Tag: workshop

MFA Crash Course: Day One

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Each residency heralds a maelstrom of emotion: elation in anticipation of spending time with other writers who get me; terror at spending time with complete strangers; panic as I rush to finish the last of my homework; and dread of being outted as a hack writer.

This residency has kicked off with a resounding crash of thunder. Seriously. A cab picked me up at 4:15 AM to take me to the airport. After hours of travel, I discovered my luggage had rebelled and diverted itself to Chicago. And my hotel key card? It has mysteriously demagnetized itself twice in a matter of four hours – which the kind lady at reception blamed on the ghost of Brown Hotel. Add to this getting caught in an actual thunderstorm that dropped the Ohio River on Louisville in twenty minutes, and you find me writing this blog post in a towel as my single change of clothes dries in the bathroom. On the bright side, Mother Nature just scented my clothes with spring rain and United Airlines provided me a toiletries kit so I can brush my teeth.

Lucky for me, today’s agenda was light, with a Welcome Reception and Dinner followed by one lecture. To my relief, I didn’t feel like I had a Freak Light – kind of like the Kmart Blue Light Special Light just for freaks – shining on me. I had that inward sigh of recognition: I know some people. Then the buzz kicked up about writing, and I remembered: I know these people. We sit at the same lunch table and speak the same foreign language. Home.

Now on to the day’s tips…Short but sweet since we only had one lecture, and I’m frickin’ cold since the hotel doesn’t provide a robe.

Sena Jeter Naslund, our Program Director, kicked things off with introductions. I mention this because she had a couple of lovely things to say that I thought bore repeating in my best paraphrase…

1. When reading the workshop piece of another, you should look for the “beating heart” of it so you can tell the author what they are doing well (in addition to what could use work).

2. Our competition is not the writer sitting next to us, but the reams that are in the library.

Lecture: Adapting The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter
Rebecca Gilman, Guest Lecturer

Rebecca Gilman adapted Carson McCuller’s novel The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter for the stage. She discussed the adaptation process, her methods, and the difficulty of adapting a novel for another medium. Based on her lecture and our discussion, here are some tips to take away.*

• Make it a goal to honor the original work, while clarifying the characters. Stay grounded in the original work but make it topical or relevant to today’s audience.
• Write scenes you want to include from the novel on index cards. These can be used to create a storyboard – one which you can manipulate the order and structure of as a novel can flow between timelines while a play moves forward in one timeline.
• Identify an organizational stylistic theme. For example, is the location central to the story? Will this impact the structure of the set?
• In a play, you get the luxury of writing from every character’s POV. Each character needs an arc. What do they want? What obstacles are in their way?
• Know whose story you’re telling. Which character changes the most?
• Why do a stage adaptation? To give a novel a new audience. To give a novel’s readers a new way to think about a book.

*These tips are all my own paraphrases. This blog series is not sponsored by Spalding or its faculty.

Why You Shouldn’t Get an MFA

You may be teetering on the fence of a major decision – to MFA or not to MFA. Here are a few quick tips that may help you decide.

