The Problem with Teaching Creative Writing

"Only a true author will realize the sheer terror of the slight pause that follows the words: 'So I read your book . . .' " -Neil D'Silva

Disclaimer: based on my own personal experience, duh. 

So, I'm taking my very first creative writing class - shocker, huh? Well, this was the first opportunity I've had to take it in high school. 

As someone who's been writing essentially my whole life, I've been through the writing process multiple times. I spend most of my waking time either reading, writing, researching writing, or thinking about writing. 

Granted, this is only a high school level creative writing class, and the teacher is teaching from the ground up. However, as we're closing out our first unit - on poetry, unfortunately - I've realized something about the way many people view and teach writing. 

The writing process begins with brainstorming, then writing, then time away, then editing, and then finalizing and submitting your work. However, in this creative writing class, the ratio of brainstorming and writing to editing is about 9:1. And that's bad when writing and editing should be a ratio of 1:1, or even 2:3.

 Regardless of your skill level, the teacher should be stressing that no piece of writing is ever finished in its first draft. It is absolutely essential, and I'm under the impression that in this class, and especially in the world of newer writers, not enough emphasis is put on editing - editing your novel, a scene, a poem, anything. 

Editing is awful, but it's essential. And so is feedback. Feedback is grouped under the umbrella term of editing, and throughout the poetry unit, out of 8 poems, two people looked at two poems, one each. That's absolutely ridiculous!

Maybe I'm expecting too much out of pretty much a 101 class with a crunch for time, but I demand excellence, so that's what I will get out of myself. 

In other news, I hate poetry and I can't wait to move on. Except next we're doing memoirs and I hate writing about myself outside of my diary. 

Yes, I keep a diary. It's a good writing habit. 

~The WordShaker 

Fear and Being a Writer

"If a nation loses its storytellers, it loses its childhood," -Peter Handke

Now that I'm eyebrow deep in editing - don't even get me started on how awful it is - I realize something that I've always held within me.  Every writer has it - the rationally irrational fear that their novel won't be perfect.  That we can edit and edit and edit but it will never be what we want, like clay drying out to an unmovable state.

I am finding this fear to be viscerally real. With a 100,000 word novel, I find that there are so many components and trashed ideas and ideas in the making and bad things and good things that it will always be this swirling whirlwind.

But not only in terms of the writer, that it will always be stressful and frustrating to us, but that our worst nightmares will come true. That everything we've poured our heart and soul into won't be perfect.  Then it won't translate to the reader. And then we have failed.

This week, we had to do a speech on fear, and I spoke about the fear of oblivion. That I will never live a full enough life.  That I missed it.  That I missed another gem that this life had to offer. And this is what I fear so deeply about my writing.  Not that I will never get published or that people will hate my book or that I'll never make money off of it, but that my readers will have missed the point of the story.

And I pray that no matter how verbose my writing, how Swiss-cheesy my plots, how foil thin my characters, that why I'm writing shines through anyways. That the never-ending message of Christ shows through and wipes away any impurities and strikes the heart of my reader.  Because if it does that, then I have succeeded in ways beyond any words.

As always, keep writing my word-shakers,

~The WordShaker

Writing a Novel is Easy - It's the Editing that Sucks.

"I try to create sympathy for my characters, then turn the monsters loose," -Stephen King

Something I've learned about myself is that I can write a first draft in a breeze. About a year, and I have a mess of a first draft - but it's done.  Full of long and hard hours of cranking out emotions and characters and words.

And I thought I would just have to polish the plot, add a few things for depth, and clean up the grammatical errors and such.

But no.  Editing sucks so much.  It's boring.  Clicking through paragraph after paragraph to just change a word.  Formatting?  Shoot me in the foot.  Spelling? Gag me with a knife. And don't even get me started on the actual hardest part which is cutting scenes, reworking paragraphs, changing backstories, adding scenes.  Pounding and melting and shaping my story like metal in a hearth.

I hate it.  I hate it because it's boring.  I hate it because I love developing a story, I love writing scenes and spending time with my characters.  But with editing, I get to do none of that.

One of the reasons that I have been spending more time with my blog is because now that I have finished my story, I truly have nothing to write. And I have to write.  It's a way of life. If I don't empty my mind, I'll surely go mad.  And without a story, it feels like I am on the brink of insanity.

And having nothing to write fills me with an odd feeling.  Without a story to weave, what is my purpose?  It feels like everything meaningful in my life has been sucked away now that I no longer have a novel to focus my energy on.

Writing it is the easy part.  Because that's exactly what I am - a writer.

Plotting is slightly harder, since we're fabricating something from nothing.  But it's doable.

Editing is shit. It's unfun and dull and boring. Devoid of emotion and like sweeping a floor. Menial and awful.

