The night is brisk, our breath freezing in front of us as we walk the meadow path. The dark trees rise up like mountains at the edge of our property. When May was a child, she thought the trees were a wilderness. She could walk forever in there and not see anything. It was only later that she found the road and later still that she crossed over and went down the path on the other side that lead to the industrial park and then over the Veteran’s Park and to 95 where the traffic was constant. It only took fifteen minutes to walk through the woods and come up to Parsons and then only five minutes to walk to the overpass where the cars never stopped. By then, she says, I couldn’t get lost in those woods to save my life and I don’t even think about going in there these days because of the teenagers. Me and her just stay on the meadow path. If I listen, she says, I can hear 95. Now I can hear the helicopter tours all day, too. And then there’s someone always running a lawn-mower or leaf-blower or jackhammer or compressor or a siren wailing nearby. There’s not a stitch of silence. Off to the south, we can see the lights from town. There’s a bridge that has a blinking red light and the radio tower at WERH that has two flashing white lights. Just to the left of the tower is a little house that used to belong to May’s aunt, a feisty little woman who refused to sell her property when they put in the station and the tower and the mini-strip mall that never seems to keep any store longer than a few months. May says that the radio tower made her aunt sick. The last time she saw her, they were taking her out on a stretcher. May’s mother was holding her aunt’s hand. She says she can’t remember any sound from that night. The ambulance lights were flashing, but there was no sound. She says it has something to do with the radio tower, but I don’t know what to say to that.
Last semester, a student came to me and told me that he had to write a paper about a class at UNH. He asked if he could interview me and sit in on a couple of my fiction writing classes. I said yes, but only if he made me sound like I knew what I was doing when he wrote the paper. His name is Kenny Cashman. He wrote an excellent paper. And I’m not just saying that because I’m the subject. He effectively described the tone and nature of my undergraduate intermediate fiction writing course (the only thing different about this semester’s course is that I no longer have the long braid that my students mention here). He told me I could post his essay below. Thanks Kenny!
A Class About Stories
Professor Clark Knowles, simply referred to as “Clark” by his students, walks into the classroom and writes two quotes, both about writing, on the white boards at the front of the room. Most of his students have already arrived and are sitting down in the array of desks in front of him. As Clark writes on the board, the students continue on with their side conversations. Clark engages in conversation with a few students, and then he addresses the rest of the class. When it is clear that class has begun, the students’ side conversations end. Clark begins by reading aloud a quote from Donna Tartt.
“Very nebulous. You don’t know what you’re doing for a long time. It seems like a huge mess because it is a huge mess. If you looked at the notes from early on in the writing of this book, you’d think, ‘This person is crazy. This could never be a novel.’ That’s how all my books have felt when I started writing them. Trying to explain them to people was like trying to explain a dream.”
Clark then uses a novel that he is in the process of writing as an example to explain the quote to the class.
“It’s finished, but it’s a huge mess, because it’s just a first draft. Trying to explain it literally is like trying to explain a dream. If I say, ‘Oh, it takes place partly in the afterlife, and Napoleon plays a big role in the book, and part of the book takes place in Egypt when Napoleon was waging his Egyptian campaign, and part of it takes place in Japan in the year 2080, and part of it takes place in small-town America, 1960,’ that’s, like, nuts. That sounds crazy. That could never be a novel. But when I wrote it down, it seemed to be working.”
Clark teaches Intermediate Fiction Writing Workshop at the University of New Hampshire. Students in his class are expected to know the fundamentals of writing, and he thus focuses more on creativity and good stories than the technical aspect of writing.
The class takes place in a plain-looking university classroom with bare walls and two whiteboards at the front of the room. The wooden desks are arranged in a semicircle close to the walls of the room.
“I try to do some writing exercises outside, with the weather permitting. I try to get over to the art gallery because I think it’s a great place to, you know, just break out,” Clark says when asked about the creative energy of his classroom. “You can’t really be creative in these rooms with the fluorescents and the hard-ass desks.”
Clark’s own office is a square room decorated with shelves of books and miscellaneous posters, including a rather large one of Homer Simpson. While we discuss his class, Clark sits in his desk chair, his laptop on the desk in front of him. When he stands, he is six feet and four inches tall. His brown hair is long and tied back into a ponytail, and he wears rectangular glasses with rounded edges. He has a deep voice that naturally projects and fills the room both when he is speaking to me in his office and when he is addressing his students in the classroom.
Before class begins, Clark’s students file into the semicircle of desks as they enter the classroom. Before Clark comes in to begin the class, they discuss the riots that occurred on Main Street the previous night after the Red Sox won the World Series. One of the students, a blonde boy named Aidan, eats a bagel as he tells his friends about how his jeans still smelled of pepper spray the morning after the riots.
I seize the opportunity to talk with the students before the start of class, and I ask the group what was the biggest factor in their decision to take the course.
