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in reply to: Maggie_Response #558
Maggie, I think you really pinpoint a helpful dichotomy upon which Bloom’s piece is structured: ease and difficulty. It’s this negotiation, for me, that makes the writing so effective. I too felt disarmed by the opening, but then I was soon lulled by the quotidian descriptions of the locker room. Here there was a syntactical ease, the writing voice occupying a space of levity and good humor. This diction encouraged a position of readerly passivity, at least for me. I felt kind of serene, and totally seduced by the beauty–as you put it–the description of the women’s bodies.
The difficult beginning does seem to point the way forward though, through the easy camaraderie of women and toward the difficult climax: the heart of darkness the essay edges slowly toward. And exactly as you said, at this point the essay surfaces as a “an account of something violent and dark that happened somewhere else.” I think Bloom’s technique of lulling the reader with an easy prose style, only to confront that ease with a difficult, thorny description of violence is very provocative. She enacts the sense of shock and trauma she is writing about. And with these thoughts in mind, it seems even more clear to me how much Bloom uses voice to make her complex and disturbing argument.
in reply to: Patrick James_Response #555Patrick:
As I read your astute response, I realized I glossed over what you referred to as the “locus of safety”. As I thought about this response, I gained clarity. There is much broader, more powerful significant other than “establishment of place” to this essay. Upon first reading, I took the title for face-value, the place where Bloom established her observations. But upon further review, it dawned on me by using the word “Locker Room” Bloom has quietly injected the delineation of locker rooms. A place where one can keep things safe and locked up until it is necessary to retrieve. This interpretation further establishes Bloom’s diminished explanation and exploration of the violence perpetrated on her.
in reply to: Lynn Z Bloom Marguerite Van Cook #553Marguerite:
Your inference… “Her frequent use of “we,” the first person plural situates her inside the group so that this voice is not only inside of the geographical space, but also inside the conversation and action.” I agree with you. Even though the members of the rec center are for the most part, individuals and not in any formed friendships, Bloom suggests that she is in a communal space (locker room) and she has solidified and emphasized that she is part of a much greater group. This is significant to the reader because it proposes that Bloom has navigated the tricky waters (no pun intended) of establishing herself within a previously formed circle of women. By understanding this inclusion, the reader knows that there is also an inherent responsibility for unspoken trusts.
in reply to: Daimys – Response for Chapter 5 #474What kinds of pieces are you workshopping when you get the “too-much-I” critique? This is a really interesting question to me, partly because it’s such a fine line to walk when teaching. It’s a pretty hotly contested subject in terms of the academic essay and I don’t want to mess my students up when they’re writing for other instructors, but I also want them to have opinions and points of view; often “I think this” is better than “no one is saying anything.” But, to get back to your post, how much “I” is too much and in what kinds of writing?
I love your point about what technology allows us to do. I feel like a lot of attention is paid to what is lost when we write on computers rather than by hand–for instance, there’s this really long article about Ralph Ellison being unable to finish his first electronic manuscript and all the reasons why writing on the computer may have derailed his creative process. But there’s a real beauty to being able to move, delete, add, and undo the way we can with computers.
in reply to: Maggie_Response to Chapter 5 #414Maggie,
Your point about mimicry resonates with me so much. And I think this question of authentic voice is incredibly difficult. If hard pressed, I don’t think I’d be able to describe my one, true authentic voice. Honestly, I think I carry around a lot of voices in my head (yes, I know how that sounds). In our lives, we negotiate complex, interconnected relationships. I go from being a student, to being a friend, to being a son, to being a research assistant etc… my roles are varied, contingent, and organic. I can’t think of a singular, monolithic voice that would satisfy the needs of all these identities. Your point about the SOP is a perfect example. When I wrote it, I remember feeling like I was putting on this academic hat, and as I wrote, I was pretending to be smart and interesting. On the one hand, the voice felt false, ill-fitting, and cliched. On the other hand, it was the most appropriate voice I could muster for the genre.
When I studied poetry, my professors encouraged me to switch identities and try on new voices–persona poetry. It was one of the first things that excited me about creative writing. Here, I was given the chance to tell a lie in order to get closer to the heart of the truth. It’s a strange paradox. And through persona, I was able write out experiences I had never experienced–and that, in a way, was almost like living the experience. I know that doesn’t really work with memoir, because the experiences should be what we remember. But, I think the power of voice, and the access it gives the writer, shouldn’t be undervalued.
