Saturday, January 7, 2012
Monday, August 15, 2011
Found this interesting quote - young readers take heart!
Literature makes us better noticers of life; we get to practise on life itself; which in turns makes us better readers of detail in literature; which in turn makes us better readers of life. And so on and on. You have only to teach literature to realise that most young readers are poor noticers. I know from my own old books, wantonly annotated twenty years ago when I was a student, that I routinely underlined for approval details and images and metaphors that strike me now as commonplace, while serenely missing things which now seem wonderful. We grow, as readers, and twenty-year-olds are relative virgins. They have not yet read enough literature to be taught by it how to read it.
How Fiction Works, James Wood, Vintage Books, 2009.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
for everyone who doesn't think proofreading is necessary!
Or that courtesy, a certain amount of modesty, the ability to research and put together a grammatical sentence are attributes that all writers require. Check it out.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
The Internet, Self-Censorship and Twittering Twits
There's been some talk recently on the blogsphere about how the internet is creating self-censorship. When people can post rude, vicious and gobsmackingly ignorant comments anonymously on measured and thoughtful commentary, reflections and personal opinion that are authored, then the authors tend to retreat. Why bother opening yourself up to a potential maelstrom of hatred? Why not go back to the private space of your journal where you can write what you like without censorship?
One of the problems with the kind of anonymous vicious commentary I'm talking about is that it does nothing to further intellectual debate or balance arguments. As Ulin says in the The Lost Art of Reading:
David Ulin's books is thought-provoking and well worth reading, by the way.
There is no greater example of this kind of distracted, self-absorbed, ephemeral and self-referential stream of trivia than Twitter. My son, The Biker, put me on to this. Enjoy.
One of the problems with the kind of anonymous vicious commentary I'm talking about is that it does nothing to further intellectual debate or balance arguments. As Ulin says in the The Lost Art of Reading:
This is how we interact now, by mouthing off, steering every conversation back to our agendas, skimming the surface of each subject looking for an opportunity to spew.
David Ulin's books is thought-provoking and well worth reading, by the way.
There is no greater example of this kind of distracted, self-absorbed, ephemeral and self-referential stream of trivia than Twitter. My son, The Biker, put me on to this. Enjoy.
Reality Check
I find it quite disturbing when students complain if I don't have time to look at their extra work, as though I should be prepared as a teacher to work unpaid extra hours. Often the complaints seem to assume that I - and other teachers - have taken on too many committments - personal or other-professional - if we refuse or postpone this extra work. Like anyone else, my personal life and my other professional activities occur outside the finite number of hours I am employed by the TAFE, as you would expect.
Let me put some facts forward. I'm employed by GippsTAFE to work for a set number of hours and I work that set number of hours. My work is divided into a number of different activities, mostly teaching time, but including preparation, marking, professional development, administrative work and meetings.
Now, while in an ideal universe this set of number of hours would include a weekly allocation to look at extra work from students, to read and research further material appropriate to the courses I teach, to undertake a diversity of professional development opportunities and to learn, develop and utilise new technologies that are appropriate to e-learning, the reality is that I am paid to work a finite number of hours each week and the preceding list doesn't get factored into these. Some of these, in particular wide reading and research and professional development opportunities, I undertake for my own personal interest and am happy for my teaching institution to reap the benefits of my recreational time.
I expect to get paid for my teaching work. I simply wouldn't teach if I didn't get paid. I don't expect an electrician to come and fix something for me for the sheer love of fixing it. Nor would I expect to find Vic Roads open after hours just so they could provide unexpectedly good customer service. So, please, when you approach a teacher to commit to extra work - read over a rewritten assignment which, in a previous version, they have already marked and commented on, or look through a short story you want to submit to a competition, or an article you're hoping to submit to a journal, don't take for granted that they can easily fit this work in to their paid teaching hours. Your revised assignment, short story or article may have to wait until there's a spare moment at the end of whatever is their paid teaching week, or even the teaching term. Exercise patience and courtesy and I'm sure we'll find time eventually.
Let me put some facts forward. I'm employed by GippsTAFE to work for a set number of hours and I work that set number of hours. My work is divided into a number of different activities, mostly teaching time, but including preparation, marking, professional development, administrative work and meetings.