“Clark’s ponytail,” Aidan says, and everybody around him laughs. Then, he gives me a real answer. “It’s a more beneficial class than 401 or Literary Journalism in that it forces you to write creatively.”
After arriving and presenting his daily quotes, Clark starts the class with any relevant announcements before sitting down in his chair at the front of the room and beginning the workshopping process, during which the class discusses what they liked and what they thought could have been done better in a story. While Clark towers over the students when he stands, he sits on the same level as the students before him as they all prepare to workshop a student’s writing.
When I ask Clark what his favorite part is about teaching Intermediate Fiction Writing Workshop, he answers instantly.
“Break,” he says, and then he laughs. “I always go for the laugh, if I can.” After thinking for a moment, he comes up with his real answer.
“Seeing somebody get it,” he says. “Even if it’s only for a paragraph…I’m not an editor, so I don’t break stuff down that way, but I love being able to point out, ‘See? This paragraph is the key paragraph of the whole piece because of what you do with this one detail.’ Seeing somebody knowing that they got that little, small thing is cool.”
Students are always given their peer’s story prior to the class when it is to be workshopped, and Clark removes the names from all of the stories to encourage unbiased comments from the writer’s peers.
At the beginning of the workshop, Clark asks if anybody thinks they know who wrote the first story, and a student correctly guesses that the story was written by another student named Alex. Alex then reads an excerpt selected by Clark. Alex’s piece is the story of a few teenagers who are having a hallucinogenic drug trip and one character’s struggle with a romantic interest named Emma. After Alex finishes reading his excerpt, Clark asks him where the idea for his story originated.
“It kind of came from just, you know, this summer, writing about festivals and seeing all kinds of people and all kinds of different things,” Alex says.
“Never indulging, though,” Aidan interjects. A few students laugh.
“In your writing process, you’re still early on?” Clark asks.
“Yeah, this is, like, a shitty first draft,” Alex says.
“One step above shitty.” Clark laughs. “You fixed your commas and stuff.”
Clark redirects his attention from Alex to the rest of the class. “What’s working best for you so far?”
Clark always has the person whose story was workshopped last begin the discussion. This time, it is a girl with light brown hair who starts things off. “I really liked the tone all the way throughout. I couldn’t have written this story with that tone.”
A boy with short brown hair raises his hand, and Clark calls on him to speak next. “I also liked the description you used, like on the first page, the third paragraph. After Emma just left, obviously he’s pretty bummed. And you conveyed that well just by describing the room and the setting, rather than just saying that he’s upset.”
Clark speaks next. “You couldn’t help but notice Emma. ‘Short, lovely, green-eyed Emma.’ Even though that’s only the slightest bit of physical description, because of the tone, you get a good picture of who she is. It works nicely.”
Clark then calls on a girl with long, blonde hair, who had raised her hand. “I like how the narrator felt like a friend. I feel like you were able to get away with talking about drinking, and smoking, and doing drugs so much and have it not be like, ‘Okay, I get it; you’re drunk.’” Clark laughs. “Just because it was so casual. It was just like a conversation.”
There is a pause, and for a few moments, nobody speaks or raises a hand. Then, a boy with a beard and a baseball cap raises his hand, and Clark calls on him.
“Some stories you read, you have to overanalyze or think hard, and this was just kind of relaxing to read. I kind of just went along for the ride. It’s refreshing to read something like that.”
“Does anybody else have something to add?” Clark said. He often asked this of the class, but he never called on anybody to speak if they didn’t have their hand raised.
A boy who is wearing a baseball cap backwards raises a hand. “My favorite part was when they actually started the trip. Your descriptions of the world and the way they were viewing it and that shift of mentality, I thought you described it really well. Like on page nine, there are a lot of good descriptions like ‘the trees swaying like colony of ants and puffs of Milky Way shooting across the sky in a fantastic geometric display.”
Aidan then chimes in. “That was my favorite part of the story, too. Whether you did it on purpose or not, the writing changed. The writing during the trip was way more fluid, I feel, whereas everything else was a little scattered because he’s anxious and overthinking this girl and stressing out about drugs and cigarettes and stuff.”
“Even if you compare the sentences,” Clark says, “you’ll see a big difference. And that might be because you were finding a groove–”
“It got a little later in the night,” Alex says. A few students laugh.
“I was wondering if the music lingo was tough for people who weren’t musicians,” Alex adds. Students around the room speak all at once, all saying that the language wasn’t too confusing.
“The only word that confused me was on page seven,” Aidan says. “Talking about swing dancing in the middle school gym, ‘he found it to be much more useful than juggling scarves or taninkling.’”
Students murmured their agreement with Aidan.
Alex laughs. “Taninkling was this dance thing that we had to do in the middle school gym. It’s, like, with these sticks, and…” Alex attempts to pantomime taninkling from his seat as he explains it, but he drops his hands in defeat as the class begins laughing. “I don’t know.”