The only way that I can keep myself motivated to edit is the potential my story has.  If I keep my eyes on the prize, maybe then the bloodshot eyes and hunched shoulders and unenthusiastic work wouldn't be so menial.

Because my words are anything but.

~The WordShaker

Worship Camp and Short Stories

A story is like something you wind out of yourself. Like a spider, it is a web you weave, and you love your story like a child," -Katherine Anne Porter

This week, I spent 30 hours with a hodgepodge of church kids, ages from 8 to 17, at my church's Worship Camp. There was a lot of highs, lows, tears, and laughs, but there were also scavenger hunts, crazy hairstyles with shaving cream, water wars, first-time tie-dyeing, Okay, maybe I didn't learn how to worship like a pro - nothing groundbreaking happened.  (But then again, nothing in my life ever happens in a groundbreaking fashion.) However, I did learn a few things. I learned that God is growing me in the music department, since I have flourished in writing and visual art. I was definitely dragged out of my comfort zone kicking and screaming.

Here is what I wrote, edited, and . . .  did not preform on Friday morning.  The youth leader read it, and told me that it was too mature for the younger kids and wasn't fitting for the theme - which basically translates to 'Sorry, our church cannot handle your awesomeness.' However, she did introduce me to Teen Ink, which I am thinking about getting involved in. This little short story doesn't really have a title, so enjoy!

Dear Listeners, 

You're probably only reading this because I'm making you. Or because I'm telling you.  But a forewarning.  Don't expect this to be some kind of touching, moving story full of truth and heart. Because, well, it's not.  If you cry, don't say I didn't warn you. This is the story of how one person ruined my entire life. 

I was an . . . interesting teenager.  I still am. On the outside, I was rough. I had everything I needed, but I didn't care. I had more than enough, but I choose to waste it with drugs, exploit it with other men, and soil it and everything around me black with my own malice. I ran with the wrong crowd, did all of the wrong things, etc. You know, classic, stereotypical bad girl. Now, hold that image in your mind: Everything that you think of, I was probably it. 

But my parents.  My parents . . . I have an odd relationship with them.  They've kind of always just been there, and I've always been like them.  To be dreadfully blunt, I've taken on my father's salty mouth and smoking habit, and from my mother I received bitter apathy and a knack for manipulation. I believe most of what they tell me, even though we fight about everything from the shade of off-white so-and-so painted their door to what's the best kind of breakfast cereal. I hate them, but I can't get rid of them. 

But one day, everything changed.  Now, don't look at me like that.  Yes, it's a cliche, but that's the way it happened. 

I was sitting on my front porch, preparing to light a cigarette when a truck pulled into the empty house across the street - abandoned and run down.  No one had lived there for years, for as long as I could remember.  But a big U-Haul van was driving in nonetheless. 

Out stepped a boy, about my age, and his parents.  I watched them take a few things out of the cabin of the truck, then pause.  I narrowed my eyes.  Obviously a good, well-off family. Tight-laced, probably.   Rich. Why they were moving here, who knows.  Not my problem . . . 

Or so I thought. 

Just as I was about to get up and go back inside to my hell-hole of a life, the boy started strolling across the street . . . towards me. Me, of all people.  And what the hell did he want anyways? 

He told me that his name was Joshua.  I wasn't ready to tell him my name yet, but he extended a hand, and I took it.  He pulled me up and shook my hand.  I hadn't had anyone shake my hand in a long time.  It felt, odd, in a satisfying way that I hadn't felt in a while.  Good is the only word I can find to accurately describe it. 

I really didn't want to make conversation, so I didn't.  He, however, was as bubbly as a shaken up can of soda.  Unfortunately, we ended up talking for hours as his family moved into the house across the street. He even gave me his phone number, but I rejected it because, gosh, he was just across the street anyways.
The next day, after school, he came over. I ripped open the door, confused. I asked him what are you doing here? 

He replied with that he's just here to talk. 

When I asked him what about, he shrugged and just said 'stuff'. 

Reluctantly, I invited him into my house.  Not the nicest place, but too bad. He would just have to deal with it. 

We sat on my bed together, silent. Then he asked me about myself. 

Myself? I questioned.  There's nothing to tell. 

When I refused, he started talking about himself. 

He recounted his entire life to me, about being born when his parents weren't married, and, he was born on a couch, of all places. 

But then we got to talking about the deep stuff.  Like, the really deep stuff. He asked me what I thought about life, death, God, people.  Anything and everything you could think of.  He also gave me his insight on these things.  Nine times out of ten, we disagreed, but it was amiable.  Mostly because his answers confused me.  They were gritty and real, but optimistic for the most part.  Not convoluted, as he seemed to me. Real was the descriptor I finally decided on. 

