JT O’Neal

November 27, 2006

Out of the Writing Closet

            I think the biggest challenge for me with this class was to read my work in front of other people. I’ve studied writing independently for years, after having some rather ugly responses to my initial attempts. Being told that I cannot do something gets my ire up. I suppose it’s the undying, angst-ridden youth in me who always gives a sideways glance to dictatorial authority figures. Simply because I wasn’t up to snuff then didn’t mean that I might not one day reach a level of craft that would make me publishable. With a lot of hard work and practice most things are possible. So I worked at it. This class gave me—forced me, really—to put myself out there. By reading my work out loud to an audience, I was finally able to rid myself of the “stage fright” that had been keeping me from stepping into the role of “writer.” Although I had submitted a few things for publication and worked on my own graphic novel, I had really been keeping myself sequestered from the writing world. I suppose you could say I had been in the “writing closet” for years. The requirements of the class forced me to come out and say, “I’m a writer. I write. I may be only marginally good at it, but I am always trying to improve myself.”

            One of the early comments in class struck me as particularly ironic. Sheila asked, “How can you tell someone their poem is wrong?” Of course, none of us were saying that someone’s poem was wrong; we were just trying to help that person take their work to a higher level of art. I thought about that question though, and I realized that it reflected my attitude when I first started writing. Just who the hell are you to tell me that this is no good? I don’t see you coming up with anything better! Of course, the studio execs to whom I was pitching my ideas were right. The stories lacked a certain level of development, just like many of our class’ early drafts. Years of experience taught me to take criticism a little more graciously as well as to offer it more tactfully (although still forcefully). I suppose Sheila’s point of view was probably shared by others in the class during those first weeks, but I think watching the process in action helped them to realize the benefit to be gained by the experience.

            Reading my poem aloud to the class was slightly nerve-wracking, but when the responses started coming I really got enthused. The suggestions and comments helped me significantly with clarification. It was interesting to see what worked and what didn’t, and I made changes where I felt they were appropriate. I was fortunate enough to have taken Dr. Gorman’s workshop in poetics during the summer. He had given us the opportunity to write poetry in our journals, and he gave us some feedback. I came in to our class knowing more about the parts of poetry than I would have otherwise. Poetry is a relatively new thing for me, and I’ve spent most of my time developing my fiction writing. Studying literature has greatly increased my appreciation for poetry. The ideas in Minot’s text helped to reinforce what I had learned in that previous class. Originally, my poem “The Lady and the Mountain” stared as an “I” poem. “I wander this lonesome mountain” was the first line. I was afraid I might end up rewriting a Greenday song. I was also tired of writing poems about “me.” I took Minot’s advice about rewriting a first person poem in a third person point of view. That’s when the poem really took off. I had a character to deal with. I could tell her story without sounding maudlin. In truth, I get a little bored with myself—even if the poetic “me” is a persona, it’s difficult to separate the two. It is much more interesting to me to write stories or poems about others. For me, poetry has become about observing the emotional connections in the world. It seems easier to share that connection by making the story about someone else rather than the “me” poetry that often does come off (as Minot says) as whiney.

            Minot writes, “To rearrange [the] details effectively so that they form image cluster may take several different drafts.” He was absolutely right in my case. I think my poem went through about ten versions until I finally decided to stop fiddling with it. I saw an episode of Charlie Rose the other night. He was interviewing friends of the British painter Lucian Freud, an artist who takes an incredibly long time to paint his pictures. One friend asked the painter how he knew he was finished with the picture, to which the artist replied, “When I can’t make any more changes.” I think most artists feel that way. Of course, sometimes I tend to go too far, but it was good to have someone nip it in the bud. When you [Dr. White] told me that some of my final changes were unnecessary, I was glad that you did. It kept me from noodling the poem to death. Your and the class’ suggestions did help me to strengthen the image clusters that I had developed.

            It is a pity that all the students cannot read both fiction and poetry out loud to the class, but I understand that time constraints prohibit it. I attempted to simulate the experience by sending my fiction to more than just the two required readers. I got responses from four class members, and I wish that I had gotten even more. The broader cross section of respondents provided me a better opportunity for revision by providing a range of viewpoints. I still think it would have been more beneficial to have the entire class respond, but I received some useful feedback that helped me to fine tune some aspects of my fiction.

            I have to say that I was a little off-put by Minot’s attitude toward genre fiction (sci-fi, detective stories, etc.). I feel that any form of fiction, despite its “genre,” can achieve literary quality. He seemed to advocate that only stories that are set in the “real” world and that paint a “slice of life” are literary. Maybe I have misinterpreted his attitude, but that is what I got out of the first chapters on fiction. This seems pretentious to me, but maybe that’s just the world of writing and writers. The arts don’t come without a certain contingent of the snobbish. Most of his suggestions about writing fiction, regardless of his attitude, are useful and fairly common in texts about the craft of writing. About his attitude, I must admit that I am biased. I’m a fan of the full range of speculative fiction (fantasy, horror, and science fiction). But Minot will never convince me that Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land is not a work of literary genius.

            Of all the fiction read aloud in class, I think that I enjoyed Ron’s the most. His seemed to be the closest to a professional level of writing, and although his story needed fine tuning, it seemed to achieve something that the other stories lacked. Of course, that’s just my opinion. (I hope I don’t get any hate mail for that comment.) Naturally, everyone in the class is at different levels of skill and practice, and I did enjoy other stories as well. I think the workshop worked well because of the range of familiarity with the ins and outs of the craft. Sometimes comments from a naive perspective can be the most pointed and useful. It would be good to see the creative writing class split into two sections, one for poetry and one for fiction. I think some truly serious development might occur if students had the benefit of concentrating on one form of writing at a time and if they had the opportunity to share that writing with the entire class. Perhaps this would help others to “come out” of their writing closets as well.