workshops
I wanted to discuss is a workshop technique I've been using for ages with junior high creative writers and high school same. When I'm asked to do workshops I am always trying to invent ways to get the focus on their work, and edit the "me" out of the equation: they are not there to see me, they are there to look into the mirror I fashion. How to make the clearest reflecting surface?
Or, to drop the metaphor, how to find ways for them to see the work as separate from themselves? That's probably the single biggest problem I've seen with young (or new) writers, is the idea that that's not you on the page, it's words.
The second biggest problem is the struggle I have myself: so many of us are visual writers that the words we put down are more semiotics than the beautifully crafted sentences that audial and poetic writers create. I don't mean beautifully descriptive words, or precisely chosen. When visual writers such as myself write fast (and writing fast seems to go with visual writer territory) we tend to throw down words as we race along experiencing the story, sure they capture that inward vision. Well, guess what. The word 'turkey' for us might evoke an entire scene: Iroquois, Puritans, the splintery plank tables, the smells of food cooked in brick ovens, the crunching of feet in the pine needles, the deep rumble of men's voices and the higher stream of women's voices . . . but the reader who comes along behind us, and doesn't have a USB port from our brain to theirs, just sees 'turkey.' Bleh.
So the struggle is to see what we actually wrote down, and fight the images back, so we can work on making the words better. This discovery hit me pretty nastily a few years ago, and every time I think I'm finally getting it, I discover, whoops, I put on my invisible suit again.
Anyway, to the workshop thing. So I'll be doing this one Monday coming, as it worked on some adults I tried it on at ConDor. The idea is this: everyone brings their project. They give me the opening five pages or so, and I read it out loud, for five minutes, that being about the average time most editors will give a project. I tell the kids (or workshoppers) no, don't tell me the names, don't explain anything. You can't explain to editors. I don't let them read it out loud, because the tendency is to perform it. I read them because I've been reading aloud to classrooms (along with teaching theatre) for thirty years. Everyone gets the same voice until I find the story's voice.
The author then hears her words. Here's the second part: everyone else has to have their eyes shut as they listen. If they are confused, they flick up their hands, and the author can see the motion. If they're bored, they can raise their hand, though usually the author in looking around can see who's caught up and who isn't. Then when it's over, quick responses from everyone, though kids will quickly fall into the pattern of repeat--I usually try to spot the alphas in a class and call on them last, so they don't shape the discussion around their will, as too often happens to junior high kids.
So anyway, if anyone has any ideas to add, I'd love to refine it. Like I said, I'll be doing this one with a bunch of adults come Monday.
Or, to drop the metaphor, how to find ways for them to see the work as separate from themselves? That's probably the single biggest problem I've seen with young (or new) writers, is the idea that that's not you on the page, it's words.
The second biggest problem is the struggle I have myself: so many of us are visual writers that the words we put down are more semiotics than the beautifully crafted sentences that audial and poetic writers create. I don't mean beautifully descriptive words, or precisely chosen. When visual writers such as myself write fast (and writing fast seems to go with visual writer territory) we tend to throw down words as we race along experiencing the story, sure they capture that inward vision. Well, guess what. The word 'turkey' for us might evoke an entire scene: Iroquois, Puritans, the splintery plank tables, the smells of food cooked in brick ovens, the crunching of feet in the pine needles, the deep rumble of men's voices and the higher stream of women's voices . . . but the reader who comes along behind us, and doesn't have a USB port from our brain to theirs, just sees 'turkey.' Bleh.
So the struggle is to see what we actually wrote down, and fight the images back, so we can work on making the words better. This discovery hit me pretty nastily a few years ago, and every time I think I'm finally getting it, I discover, whoops, I put on my invisible suit again.
Anyway, to the workshop thing. So I'll be doing this one Monday coming, as it worked on some adults I tried it on at ConDor. The idea is this: everyone brings their project. They give me the opening five pages or so, and I read it out loud, for five minutes, that being about the average time most editors will give a project. I tell the kids (or workshoppers) no, don't tell me the names, don't explain anything. You can't explain to editors. I don't let them read it out loud, because the tendency is to perform it. I read them because I've been reading aloud to classrooms (along with teaching theatre) for thirty years. Everyone gets the same voice until I find the story's voice.
The author then hears her words. Here's the second part: everyone else has to have their eyes shut as they listen. If they are confused, they flick up their hands, and the author can see the motion. If they're bored, they can raise their hand, though usually the author in looking around can see who's caught up and who isn't. Then when it's over, quick responses from everyone, though kids will quickly fall into the pattern of repeat--I usually try to spot the alphas in a class and call on them last, so they don't shape the discussion around their will, as too often happens to junior high kids.
So anyway, if anyone has any ideas to add, I'd love to refine it. Like I said, I'll be doing this one with a bunch of adults come Monday.