Eventually, that day, he had to go back home.  As I walked him out, our conversation was tumbling around in my head, and something odd rises up in me, like those painful pimples that you can feel underneath the surface of the skin, but they haven't come to a head yet.  Yeah, that's how I felt. 

Once he was out of earshot, I sighed. Despite my better judgement, I liked Joshua, in more ways than one. 

Joshua and his insight came back every day for two weeks. After school, before school, during my work hours.  He was even cutting into time with my friends.  I could obviously tell that he did not approve of the things I was doing with my spare time, but he did something unexpected.  He let me know that he disagreed with me, but he wasn't intrusive or arrogant or hateful.  He was . . . loving.  

Which, at the time, confused the heck out of me. 

Soon enough, I started recording our conversations. 

I remember one thing about those recordings. They were a lifesaver. One night, I remember, my parents, who rarely talked anyways, were fighting.  Screaming and shouting and throwing and crying and hitting, and oh my God.  Oh, my God. 

The clearest memory of that night was me, sitting there, curled up with my back to the door, and reaching for the file with all of those recordings on there.  I pressed one, hoping that just to hear Joshua's voice, I'd feel better. 

It was him, talking about trust and rest. "You know, you can always come to me when things are hard, and I'll help you.  I'll talk to you, I'll listen, I'll take everything I can from you. For I don't ask for anything in return.  I promise I won't put anything on you." 

I click the device off before I can hear my reply. 

* 

Time passes.  Joshua and I spend more time together.  I don't however, notice my life changing that much, other than spending time with him.  I would still go out and party with my friends.  I would still use drugs in pathetic solitude.  Etc, etc, blah blah.  You don't want to hear about my pathetic life. 

But one night, my friends and I, we were out on the town - drunk. After a long night, I was irritable and susceptible to impulsiveness.   Meaning, I am what people call 'an angry drunk.' 

Someone, I forget who, had the idea to get a midnight snack at the local gas station.  We followed, stumbling along like lost puppies on drugs. 

One, lazy teenager with bright red hair sat at the counter, biting his nails. We snuck around corners, shoving bags of chips into our baggy sweatshirts and candy bars into our pockets. I remember grabbing a pack of gum off of a shelf when the fluorescent lights  shone off of a familiar face at the gas station.  It was Joshua, filling up his car. 

In retrospect, the whole endeavor was the stupidest thing I've ever done. 

By the end of our rampage, we had a total of 300$ worth of stuff between the four of us.  But listen to this, after that, we just walked out.  No joke, we got in a single file line and walked out of the gas station. Thinking about it now, I want to punch myself in the face. 

Of course, the nerdy cashier chased us out of the store and started shouting at us in the night.  My friends just laughed and swore and threw around obscene gestures. 

Unfortunately, I was the last one out of the store, so I was closer to the cashier when he stormed out. 

However, the second he laid a finger on me, I whipped around and punched him in the face. 

I saw him hit the ground with astounding clarity, and everything was pushed away as my friends ran off into the night, hooting and shouting with drunken glee. The boy's skull cracked like an eggshell against the sidewalk, blood pooling out, staining the concrete with it's toxicity.  

Every ounce of my dignity was stripped away as I turned to face Joshua.  He looked at me with a sharpness in his eyes. Dull and blunt, like a punch to the stomach, because his face was stricken with utter disappointment.  The sadness turned his eyes a deep blue, drowning my heart. 

I turned away and left him in the buzzing fluorescent lights and the cold night air, running home and tossing my selfish indulgences aside. 

Joshua called the police.  The teenage boy with the obnoxious red hair was fine, by the way. They arrested Joshua, even though he told the absolute truth. Somehow, he was convicted of our drunken ordeal, charged with theft, assault, and underage alcohol use. 

I haven't seen Joshua since that night. Despite how short our relationship was, despite how much we disagreed, I still missed him.  I missed him with a burning in my heart, like I had taken a drill to my chest. Everywhere, I saw him. I saw him in the way that the trees danced, reminding me of the way that he would move his body to his favorite song.  I saw him in a child's eyes, and how his eyes would always glow when he smiled. I saw him in the way that the wind whispered to me, mysterious and beautiful.  I actually saw him a few times, in similar people's faces, and I would chase after them or call out his name, but he was never really there. 

But I was wrong.  I realized that he was really there.  I still had the memories, as sharp as a pencil on the first day of school.  I had the recordings.  I had pictures.  But for now, I mourn and actively wait joyfully, because Joshua may not be present, he's also not absent. 

Joshua will eventually be released, and I absolutely cannot wait for the day when the Groom will get to meet his Bride.

Copyright 2015 Olivia J, The WordShaker

God bless,

~The WordShaker