“What kind of school did you go to?” Clark says. The class laughs some more.
“Public school,” Alex says, smiling. “But, yeah, it was like the most useless thing, and we spent, like, two weeks learning how to do it.”
“There’s a story right there,” Clark says. “Some kid in a taninkling class.” Again, the students laugh.
“There were a whole bunch of those things in this story that really worked,” Clark says as the laughter dies down and he brings the class back together. “But that’s obviously good stuff. Let’s talk about where Alex can take what he thinks is a shitty first draft back and sort of unpack it a little bit.”
Jason, a UNH faculty member who is taking Clark’s course for fun, speaks out. “The part I had the most trouble with was…the fact that nothing happens. There’s no consequences for any of this. There’s a great conflict setup with Emma at the beginning that never goes anywhere, and there’s potential for conflict with Julia that resolves itself without ever getting into actual conflict.”
“Trouble, right?” says Clark. “You need a little more trouble.”
“Yeah,” says Jason. “There’s nothing at stake here.”
The student with the beard and the baseball cap raises his hand again. “The one thing I wrote was that because it didn’t really have a conflict or resolution or anything, it didn’t feel like a short story. I love the style and everything you had, but missing that piece, I wasn’t really sure what you were doing.”
The blonde girl speaks out next. “I think that because this conflict with Emma kind of disappears, the end kind of feels rushed because it’s just all of a sudden, ‘everything’s great.’ It kind of ties it with a bow. And I just wasn’t ready for it to be resolved already. I just feel like everything fell into place, but we didn’t even see a shift in character. We weren’t there when he had a realization when he was tripping or something; he just woke up and everything was dandy. So maybe just another scene or something like that.”
Jason speaks out again and pitches an idea for such a scene. “Well, I mean, he’s on acid; he’s going to be hallucinating, so he hallucinates Emma and hashes it out with her, and he works through it and finally realizes, you know, maybe I was being a dick, and that’s why things didn’t work out. Or maybe he realizes something about her and that it was just never going to work out no matter what he did.”
The blonde girl speaks again. “I had an idea that she would come in when he was tripping and stuff, too, or just plague his thoughts a little bit.”
“Even if it wasn’t hallucinating, I think that that might be a scene to play around with to bring her back in,” says Clark. “Even if it’s an actual visit from her, it’s going to be weird because of his state of mind at the moment. You don’t necessarily have to have a hallucination.”
“Any other closing ideas?” Clark says a moment later. “Did we miss anything that somebody wanted to bring up that we didn’t? Unfortunately, these go by quick. I do have a title suggestion, though.”
“Yeah, I hate that title,” Alex says.
“On page six, you have your title, I think: ‘Somewhere far from real.’” Clark says.
Quiet “oohs” bubble up around the classroom, followed by laughter.
“Why don’t you just do title ideas for everyone?” Aidan says.
“If I see them, I throw them out there,” Clark says. “For this one, that totally jumped out.”
“Did we miss anything you wanted us to get?” Clark says to Alex.
“Nope. The one thing I was thinking was that maybe if it was in first person, would that kind of clear up a little more of the confusion?”
“What do people think?” Clark says to the class. “I mean, you could try. I’d always say give it a shot; give it a couple pages and see what happens.”
Aidan turns to Alex. “I mean, given the nature of an acid trip, I feel like first person would give you a lot more freedom with describing what he’s seeing and the thoughts in his head.”
“I’d give it a shot, and even if you end up not liking it, you’ll figure something out about the characters,” Clark says. “It feels like it’ll give you a lot of freedom, but it’s really a trap. Really, it’s a way of limiting yourself. But try it. It’s not a bad idea to try it.”
“I try to make it clear that I’m just an opinion,” Clark says when asked about his participation in workshops. “I think I have good things to say, but I want to encourage disagreement. That model where everybody talks, and then the teacher sort of chimes in and says what’s really going on with the story–I don’t want to do that. It’s more of a conversation…I try to just include myself in the conversation.”
This writing workshop is a place where students can go to tell stories about anything they want; Clark has made it clear that there’s no censorship, and story topics range from drug trips, to urban rhapsody, to post-apocalyptic societies.
“I think we all do kind of the same stuff,” Clark says when asked how his class differs from other fiction writing courses. “I’m probably not the most demanding, in terms of reading other things. I ask a certain amount of reading short stories…I think I’m demanding creatively…that might be the only difference, maybe? That I spend less time reading stuff and more time focusing on the writing.”
On the wall opposite where I sit in Clark’s office, a quote–his favorite quote about writing–is written on the wall. “We work in the dark–we do what we can–we give what we have. Out doubt is our passion, and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.”