Now, while in an ideal universe this set of number of hours would include a weekly allocation to look at extra work from students, to read and research further material appropriate to the courses I teach, to undertake a diversity of professional development opportunities and to learn, develop and utilise new technologies that are appropriate to e-learning, the reality is that I am paid to work a finite number of hours each week and the preceding list doesn't get factored into these. Some of these, in particular wide reading and research and professional development opportunities, I undertake for my own personal interest and am happy for my teaching institution to reap the benefits of my recreational time.
I expect to get paid for my teaching work. I simply wouldn't teach if I didn't get paid. I don't expect an electrician to come and fix something for me for the sheer love of fixing it. Nor would I expect to find Vic Roads open after hours just so they could provide unexpectedly good customer service. So, please, when you approach a teacher to commit to extra work - read over a rewritten assignment which, in a previous version, they have already marked and commented on, or look through a short story you want to submit to a competition, or an article you're hoping to submit to a journal, don't take for granted that they can easily fit this work in to their paid teaching hours. Your revised assignment, short story or article may have to wait until there's a spare moment at the end of whatever is their paid teaching week, or even the teaching term. Exercise patience and courtesy and I'm sure we'll find time eventually.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
The First - and second - novel - Part Two
I hope you do complete your first long piece of writing. When I first started writing novels as an adult, I couldn’t finish them. They were highly derivative fantasy stories written firmly under the influence of Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Mists of Avalon and Anne McCaffrey’s Dragons of Pern series.
At the same time, I was writing poetry and getting the odd poem published. The never-ending fantasy stories were an antidote to the brevity and urgency of the very contemporary, laconic poems I was also writing. I loved beginning these stories but couldn’t muster the necessary enthusiasm to finish them.
My poetry apprenticeship had begun years earlier, with active study in one way or another. I’d written them in primary school and memorised, scanned and analysed poems for various Speech and Drama exams. I’d studied them at University with a sense of familiarity because of the years of Speech and Drama but also because of a childhood of hearing poetry around the kitchen table and declaimed over the washing up. It wasn’t hard turning this formal and informal study into a more concentrated writerly examination of poetry when I decided to focus my attention on this form.
By the time I wrote my first complete novel, I'd already had a collection of poetry published. I wrote the novel because I was at home, first pregnant and then with a new baby, and I felt as though I should be doing something more with my time than writing poetry. The best thing about the novel remains the title – My Aunt Sophie, the Clairvoyant. It was, even then, firmly in a young adult voice. It was based on both my imagination and events I had either witnessed or eavesdropped on. The first person character was a feisty but somewhat vulnerable observer. These characteristics haven’t changed much. I now move from young adult to middle or younger reader with a fair amount of ease. I’ve written in both female and male voices but those voices have remained somewhat feisty but vulnerable; observers who don’t always put the information they’re witnessing – the adult world – together in a way that is helpful to them.
That novel has never even been sent to a publisher. And no wonder. The theme was wonky. The plot unbelievable. The dialogue often wooden. The structure was written without any idea of timelines. The characters, while I adored them and their weird foibles, often behaved uncharacteristically. I knew all this. I knew, too, that I’d spent too long on the first two chapters (approximately six months? could that be true?) and rushed the end of it, just to finish the damn thing. The opening of the novel, however long it was polished, nonetheless always took the reader on this rollercoaster ride of backstory and information. A friend said it left her breathless. It was not a compliment!
After my mother (The Editor) read it, she remarked with her usual honesty, 'It's a good thing you're a poet'. That sealed the novel's fate. It was bottom-drawered immediately. But I didn't give up writing novels.
Another novel followed My Aunty Sophie, the Clairvoyant. This was called something like Oliver’s Women. I didn’t even bother finishing it.
Then I started to write yet another, a story I’d been telling myself for years. It was about four teenagers and their intersecting relationships. I wrote it in prose, after all, that’s how you write a novel. I sent five chapters off to a good reader I knew. She sent it back with as much criticism as I’d sent manuscript.
The short version – it was no good.
I was angry with myself for having messed up a story I loved and characters I knew and was fond of. I sat down and wrote it as a verse novel. A Dangerous Girl was published. My first published novel. In verse.
