Monday Musing: Getting Out of My Own Way

I completed my first writing workshop yesterday. To be honest, I was a little apprehensive, even downright sceptical. Thankfully, the people who took part in the one-day event were all awesome folks, and the two “teachers”—Jon Bauer and Rebecca Starford—were splendid. Jon in particular was very enthusiastic and told it bluntly—writing is what you make it (though he did have his own strong opinions).

There were writing exercises. There were heated discussions. There were laughs had by all. The main issue was looking at what makes us freeze-up when it comes to the actual task of writing. A little bit of an oxymoron—a writing class for writers that don’t write—but procrastination is a big thing. It’s not that writers don’t want to put words down, but that the possibility of failure fills us with fear, which means that Facebook becomes our best friend (or foe). I won’t post the exercises we wrote, seeing as they mostly focused on looking at ourselves, but they very extremely helpful and enlightening. The first was writing about a writer that was a version of ourselves, a hyper-realised exaggeration of the ego—then, later, another exercise from the POV of an observant character, watching this tortured portrayal. Probably the best exercise was writing from the voice of Parent, Adult, and Child, describing ourselves from these perspectives. I wrote so harshly about myself as the Parent that I actually felt a pang of emotion. Then I used the Child to cheer myself up (“I really want to play in your worlds!”). If you’re a struggling writer, try to become a narrator and describe your situation. It may illuminate important issues.

The main lesson I took away was patience. Writing takes times. It takes revision and editing. It requires thinking periods. Don’t rush it, don’t blurt out a first draft, make a few changes, and send it off. Let it gestate and bud. The second thing that struck me was almost the opposite: “Fuck it.” It’s fair to say that with the first draft you have to let it go, roll with the words, and see where the story takes you. Get yourself in the right frame of my (don’t write with a frown) and let it happen. The issue of willpower came up, and it really applies to me. Full-time hospitality used to take it out of me, and since going casual I have written far more. However, it does take a lot of inner strength to deal with day to day problems and still find the power to write. On top of that, my main issue is choice, which again saps ones limited supply of willpower. I have so much I want to do, and now I realise that I need to cut all of it out except for a single project at a time. Finish one thing, move on. Other little tips include reading it out aloud, and find a writing group—hopefully the people I met are as interested in forming a critique crew as I.

I walked away filled with hope, a free book, possible new writing colleagues, a bunch of notes, and most importantly, great advice. Hats off to Kill Your Darlings, and Bec and Jon, I’ll definitely keep an eye out for future workshops or mentoring opportunities.

Have you participated in writing workshops? Were they beneficial, and if so/not, why?

Update: A very relevant article: http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/12/01/the-art-of-being-still/

Saturday Review: In Cold Blood

“I got this idea of doing a really serious big work—it would be precisely like a novel, with a single difference: Every word of it would be true from beginning to end.” — Truman Capote.

Nonfiction is so in right now. There was even a “festival” of sorts in Melbourne  last week, called Non Fiction Now, and the Melbourne Writers Festival for 2012 focused on the style. But it’s not the straight telling of facts that so captures the interests writers and readers alike. It’s how the truth is told, and how much story is rung from the facts.

In Cold Blood follows the murder of the Clutter Family by Dick Hickock and Perry Smith. It is an exemplar of the “true crime” genre, and a trendsetter in narrative non-fiction. The book covers issues of capital punishment, redemption, the American idyll, and much else. What’s most interesting about In Cold Blood is that it was published a good year after the hanging of the murder, so almost all the facts were already widely known.

Capote had to step it up a notch.

And, boy, did he ever. The writing is superb, and despite 350 pages of what is essentially an open and shut case, Capote manages to draw fantastic imagery interspersed with interviews and transcripts. It’s hard to believe that it’s all true—certainly some of the dialogue would have been invented—but it’s the creative expression that makes the book so special. I don’t think much of true crime, but this is so much more; In Cold Blood is a deep study of criminology and how it affects those touched by terrible deeds. We empathise deeply with these people, who led real lives. It’s not hard to see how it inspired a genre.

But what can it inspire in me? For one thing, Capote took extensive notes and research. He was there during the case, following it, tracking it, keeping close like a vulture over a corpse, all in order to better describe it. If I want to write nonfiction, it needs to be created and crafted, perfected and laid out how I want it, not necessarily how it was in real life. I can only hope that one day I can write even half as well as Capote. Finally, the most important point is that perhaps every piece of writing needs a bit of fiction injected into it, a thread of creativity to make the truth even more vibrant.

Do you like creative nonfiction? What great “true” reads could you recommend, and what made it more than just a factual retelling?

Friday Fiction: Final Freedom

I have to stop with the alliteration. It might start coming across as forced. I do find it to be the most beautiful form of rhyme.

Here’s my bit of fiction for the week, based on a writing prompt about, you guessed it, freedom. It’s a little dark, but that happens from time to time.