“It’s by Henry James,” Clark says when asked about the quote. “I’ve been down here fifteen years, and I didn’t have a window, so I decided to write it on the wall…It just speaks to what writing is to me…I love ‘the madness of art’; it’s my favorite part of the quote…I think that anything good I’ve ever written, I really didn’t have much to do with. I got out of the way. That’s the madness of art.”
Advice about “getting out of the way” of your own writing is exactly what you will receive in Clark’s class, along with how best to tell a story and what it means to be creative.
“I don’t really know if I teach writing anymore,” Clark says. “I feel like, in a creative class like this…that the conversation really is about being creative, about what it takes to be creative…I think for the most part, it’s really about finding a space where you can sort of tell the story that you feel like telling. That’s such a huge part of it.”
So I’m at the stage of drafting that requires a great deal of focus and trust. Without laser-like attention, I feel this project could run off the rails at any moment. If I lose trust in the process, the whole thing could come to a screaming halt. If I allow doubt to weasel into my head and linger, I could easily doubt the draft into a drawer somewhere where it would never see the light of day and never be finished. I felt some of this today after a few awkward sentences. I felt it last night as I compared my messy handwritten draft to a polished and exceptionally written new novel. It is, for me, the most precarious moment in my writing life. This is me insisting to myself that I should continue writing, even when my own imagination isn’t living up to its harsh demands.
JM Tohline asked me questions. I answered. He posted them here. I don’t get interviewed all that much. Thanks JM! Here is a picture of a pony for JM. Run free my new writing camp friend!
I haven’t been able to get to the page recently. Temporary, I know. But I’ve been trying to keep the doors to the creative space open somehow. Doodles fit the bill. Here’s what comes of a writer not writing but not wanting not to write. That last sentence is a work of genius. Have I mentioned I learn people writing? I do. I learn ’em good.
The College of Liberal Arts at the University of New Hampshire awarded me one of three teaching excellence awards. They say some nice things about me here:
I think in my head I’ve always downplayed my teaching. Part of me has always thought, I’m teaching until I break on through (to the other side) and get that big advance and buy a private island and tell everyone to pound sand and laugh like a crazy person as I wave my fat wads of cash about willy-nilly and light cigars-most-foul with hundred dollar bills.
But in reality, this is what I do. I’m grateful for my job. I do the best I can at being a good teacher, at least. I work with nice people. My students are really smart. A lot of them are way smarter than me. Way smarter. I often have rocket scientists in my classes. Actual rocket scientists. And bio-chemists. And future business titans. And people who will grow tomorrow’s crops and nurse tomorrow’s sick and counsel tomorrow’s troubled and write tomorrow’s books.
It seems so odd that I get to teach writing. There’s so much I don’t know about writing. Sometimes, I wonder if I know anything at all. You sit down at the blank page. You find a creative space. You stay there till the page isn’t blank any longer. You revise. What else is there? The students who said (in the interviews) that they came away from class as changed people…I don’t know what that’s about. I hope it was good change. I hope their parents don’t hate me for encouraging their children to seek a life in words (dooming their potentially prosperous, fabulous, wealthy, rewarding careers).
I’m very appreciative of the folks in the English department who nominated me and said nice things about me and my teaching. I’d like to thank each and everyone of them for allowing me to steal all their best ideas for use in my own classroom. And now you’ll have to excuse me… I have some papers to read and some books to recommend. It is, after all, my job.
Looking at creative spaces. When the words are difficult to come by, allowing myself to explore in other ways. Thinking about creating without expectation. Trying to enter the creative space without defining the creative space. Focusing on the creative space in the moment, not in tomorrow or the next day. How many times have I attempted to create while managing the expectations of a creative life at the same time? Countless times. Always. How and where I will publish, who will read and like my work, how I’ll spend my advance money. Where did the expectations take me? Toward not creating. While writing ApocalypseNation, I have been nurturing expectations. I’ve spent much time wondering what it meant for me to be writing a zombie novel and what I should expect by the end result. It kept me from actually writing the darn thing! It was supposed to be fun book to write, but it became drudgery.
Slowly, I’ve been reigning in the expectations. As soon as I made the attempt to simply write AN each day, only in the moment, the story opened up. I was less constrained by my plot, less rigid in my “literary” leanings. Roads that had been blocked were suddenly clear. Writing without expecting anything of the creative space made the creative space larger. It made the creative space a more desirable place to spend time.
I wish this was a lesson I could teach myself once and retain. But each creative endeavor requires that I trudge the road of creative destiny again from the beginning. Today, I’m doodling in my moleskine while waiting for students to come talk to me about writing. Later, I’ll write.
Obsessed with doodling in my moleskines (small) and writing in my moleskines (large). One creative endeavor leading to another. The creative space requires a lot of room, both internally and externally. I’ve cleared my desk of all non-creative things. Onward and outward I (and we) go.
Vote Quimby. Sent from my iPhone