1. I’m allergic to tweed and elbow patches give me hives.  Every great writer has their photo taken in this coat, sold exclusively in the English Department of any college that has an MFA program worth a damn. The tobacco-packed pipe may be optional in these gone-to-hell days of lung cancer and smoke-free bars, but the wise-beyond-your-years gaze is a prerequisite. If you can’t pull off the look, don’t even bother to apply.
2. It’s Barnes and Noble or Bust, bee-yotch. Anyone who is anyone in the publishing world knows that it’s the end goal that matters. Anything less than a table of books sporting your pedigree spells disaster. Or worse – self-publication. An MFA is a broken compass that only points toward obscurity. Look what happened to Michael Chabon. Nobody remembers losers, friend.
3. I run marathons, not sprints. Every badass writer eventually takes off their short-story training wheels to write a novel. In fact, short stories are nothing more than the multiple choice test you scratched on a wrinkled Scantron with your Number 2 after a hard night of not studying. With their sole focus on this archaic, pointless story form, an MFA program can have no value to the writer with a word count just waiting for the gun to go off.
4. Those who can’t write, teach. It’s like gym class all over again when your coach rode you because he never made it in the big leagues. Few programs out there are offering up PUBLISHED faculty with any real life wisdom to impart to their students. What do people like Sena Jeter Naslund and Marilynne Robinson know about publishing? You may not learn anything of value if you decide to get an MFA, but at least you’ll know you’ll have a teaching job waiting for you.
5. I’m the RPatz of Fiction. It is an indisputable fact that there’s no improving upon perfection. Regardless of what MFA programs tell you, it is possible for writers to reach a level of Vogue-airbrushed flawlessness. Once you’re creating the standard, there’s no point in going through the tedious motions of learning. Leave that to the novices who actually need workshops and feedback from fellow colleagues to point out possible areas for improvement.
6. Commercial fiction is to an MFA program as Nicholas Sparks is to modesty. Any MFAer worth their weight in New Yorker back issues has the superpower of Pretentiousness. Plus a certain air of Superiority and a mastery of language beyond the Common Man’s understanding. Practitioners of Group Think, all MFAers use words like acataleptic and lalochezia. If you actually want to sell books, an MFA will only cloud your ability to speak down to the masses.

I should probably mention that I’m in an MFA program at Spalding. And I’ve loved every non-pretentious moment of it.  Amazing faculty and fellow writers have pushed me to grow as a writer in ways I wouldn’t have sans program. If you’re thinking about getting an MFA, do your research and make sure you find a school that fits you and your goals.

Guide to Writer’s Workshops

You’ve signed up for your first workshop, and you are freaking out. You have no idea what to expect, except a vague idea that your work will be shredded and you’ll be found out as a complete fraud. OR you’ve been told that your work is amazing so many times that you secretly expect an ego stroking, though you won’t admit this to anyone. Unless you are in a really crappy workshop, both expectations are faulty. As former Editor-in-Chief of my alma mater’s literary journal and former President of the Creative Writing club, I’ve run my share of workshops. As a MFA student at Spalding, I’ve been to my share of workshops. Here are some tips on how to prepare for (and what to expect at) writer’s workshops.

