I have now, in my capacity as judge, observed five prize-nominated classes over the course of the last two weeks: Photography for Non-Majors (studio art), Drugs in U.S. Society (sociology), Cartography (geography), French composition, and an advanced acting class in the theater department, which I attended yesterday.
In the acting class, the students spent the hour in a movement exercise. Put into pairs, with the person who is also their partner in a scene they're working on from Hedda Gabler or Orpheus Descending, they had to walk around the room, at first in a seemingly random way, but later on with more and more precise instructions from the teacher, while keeping in character for their role and reacting to their partner's movement. It was fascinating. I kept writing notes. This instructor, Emily Harrison, was one of those teachers where every utterance from her lips was worth scribbling down on my pad of paper, and trying to apply to my own work as a writer and to my whole entire life.
Her first instruction: "This is not a thinking exercise, it's a doing exercise." That made me remember the advice cited by Rebecca Stead in her Newbery acceptance speech last year for When You Reach Me: "Don't think!" And it's actually how I've been writing my current novel, with much less thinking than in my previous books. I'm not thinking it, I'm just doing it.
In every scene in a play, Emily told her students, keep focusing on the question: "What does my character WANT?" Excellent writing advice, that.
And how is this for brilliant writing/life advice. As the students progressed in the exercise, which seemed at first to be going on too long, but then it seemed that the length of the exercise was precisely part of the point of it: "If you start thinking you are falling into a pattern, start doing the opposite. See what it feels like to make a different choice." Oh, Emily, I have fallen into so many problematic patterns! I need to make so many different choices!
Or: "Play with tempo. What is your character's internal tempo? Keep in mind that people in positions of power tend to have a slower tempo. The world waits for them." Hmm: my internal tempo is fast, fast, fast!
Or: "Don't be afraid of stillness. Stillness is beautiful at times."
And this wonderful closing line: "Human beings are notorious for automatically creating narrative. We are narrative-creating creatures."
Um. . . wow?
I love lines like that. I love classes like this one. And I love having a job where I get paid to attend them.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Obsessed
My plan to prioritize poetry in my life this year has now become a maniacal craze. The problem started when I discovered that I write best while something else is going on, preferably a dull philosophy department colloquium talk. But then I started writing during interesting talks, and then during important talks... It's gotten so that as soon as a speaker stands behind a podium, lines of poetry leap into my brain and my fingers start tapping out the rhythm of lines in iambic pentameter.
This week, I wrote two poems while I observed a prize-nominated class in Geography. I wrote a poem while observing the recitations led by my terrific TAs for my Intro to Ethics class. I wrote a poem during the spectacular opening night talk by philosopher Charles Mills at the Morris Colloquium.
Now, I did also pay attention to the class, and to the recitations, and to the lecture. But I have to confess that my attention was somewhat divided.
Yet, what can I do when I sit down, and all of a sudden, as if hypnotized, I start writing.
(title) How to Write a Poem
(first line) Well, first you need a lacerated wound...
Then I'm a goner!
Or:
I write a sonnet almost every day.
I've come to think in five iambic feet.
And it's true. That IS how I think these days. Oh, well, at least I am writing a lot of poetry. And I apologize to every speaker who has had me as a member of his audience.
This week, I wrote two poems while I observed a prize-nominated class in Geography. I wrote a poem while observing the recitations led by my terrific TAs for my Intro to Ethics class. I wrote a poem during the spectacular opening night talk by philosopher Charles Mills at the Morris Colloquium.
Now, I did also pay attention to the class, and to the recitations, and to the lecture. But I have to confess that my attention was somewhat divided.
Yet, what can I do when I sit down, and all of a sudden, as if hypnotized, I start writing.
(title) How to Write a Poem
(first line) Well, first you need a lacerated wound...
Then I'm a goner!
Or:
I write a sonnet almost every day.
I've come to think in five iambic feet.
And it's true. That IS how I think these days. Oh, well, at least I am writing a lot of poetry. And I apologize to every speaker who has had me as a member of his audience.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Big or Small
I am obsessed with two projects these days: 1) writing a complex and ambitious older middle-grade novel; and 2) writing poetry, poetry, poetry. Although there is absolutely no reason for me pose this question to myself, I did ask myself this morning: which one do I love best, and why? Or, maybe: which one is more satisfying, and why?