The land of the free. What a load of hogwash that is. Free to do as business and government and censorship let us. Free to walk the streets at night; free to be mugged and beat.

Nothin’s free these days.

The word sucks us in. Companies use it to lure the hungry into shopping malls, watching on cameras, rolling their finger tips together with greed, the trap sprung before the poor sucker is aware. Hell, you see those “Free 2 Play” videogames the media is bangin’ on about? What a joke. Games are about winning, and you can’t win nothin’ unless you pay. Your time or your money, it amounts to the same thing.

Governments the world over are striving for democracy. We’re free to vote—or not—and that’s real freedom!

Nah, sorry.

You see, we’re played with, strung along. What greater purchase is there than having your favourite brand leading the way? Christ, I mean campaigns are worse than Christmas, with the flashy lights, endless slogans, the piles and piles of money that go on behind the scenes.

And what about the mother of all freedom: Speech, our words, and thoughts, and ideas, and philosophies? That’s the last damn freedom you want because somebody, anybody, will come along as soon as you’ve expressed it and grind it into the dirt.

And of course, they’re free to do that.

It’s like a game of Snap—cards on top of each other until someone gets their grubby palm and smacks it down on top. It’s mine, all mine!

There’s one freedom I truly appreciate, but even it’s tainted. The freedom to bear arms. Bastards still make us get a licence. I have the freedom to defend myself, the freedom to carry a weapon at all times. But I don’t cherish it enough.

I don’t cherish the false freedoms afforded to me.

There’s only one freedom left.

And no one can take it away from me.

Friday Fiction: For The Zoo

When you tell me to write about an animal, I’m not going to be conventional. Mantis shrimps are probably the coolest animals in the world. Monogamous, always fighting, breaking the sound barrier, seeing 16 different levels of light—awesome. So what if they were massive? What if you wanted one for yourself? Read on for a tight little story.

Like a tightening rope the group of hunters converged on the rainbow beast. The rocky shore was difficult to traverse, but years of practice meant their footing was sure. They kept communication up, a colleague in sight at all times. This was as routine as the tide.

The creature eyed them warily, it’s sight stalks jutting to and fro, picking up movement all around. It didn’t move from where it stood, pointed appendages poised and steady. It could have run, but Mantii live to fight.

One of the hunters got too close. A barbed limb shot out, faster than any of the hunters could see. A bang disorientated everybody in the space as sound broke. Viscera sprayed out into the foamy water.

The body was pulled back towards the animal, but it flung the meat away, not caring for food. Only for blood. An excited chattering emanated from it’s mouth.

One of the men threw a javelin, a large, heavy spear with hooked jags along the head. It missed, glancing from the chitin of the giant cray-fiend.

It spun round, legs moving with extreme speed. Snap, crack. Another messy corpse went flying. The hissing grew louder.

The humans stood firm. They were inured to this, trained for loss, practised in bewilderment. Combating a Mantii was the holiest of battles; to kill one was a mighty glory.

To capture one was beyond imagining.

A hunter moved in from behind the monstrosity, a newly opened vantage point. He swung strong leather binds attached to heavy rocks. He aimed at the beast’s legs.

It barely hit, managing to swing around two of the multi-coloured legs. The critter instantly fell. Collapsing into the pools of water between the rocks, the sun glinted off its armour. Thousands of colours. It would have been wondrous were it not for the danger.

And it was still dangerous. One of the hunters, in her excitement, leaped up on a rock, letting out an exultation. She underestimated the beast’s reach.

Another bang, the air supercharged and burning. The smell of blood was filling their noses. A headless cadaver fell under the waves.

While it was momentarily distracted, the hunters’ final weapon was brought into place. A massive globe of crude glass, as colourful as the creatures exoskeleton. Carried by four hunters it was the tool that cracked a Mantii

Another leather sling, and the animal was subdued further. Unable to scuttle off, the brute was forced to look into the globe.

No man can see what it did. Cray-fiend see light in spectra beyond understanding. Whatever was diffused by this holiest of glasses sent it into hypnosis. From there it was only a matter of netting the body and carrying it off.

Raul stood back as his warriors heaved the subdued shrimp into a cage. He doubted it would hold, which was why they had to keep the globe in its field of vision. And make haste before the Sun fell.

He would be remembered now—the Master of the Mantii. When this beast died, he would wear its body as armour, splendid and impregnable. The animal was his pet now, and he would have to look after it.

 

Friday Fiction: Over Already?

I couldn’t do it. Only the second week and I have no writing to show. There was a bunch I could have written here, but it’s been a busy week. After work today…well, I feel like a zombie.

So instead, here’s an awesome Tumblr I found concerning creative writing.

http://writingprompts.tumblr.com/

I’ll probably use it in the future. There are a number of good scenarios to choose from.

If you come up with your own story post it in the comments. Doesn’t matter how long!