1. Writers spend more time agonizing over what piece to workshop, and with reason. You don’t want to take a piece that isn’t good in your own eyes. You also shouldn’t take a piece that you consider finished (unless your only reason for going is the aforementioned ego stroking). Like Goldilocks, you want a piece that is just right – good but not too good. My advice? Find a piece that has a problem that you can’t put your finger on. The group may be able to help you identify the problem.
2. Proof your work. I’ll say it again, PROOF YOUR WORK. It’s the hugest insult to the people in your workshop if you turn in shoddy work for critique. You will be embarrassed. Trust me on this. I’ve seen it. And the people in your workshop will talk about how shoddy the work is. One more time for emphasis – Proof your work.
3. Some workshops require you to turn in your work in advance. You swap with the other writers. If you are lucky enough to get the work beforehand, read it three times. First, read it to enjoy it without making comments. Second, go through the piece and make margin notes. You should also read the work AND your notes the day before the workshop to make sure the piece is fresh in your mind. As with a beta read, your comments should include a mix of what the writer does well and where their piece needs some work.
4. If you don’t turn in or receive the pieces until the workshop itself, bring enough copies of your work for everyone, including the instructor. It’s difficult to listen to a piece, and remember what to comment on. A printed copy gives your readers something to make notes on. You cheat yourself if you forget the copies.
5. Most workshops ask the writer to read a portion of their piece aloud. It may be only a page. Practice reading your selection out loud. Sometimes you will hear mistakes or a problem with pacing. If you practice ahead of time, you have a chance to make changes. It’s embarrassing to read a work aloud and find your dialogue sounds unrealistic, even coming out of your own mouth.
6. A good workshop doesn’t jump right into what’s wrong with a piece. The workshop leader will generally set the tone, though, and I’ve been to a lot of workshops that went down this path. It’s not a good scene. While you can’t control the workshop, you can control what you say. Remember that it’s easier to swallow a criticism if you can see the reader has spent time with your work. If you like something the writer is doing, point it out. THEN, move on to something you thought could be fixed. Don’t ego stroke, but be honest. Be specific. Vague comments make me think a reader hasn’t read my work that thoroughly.
   1. Example: You have a gift for writing dialogue that sounds both gritty and true to the rough nature of your character. You might want to work on the pacing in this section, though. It undercuts the work you’re doing with the dialogue and the exposition slows things down.
7. The BEST workshop I’ve ever been to required us to analyze the work like it was Shakespeare before we dared to criticize it.* Can you imagine how amazing it is to have someone spend time reading your work for the symbolism you achingly laid in place? If you analyze the work from this place, the workshop discussions are deeper. The workshop opened with, “Tell me what you saw at work in this piece” or “What devices did you notice this writer using?” The discussion naturally brought out where the piece was strongest AND weakest without stripping the writer’s soul in front of the group. This type of reading takes time, but it is worth every second for the respect it shows respect the writer. Try this in a beta read, too, and see what a difference it makes.
8. Worst. Comment. Ever. Award goes to “I liked it.” This comment is the kiss of death in a workshop. It has three translations. First, I didn’t read your piece and can’t possibly comment on it. Second, I hated your piece and can’t think of anything nice to say. Third, I have no confidence in my opinion/ability to critique and am hoping this will get me off the hook. All three of these are a cop out. Don’t say you liked something unless you can back it up with solid reasons why.
9. Don’t be afraid to go against the popular opinion. Sometimes an alpha appears at a workshop. This is the person who knows everything, talks more than their share, and speaks with authority on EVERYTHING. This person can sometimes sway a group’s opinion on a work. Don’t be a lemming. Stand by your belief. After all, you’ve read the work three times, you’ve made notes, and you’re insanely prepared to comment.
10. Most workshops require you to remain silent while your work is discussed. With good reason. While you STAY silent, make notes on everything that said about your work. It gives you an excuse to be invisible while you die a thousand times inside. Don’t filter your notes – write both the good and bad down even if you don’t agree. These come in handy when you’re back home and thinking revisions.
11. After your work has been discussed, the floor is generally yours for a couple of minutes. This is generally meant for you to answer any specific questions or ask questions about comments you didn’t understand. Don’t use this time as an opportunity to make excuses or be defensive. It’s an insult to the people who spent time reading your work. Have some class, be gracious, and then go whine to your friends at home.

*I have to give credit where it is due. The leader of this particular workshop was author and Spalding faculty member, K.L. Cook. If you see a workshop led by him, sign up immediately. Do not pass go. Seriously.

Teaser Tuesday

It’s Tuesday evening, but technically still Tuesday. This isn’t a teaser really, but another workshop exercise. We were given a picture and challenged to write from a POV we don’t normally use for twenty minutes. This is obviously very unfinished, but looking at it now, I love the unexpected “A Rose for Emily” quality to it.

Picture: Black and white print of a senior woman wearing a cape, hat, and dress standing on building stoop with a dog on a leash

What I Wrote (unedited – sorry for any mistakes):

Every day, at exactly six o’clock, whether the sun was setting into New Jersey or reigning the Manhattan skyline, Miss Prudence Devereaux stood on her doorstep. Year-in, year-out, we watched her step out the door of 121 Maple Street, handbag over arm, cape wrapped around her shoulders, and that hat – the grey one with the black ribbon and the scarlet flowers hanging on the front – until her eager pace turned to an awkward shuffle, slower but somehow no less eager. We watched her, our eyes the windows in the building at 123 Maple Street, and saw how she waited, glancing uptown – always uptown, as if expecting an old beau to pick her up for dinner and dancing at that cozy club on Fifth Avenue. At 6:20 sharp – we kept time by the clocks in the shop behind her, imagining the tick, tick, tick of those infinite minutes and seconds passing in the heart of a woman waiting for her lover to come – she disappeared back into her building. Miss Prudence Devereaux never seemed to age, but we saw the years passing in the gray fur on her silent companion, the canine that waited with her.