Novels are big. Because a novel is big, it's daunting to begin it. But then because it's big, once begun, one can continue happily in its world for dozens of chapters (I'm going to write Chapter 29 today), for months and months. Every day, at least now that I finally made my plan for what is going to happen next (which I didn't make until I was well past the groping halfway point), I can settle down cozily and just write another installment - though lately the installments themselves are fairly gripping, with the swath of destruction following from certain initial events widening by the hour. I have momentum. All I have to do is to keep going. In some sense the novel is now writing itself.
Poems are small. Or at least mine, and all the ones I like, are small. I have a commitment to write one every day. Because they are small, from the time I conceive one to the time I finish it is fairly brief. And because I write so many, I can be profligate with them - dashing them off with great jollity, knowing that I can always return to revise them later, but for now, I'm sowing poems through the universe, or at least my little corner of it, with a free hand. With constant completion, there is constant satisfaction. But then every day, I do have to generate an idea; that's the hardest part, coming up with the idea. But, writing a poem every day, in such merry abandon, I don't feel that it has to be all that great of an idea.
My novel is under a contract to a publisher. That gives the writing of it a certain urgency. In some sense it is work. But it is work I love beyond all telling. Still, I know that at some point the novel will be critiqued by my writing group and by my editor, praised or panned by reviewers. There is some standard out there in the world to which I need to measure up.
My poems are under a contract to my poetry buddies, but it's a contract I can unilaterally break at any time. One of the three of us just decided to take a poetry hiatus for a few weeks; I could do that, too. Heck, I could take a poetry hiatus for the rest of my life. My poetry buddies do send me some comments on my poems, and when they say, "Wow, I'm in awe!" it feels better than when they say, as one did today, "I don't think I'll remember this one as I do some of your others." But still, I'm writing the poetry more just for me than I'm writing my novel just for me.
Of course, the answer to this kind of question - "Which do you love better, x or y?" - almost always turns out to be "Both, in different ways." I guess that's my weaselly answer here, too. I love writing big things, I love writing small things, I love writing under contract, and I love writing for the sheer joy of putting words on the page.
So now I'm going to go write my poem.
And then I'm going to go write Chapter 29 of my book.
Novels are big. Because a novel is big, it's daunting to begin it. But then because it's big, once begun, one can continue happily in its world for dozens of chapters (I'm going to write Chapter 29 today), for months and months. Every day, at least now that I finally made my plan for what is going to happen next (which I didn't make until I was well past the groping halfway point), I can settle down cozily and just write another installment - though lately the installments themselves are fairly gripping, with the swath of destruction following from certain initial events widening by the hour. I have momentum. All I have to do is to keep going. In some sense the novel is now writing itself.
Poems are small. Or at least mine, and all the ones I like, are small. I have a commitment to write one every day. Because they are small, from the time I conceive one to the time I finish it is fairly brief. And because I write so many, I can be profligate with them - dashing them off with great jollity, knowing that I can always return to revise them later, but for now, I'm sowing poems through the universe, or at least my little corner of it, with a free hand. With constant completion, there is constant satisfaction. But then every day, I do have to generate an idea; that's the hardest part, coming up with the idea. But, writing a poem every day, in such merry abandon, I don't feel that it has to be all that great of an idea.
My novel is under a contract to a publisher. That gives the writing of it a certain urgency. In some sense it is work. But it is work I love beyond all telling. Still, I know that at some point the novel will be critiqued by my writing group and by my editor, praised or panned by reviewers. There is some standard out there in the world to which I need to measure up.
My poems are under a contract to my poetry buddies, but it's a contract I can unilaterally break at any time. One of the three of us just decided to take a poetry hiatus for a few weeks; I could do that, too. Heck, I could take a poetry hiatus for the rest of my life. My poetry buddies do send me some comments on my poems, and when they say, "Wow, I'm in awe!" it feels better than when they say, as one did today, "I don't think I'll remember this one as I do some of your others." But still, I'm writing the poetry more just for me than I'm writing my novel just for me.
Of course, the answer to this kind of question - "Which do you love better, x or y?" - almost always turns out to be "Both, in different ways." I guess that's my weaselly answer here, too. I love writing big things, I love writing small things, I love writing under contract, and I love writing for the sheer joy of putting words on the page.
So now I'm going to go write my poem.
