above the red
This summer, thousands of ambitious writers will move to new towns and cities in order to pursue their MFAs. Others will start (mostly) online programs in the fall. All of them will be subjected to workshops. These are two strategies that they can use to make those workshops spaces for creative growth and to resist homogenization, as well as some thoughts about what those of us who teach creative writing can do to encourage such approaches.
Focus more on what you have to say to your co-learners about their work than on what they have to say to you. I am not advocating this approach out of an idealistic notions about community, cooperation, or sacrifice. Commenting on peers’ work forces you to formulate and state your own poetics. Done right, it forces you examine and interrogate your poetics. Do not be satisfied with saying that a line sounds or does not sound musical; figure out why. When you find a part of a piece that departs from craft standards, or that you otherwise dislike, consider whether what seems to be a flaw has a function in the work. Examine, also, the politics and ideas of the piece. How are they connected to technique? If you cannot answer these questions on your own, ask other students what they think.
The easy way for teachers to encourage students to focus more on the feedback they give is to increase how important that work is for students’ overall grades. Evaluation should reflect the importance of different aspects of the course, but creating this kind of external motivation is not enough. Teachers need to model the sort of feedback we want to see, as Paisley Rekdal describes doing:
I broke the poem down, slowly, line by line, image by image, asking the class to discuss the issues of race and writing: what was this language really doing in the poem? What it was hoping to achieve, what—to an audience full of people that might not be in this workshop at this time—might it sound like? I went on like this for ten minutes, being respectful but pointed about the arguments about race that the poem was making through its aesthetic choices.
There also needs to be space for the generation of fully considered critiques. Students need time to spend with each others’ work before being required to come up with responses. I like to have students write a few formal responses as part of this process and to add hybrid elements to in-person classes that allow students to discuss work at any time. Finally, asking students at the end of the term to reflect on what they learned from commenting on others’ work encourages them to see giving feedback as an act that benefits them.
When you receive feedback on your work, no matter how well-considered it is, you have to decide what to do with it. Your choices are not limited to following or ignoring advice. More often than not, as a student, I decided to do more of whatever my peers disliked. If they thought a poem should have a more conservative structure, I splattered it across the page. If they objected to specific words, I made them end-words in a sestina. I didn’t just do this because I was a rebellious little cuss, though at barely 5′, I was and am that. Rather, I saw that the things that struck others as wrong were my only chance at having a distinctive voice. By definition, these were things that others were not doing, so I wanted to figure out how to make them work.
Now I subscribe to the notion that perfect craft and perfect poems are inherently impossible and would be boring anyway if they could be achieved. What interests me is creating fascinating flaws in my work—imperfections that make the work part of the world. Wabi-sabi aesthetics have influenced this pursuit.
Teachers can encourage this kind of resistance in responding to feedback as well. Simply stating that it is a possibility can have an effect. We can also ask students to write a piece that goes against the feedback that they have received, or generate prompts that go against popular attitudes expressed in comments.
___opening of rain
of glue until the white
cabinets have all gone yellow
I don’t even know the sound
that held me apart from the scene
until it stops and the sun
shatters cold across my back
Regal, region, arid, rest.
I’ve been part of them all. Lover, but never loved. Adored, but never wanted.
Garbage, trash, rubbish.
I’ve never been included in the last, but I could be. I’ve been left alone on a wooden a slat. I’ve been abandoned, in that same place, with wooden colleagues with whom I was, long before, thrown together in resistance, which started with the verb.
Cure, care, assure.
I’ve even been part of more. And more is what I want. As long as I stay here with the characters of my kind, I can only belong to isolated words and maybe the occasional triple letter score. Three times myself is not enough. Or, ore, and ores are not enough. Orange is not enough, and neither is green. I want to make words that make sentences and lines, maybe paragraphs. I don’t dare dream of novels or scripts.
Drift, scatter, scree.
I want to be a letter who belongs to Letters and not just to the word. If that means giving up the board, my peers, and my part in human competition, then at least I can take part in sacrifice as well.
What draws me to flash fiction is the way its brevity foregrounds two things: concept and style. Longer fiction can have these elements too; works like Finnegans Wake may even be dominated by one of them. Such an emphasis, however, is not inherent to the nature of the novel or of the longer short story. Those forms have space for elements like character development and the kind of plot that twists more than once or even sustains suspense across more words than a work of flash fiction can have at all. These things are not required for a longer story, but they are expected more often than not, and a writer working in longer fiction needs to be aware of that.
Where longer fiction takes a flash of inspiration and expands it or connects it with other flashes, flash fiction preserves and conveys the moment. In this way, it resembles much of the short, lyric poetry that is written today. I wrote poetry before I wrote fiction; flash fiction gave me a way into fiction. That said, the kinds of ideas that become poetry differ from those that become flash fiction—at least in my practice. I am far more pun-prone in prose: thus when “A Bad Haircut” becomes an evil haircut, I make flash fiction from it rather than poetry.
All this raises the question of where the boundary between flash fiction and prose poetry lies, but any such division will always be arbitrary. A more interesting question, to me, is how the notion that the two are different can be exploited by a writer. Short, single-sentence paragraphs locate the work in the space between the two forms because of their resemblance to lines (or single-line verses). Long and short paragraphs (though long is relative to the confines of a very short work) may be used to give the work a rhythm in the way long and short lines are used, even if the piece otherwise resembles a brief prose narrative.
If you write in this form, do you play with the line between flash fiction and prose poetry? And how do you do it?