Teaser Tuesday

Okay, you got me. This isn’t really a teaser. I’ve been doing a lot of writing on the sequel to TOUCHED, but nothing I’m willing to share. In place of a teaser, I thought I’d share some random bits of writing. This summer, my MFA professor had my workshop do some timed writing. She’d hand us a photo to use as inspiration to explore some aspect of writing, and we’d put pen to paper. The objective: try something new.

I haven’t looked at this passage in months, but I was surprised to discover what I’d set down in twenty minutes of freewriting. This is not something I would normally write about, nor a perspective I would write from. Yet, things can happen when you push yourself beyond your comfort zone. Not to say this writing is great, but that it pushed me to use my imagination.

Picture: A young boy in a hospital bed surrounded by various stuffed animals, including a whale.

Challenge: Describe a setting using the picture as inspiration

What I wrote (unedited):

Dylan Beckman never left his hospital room, but he had a whole group of friends who visited him, bringing with them their tales of the outside world. His heart could not withstand the potential infections and germs that could be found in the average restaurant or playground. If his mother knew how fast his heart beat when listening to his friends’ stories, she would have forbid them to visit. So he kept their late night meetings secret and never let on that the black smudges under his eyes had nothing to do with his poor oxygen levels and everything to do with lack of sleep. Of all his friends, Shane told the best stories, the ones that would cause his heart to skip three beats instead of two. Shane had been to the farthest oceans and seas, including the Antarctic Ocean once (though he thought that place was “too damn cold”). Shane claimed the freezing temperatures had cut right through his black and white rubber skin, nearly turning the white a shade of blue. When he described the black depths of the water, how everything glowed when you swam deep enough, Dylan could see it, could feel the weight of the salt pressing him down into a sharp bed of neon purple coral, while a distant pilot fish provided the perfect nightlight. In that place, he could float, his slow heart beating at a normal pace in the freezing cold, his uneven exhalations muted by the liquid in his lungs, and finally he could sleep, hidden in a world where the soles of Mrs. Nancy’s shoes didn’t squeak on the tiled floor, his mother wasn’t crying, and the foreign machinery didn’t count off beats of his heart.

I Heart Spalding

Maybe you like to write, and you’re thinking about refining your craft in a formal setting. An MFA hovers on the horizon, and you consider going back to school. Then, you think about attending classes and turning in homework every week and how you’re going to fit school into your life. Impossible, you think. Allow me to introduce you to a magnificent solution. Spalding University’s Low-Residency MFA program.

I’m in my second year of the program, and I can’t say enough good things about it. I love the format. Writers should be writing, not sitting in class, and this school believes in that. The school offers a shorter Fall and Spring semester with the 10-day residency at the Kentucky campus. The alternative – of which I partake – is the extended eight-month Summer semester with a 10-day residency in a different country every summer. The semester kicks off with the residency abroad. At the residency, students attend faculty lectures on different aspects of writing, among other literary-related activities. PLUS you are guaranteed an hour-long workshop where your work is solely discussed. This is incredibly informative, not to mention how helpful it is to participate in the workshops on the writing of others in your group.

Once you return home, you are responsible for mailing off a packet every six weeks to a faculty mentor. The packet contains two papers you write on works you chose to inform your own writing – my focus is on YA lit right now so my reading list has a bevy of YA books like Laurie Halse Anderson’s Speak and Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere. The paper topics are meant to focus on some aspect of craft that the author incorporated into their work, so they become a tool for you to think about how you can apply lessons learned to your own writing. In addition to the papers, you turn in 35-45 pages of creative writing. Total packets turned in per semester? Five. Total number of creative writing pages, counting your workshop submission? 200 to 250.

The positives? The six-week deadline keeps me motivated to sit down and write. The three-to-five page letter my faculty mentor sends me with comments on each packet shows me where I can improve my writing. If you are seeking one-on-one mentoring, you can’t beat this program. Also, of all the programs I researched, Spalding had the greatest variety of subjects. You can focus on fiction, non-fiction, screenwriting, writing for children, and more!

The negatives? The program can be pricey once you add in travel costs, but there are scholarships and financial aid available.

Check out the program details here.