in reply to: Daimys – Response for Chapter 4 #413Daimys, I’m really interested in your point about riffs, how they can help us reclaim the “irrelevant” aspects of our writing, and use them in ways that keep our drafts dynamic and exciting. Your previous professors’ concerns about what is “relevant” and “irrelevant” is something I haven’t really thought about before. When I’m writing, I find it very difficult to discern relevance. It all just comes out, and it’s only through the revision process that I’m able to get a handle on what is going on. Personally, I carry around a lot of baggage from my early education–I often feel a pressure to construct tight, organized sentences while composing my first drafts. However, over time, I’ve learned that that just doesn’t work for me–that’s not the kind of writer I am. Instead, I have to let things be messy in the initial stages, taking inspiration as my cue. And then, when re-reading and revising, I comb through my work and remove the “irrelevant” parts. For me, this has always been a very intuitive, feeling-based experience. Not so much zeroing in on relevance, I try to rearrange and adjust my work so that it “feels” right. And consequently, writing takes on an emotional/spiritual dimension. You mention in your post that you are very comfortable tossing everything out as you draft and revise. I could probably take a page out of your book. I have always struggled with cutting, wanting to keep everything in the draft, overwriting. One of my first writing teachers called it “killing your darlings.” It really cleans the writing up, but sometimes it’s just too hard to do…
in reply to: Patrick_Response to Chapter 5 #403Patrick:
Spot-on! Reading memoirs and narratives that are not plot driven but voice driven is what has to engage the reader. People tend to interact within society by seeking out similar beings/perspectives/voice, like seeks like, probably an innate attribute from our primordial days.
As a reader, if the story is interesting but the voice/tone/style is limited, I tend to not want to engage. It is no wonder that many readers align themselves with writers that offer the same voice, or a voice they know. It takes both the observant writer who can convey many voices, grounding those voice(s) in a substantial style, that works to speak to many readers. Which means the reverse is also true, an active reader will seek out many voices, familiar or not to grow as a reader and as a person.
in reply to: Maggie's Response #383The task of structured feedback brings to mind being on jury duty. Since jurors are made up of a sampling of the population; diverse personalities, intricate individual experiences and a multitude of cultural nuances, more often than not tends to yield an assortment of unpredictable outcomes. The jurors deliberating the case often add extraneous material that muddies the discussions. The jurors must be mindful stay with the charge from the judge. In workshopping, although we are all writers, we must be mindful of the workshopping structure and process. I would think that over time, this task can become a well-honed skill.
in reply to: Maggie's Response #354Yes, Maggie, I agree too about supportive models being more useful than critical models. I have a friend who often says that when one focuses on what is good, it usually grows. Conversely, when one focuses on what is bad, that tends to grow too. I think these critical techniques say a lot about the uncanny, almost mystical nature of attention, how the manner in which we choose to focus our attention has dramatic ramifications–both good and bad.
I am also really drawn to one of your great points: “techniques create a structure in which we could feel safe, even with all of the external dynamics in the room.” I completely agree with you. I find that most of the time, writers in workshops are looking for ways to say something helpful. I don’t think anyone steps into the workshop with the goal of being destructive or limiting. Instead, I think that students simply don’t know how to give good criticism; and I think that’s why this chapter was so practical and useful. It outlined a clear methodology for criticizing work. I really wish this reading had been assigned in my workshops when I was getting my MFA, because it really would have created, as you put it, a “safe” space, unburdened by external dynamics.
I particular respond to your point about working with pieces that are in the early stages and how it is so important not to shut anything down at that point. It’s really tricky to help–maybe even push–an early draft without accidentally squishing something. It’s also harder to present pieces that are in the early stages, but it’s so helpful to get feedback on them. To continue your garden metaphor, it’s much easier to start pruning an apple tree when it’s little and keep pruning it as it grows rather than letting it go for ten years and then tackle the whole thing all at once.
in reply to: Maggie's Response #346Yes. Absolutely. It’s not about ‘feeling good’ — it’s about the way meaning gets constructed, developed, supported and what enables writers to go from what is likely implicit (in their bodies and on the page) to explicit. More on this later on in the term.
Lindsey: What you are touching on is a concept developed by Eugene Gendlin whose work we will discuss later on in the term. He says that all communication (all writing) is composed of language, body and situation. It is as you said always communal (even though standard thinking and theory about composing often omits the third piece).
I agree. This post is an insightful response. I have not workshopped yet and look forward to this tried and true aspect of writing and being a writer.
One thought I wanted to add with regard to Goldberg’s reference to “communal” is not just the act of being in a room full of writers and not just the safe sharing of intimate words, but also the larger aspect of communal interaction.
As a writer we are constantly engaging, albeit secretively but nonetheless, we are listening and observing all that is around us. Like, James said, we are not working in vacuums.As a writer we are continuously picking up language bits and gestures and all the nuances of each other. Every being a writer comes in contact with plays some sort of role in the larger creation of their own work.
Beautifully said, Patrick. Responses that encourage you ‘to look closer, to be wilder, to be braver’ are, in my opinion, both powerful and generative. It really does begin with listening to the writer’s words, paying attention to the words on the page and the person behind the words, embodying a kind of humanness that is empowering.
I also love your way of capturing what it means to write: ‘we never write in a vacuum, that we always write to be heard. I think that when we read another’s work we basically say to the author: I hear you, I see you, I acknowledge your existence. Consequently, the writing workshop is a space in which individuals share a basic part of themselves, a part that constitutes them as human. In turn, the community responds and bears witness to that human. It is an action that restores dignity and deepens relationships within the community.’
Thanks.
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