horde of eyes looking through your eyes?
Our final selection, the prose story of "The Children, The Woods," shakes me up. This story of two children feels memorable although it is not my preferred style of short fiction. It is about being the song, about becoming through your life many things: a boy, an outcast, a prey, a grandson, a wolf, a brother. Note its heavy relationship to the essays. E pluribus unum, people.
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
In Elissa Schappell’s introduction to Lorrie Moore in 3x33, she highlights the way in which Moore has the ability to take tragic, disturbing, or generally heavy situations (or a mix of all three) and bring them to life not only through startling metaphors, dialogue, and description, but also through witty, satirical humor and brilliant wordplay. In doing this, it would seem she would shift the weight from the situation, but as Schappell notes, this isn’t the case – instead, she ends up enhancing the atmosphere. In the human experience, there is little that is simple and one-sided, and even as we go through the most pain, we find ourselves laughing. As Schappell puts it, “Grief is messy and uncontainable – humor happens.” The result of Moore’s efforts are characters that are startlingly human from start to finish, and feel the full range of emotions. Would you agree?
In Moore’s “Referential”, a mother deals with her son’s struggle with mental illness. As he becomes progressively worse, her lover, Pete (the only character with a name), begins to pull away, even though he is the only one who seems to have an effect on the son. While decidedly grim, the narrative, told from a limited third person perspective of the mother, contains witty, interesting thoughts, and the son’s dialogue, while obviously disturbed, is tragically humorous. Is Moore making a statement about mental illness as a whole here, or about life? Are the characters believable in their humor, especially when it comes to the mother’s sharp, insightful wit? What do you think of her idea of “mutilation as a language”, and is it meant to be darkly humorous – and, in this, is there truth? Is the mother’s narration reliable, or perhaps a sign that she is also mentally unstable? How well was this executed?
Do you think you could create characters that echo Moore’s and feel many emotions but often deflect with wit? Does Moore do it believably herself?
Posted by Tess Christmas at 4:04 PM