Nonetheless, that novel taught me about prose novels – it taught me about plotting, structure, characterisation and how to hold on to a theme. It taught me about shadowing characters, foreshadowing events and the importance of details. All of these elements I would use in my first published prose novel.
At the same time, I was writing poetry and getting the odd poem published. The never-ending fantasy stories were an antidote to the brevity and urgency of the very contemporary, laconic poems I was also writing. I loved beginning these stories but couldn’t muster the necessary enthusiasm to finish them.
My poetry apprenticeship had begun years earlier, with active study in one way or another. I’d written them in primary school and memorised, scanned and analysed poems for various Speech and Drama exams. I’d studied them at University with a sense of familiarity because of the years of Speech and Drama but also because of a childhood of hearing poetry around the kitchen table and declaimed over the washing up. It wasn’t hard turning this formal and informal study into a more concentrated writerly examination of poetry when I decided to focus my attention on this form.
By the time I wrote my first complete novel, I'd already had a collection of poetry published. I wrote the novel because I was at home, first pregnant and then with a new baby, and I felt as though I should be doing something more with my time than writing poetry. The best thing about the novel remains the title – My Aunt Sophie, the Clairvoyant. It was, even then, firmly in a young adult voice. It was based on both my imagination and events I had either witnessed or eavesdropped on. The first person character was a feisty but somewhat vulnerable observer. These characteristics haven’t changed much. I now move from young adult to middle or younger reader with a fair amount of ease. I’ve written in both female and male voices but those voices have remained somewhat feisty but vulnerable; observers who don’t always put the information they’re witnessing – the adult world – together in a way that is helpful to them.
That novel has never even been sent to a publisher. And no wonder. The theme was wonky. The plot unbelievable. The dialogue often wooden. The structure was written without any idea of timelines. The characters, while I adored them and their weird foibles, often behaved uncharacteristically. I knew all this. I knew, too, that I’d spent too long on the first two chapters (approximately six months? could that be true?) and rushed the end of it, just to finish the damn thing. The opening of the novel, however long it was polished, nonetheless always took the reader on this rollercoaster ride of backstory and information. A friend said it left her breathless. It was not a compliment!
After my mother (The Editor) read it, she remarked with her usual honesty, 'It's a good thing you're a poet'. That sealed the novel's fate. It was bottom-drawered immediately. But I didn't give up writing novels.
Another novel followed My Aunty Sophie, the Clairvoyant. This was called something like Oliver’s Women. I didn’t even bother finishing it.
Then I started to write yet another, a story I’d been telling myself for years. It was about four teenagers and their intersecting relationships. I wrote it in prose, after all, that’s how you write a novel. I sent five chapters off to a good reader I knew. She sent it back with as much criticism as I’d sent manuscript.
The short version – it was no good.
I was angry with myself for having messed up a story I loved and characters I knew and was fond of. I sat down and wrote it as a verse novel. A Dangerous Girl was published. My first published novel. In verse.
Nonetheless, that novel taught me about prose novels – it taught me about plotting, structure, characterisation and how to hold on to a theme. It taught me about shadowing characters, foreshadowing events and the importance of details. All of these elements I would use in my first published prose novel.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Writing Short Stories
I once heard Thea Astley at a Writer's Festival talk about how she'd started writing poetry, but that was way too hard. Then she'd switched to short stories which were hard enough before finally trying a novel - a piece of cake in comparison. I'd agree that anything depending on brevity is going to be difficult. Coleridge's definitions of writing was 'prose,—words in their best order; poetry,—the best words in their best order.'
Equally every word in a short story should count.
In order for this to happen you need a good reason for writing the short story - it needs to explore an important theme, to communicate a clear message to the reader. Too often I read short stories by new writers which don't actually have an underlying theme. They may a plot and a few characters, but the theme hasn't been teased out sufficiently.
As the theme largely drives the plot and the motivation and transformation of the central character, you can see how the whole story can be shaky if the theme isn't identifiable.
I could begin two stories with identical characters and a common event as a catalyst, but where I take the story will largely depend on the theme I choose. For eg. my central character is a wife who has decided to leave her husband. She packs up and leaves while he's at work, but he comes home unexpectedly, driven by some instinct or intuition. There's a scene. He breaks down. She drives off regardless.
The theme will dictate how I frame this simple story. If I'm exploring infidelity and betrayal, I might begin the story with the wife's discovery of her husband's infidelity. It might be the final piece of the jigsaw of his indifference she's been slowly piecing together. He's been alerted by a call at work - it's not mere intuition on his part (although, in order that this is kept in the third person limited I would want the wife to guess this, rather than the reader know it from a scene at the husband's work). He breaks down and the wife drives off, not promising to return but not resolved to completely separate, either.
On the other hand if the theme is personal growth, I'd frame the story differently. The wife has felt trapped in her marriage. She's decided over a period of some time that change must happen. It hasn't. One morning she decides she has to reinvent herself or stagnate for the rest of her life. The scene when the husband arrives home is quite different. He tries to convince her that they are soulmates - otherwise how would he have guessed her intentions. She's tender with him, but her tenderness is caused through guilt. She agrees to a break. But the map she pulls out of the glovebox as she leaves gives the reader the feeling that she won't be back.
So the first thing you need to consider is the what theme you want your story to explore. Then you need to limit the cast of characters to as few as possible. You don't want the reader overwhelmed by the number of characters they have to remember. You want the story to retain a strong focus on one central character.
You need to think of the time over which the story takes place. Reduce this as much as you can. It's very difficult for a successful short story to take place over a lifetime. You need the discursive nature of the novel to accomplish this.
Do try to avoid the twist at the end of the tale. These worked beautifully at the height of their popularity. They were clever, quite unpredictable and in vogue. These days they are appear forced and predictable.
Don't think you need to explore large, melodramatic events in a short story. Small real things are often the catalysts of change - and easier to write convincingly. Remember, just because it happened, doesn't make your fictional version of an event ring true to the reader. Truth is stranger than fiction and you, the writer, must convince us that your fiction is the truth.
Equally every word in a short story should count.
In order for this to happen you need a good reason for writing the short story - it needs to explore an important theme, to communicate a clear message to the reader. Too often I read short stories by new writers which don't actually have an underlying theme. They may a plot and a few characters, but the theme hasn't been teased out sufficiently.
As the theme largely drives the plot and the motivation and transformation of the central character, you can see how the whole story can be shaky if the theme isn't identifiable.
I could begin two stories with identical characters and a common event as a catalyst, but where I take the story will largely depend on the theme I choose. For eg. my central character is a wife who has decided to leave her husband. She packs up and leaves while he's at work, but he comes home unexpectedly, driven by some instinct or intuition. There's a scene. He breaks down. She drives off regardless.
The theme will dictate how I frame this simple story. If I'm exploring infidelity and betrayal, I might begin the story with the wife's discovery of her husband's infidelity. It might be the final piece of the jigsaw of his indifference she's been slowly piecing together. He's been alerted by a call at work - it's not mere intuition on his part (although, in order that this is kept in the third person limited I would want the wife to guess this, rather than the reader know it from a scene at the husband's work). He breaks down and the wife drives off, not promising to return but not resolved to completely separate, either.
On the other hand if the theme is personal growth, I'd frame the story differently. The wife has felt trapped in her marriage. She's decided over a period of some time that change must happen. It hasn't. One morning she decides she has to reinvent herself or stagnate for the rest of her life. The scene when the husband arrives home is quite different. He tries to convince her that they are soulmates - otherwise how would he have guessed her intentions. She's tender with him, but her tenderness is caused through guilt. She agrees to a break. But the map she pulls out of the glovebox as she leaves gives the reader the feeling that she won't be back.
So the first thing you need to consider is the what theme you want your story to explore. Then you need to limit the cast of characters to as few as possible. You don't want the reader overwhelmed by the number of characters they have to remember. You want the story to retain a strong focus on one central character.
You need to think of the time over which the story takes place. Reduce this as much as you can. It's very difficult for a successful short story to take place over a lifetime. You need the discursive nature of the novel to accomplish this.
Do try to avoid the twist at the end of the tale. These worked beautifully at the height of their popularity. They were clever, quite unpredictable and in vogue. These days they are appear forced and predictable.
Don't think you need to explore large, melodramatic events in a short story. Small real things are often the catalysts of change - and easier to write convincingly. Remember, just because it happened, doesn't make your fictional version of an event ring true to the reader. Truth is stranger than fiction and you, the writer, must convince us that your fiction is the truth.
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