And then I'm going to go write Chapter 29 of my book.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Scattered Bits of Brilliance
I'm now moving into the time of the semester where I have the opportunity to indulge in my hobby of playing student. As a longtime judge of the Graduate Teaching Excellence Award, I'm going to be sitting in on classes in disciplines including studio art, anthropology, French, all taught by graduate student instructors nominated by their departments as outstanding teachers. When I go, taking notes in diligent student style, I'm always on the lookout for not only excellent presentation of the material and successful engagement with the students, but also for little piercing and beautiful insights that I can take with me in living my life. The latter is not a criterion I use in judging the award, it's just something that makes my time in each classroom more meaningful. I like the feeling of being on a treasure hunt, a scavenger hunt for scattered bits of brilliance.
Yesterday evening I observed a photography class for non-majors taught in the Visual Arts Complex. It was wonderful. The students have an assignment to create a series of self-portraits focusing on "identity." To begin the class, the teacher presented work of some of his own favorite photographers who had done self-portraits, such as Arno Rafael Minkkinen and Cindy Sherman. I loved seeing their work through his eyes.
Here are some of the most memorable lines I wrote in my notes:
"There's millions of 1/25s of a second out there."
"This photo is not worth a thousand words; it's worth a thousand questions."
In the assignment given: "Be whatever you want to be. You have authority over your own self-portrait."
I want to get a camera now! And even if I don't, in my writing, in my novels and my poetry, I want to be on the lookout for the most significant 1/25 of a second - I want to write a thousand words that are worth a thousand questions. And maybe I CAN be whatever I want to be, at least in my own self-portrait.
Thank you, Jesse Kuroiwa.
Yesterday evening I observed a photography class for non-majors taught in the Visual Arts Complex. It was wonderful. The students have an assignment to create a series of self-portraits focusing on "identity." To begin the class, the teacher presented work of some of his own favorite photographers who had done self-portraits, such as Arno Rafael Minkkinen and Cindy Sherman. I loved seeing their work through his eyes.
Here are some of the most memorable lines I wrote in my notes:
"There's millions of 1/25s of a second out there."
"This photo is not worth a thousand words; it's worth a thousand questions."
In the assignment given: "Be whatever you want to be. You have authority over your own self-portrait."
I want to get a camera now! And even if I don't, in my writing, in my novels and my poetry, I want to be on the lookout for the most significant 1/25 of a second - I want to write a thousand words that are worth a thousand questions. And maybe I CAN be whatever I want to be, at least in my own self-portrait.
Thank you, Jesse Kuroiwa.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Home from Cincinnati
My trip to the Association of Practical and Professional Ethics conference was in every way wonderful. I have to confess that I went to only three sessions for the entire two days of the conference: the session at which I was speaking, the session at which my former grad student and next-year DePauw colleague Jen was speaking, and the keynote address (and I wrote my poem for the day during the keynote address).
But here is what I did instead (including what I did on the plane rides, the bus rides, and the waiting time in the airport):
1. Wrote two chapters on my novel - one of them a real humdinger
2. Wrote three poems, including two of my best-ever sonnets
3. Read two books, including the 400-page Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand, a fabulous story told by a fabulous storyteller
4. Read a colleague's manuscript and three essays that are finalists for an undergraduate writing award
5. Had a wonderful dinner with new friends from DePauw
6. Had breakfast, two lunches, and another (bar-snacky) dinner with dear old friend whom I love beyond all telling
7. Toured the extremely impressive National Underground Railroad Freedom Center on the Ohio River in Cincinnati
8. Had Graeter's ice cream twice - once black cherry, and once black raspberry chocolate chip
9. Made many people read my poems including one scathing one that is too inappropriate to post on my blog but is probably my poetic masterpiece
10. Had not one, not two, not three, but four pomegranate martinis in the hotel bar.
I call that an excellent conference indeed.
But here is what I did instead (including what I did on the plane rides, the bus rides, and the waiting time in the airport):
1. Wrote two chapters on my novel - one of them a real humdinger
2. Wrote three poems, including two of my best-ever sonnets
3. Read two books, including the 400-page Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand, a fabulous story told by a fabulous storyteller
4. Read a colleague's manuscript and three essays that are finalists for an undergraduate writing award
5. Had a wonderful dinner with new friends from DePauw
6. Had breakfast, two lunches, and another (bar-snacky) dinner with dear old friend whom I love beyond all telling
7. Toured the extremely impressive National Underground Railroad Freedom Center on the Ohio River in Cincinnati
8. Had Graeter's ice cream twice - once black cherry, and once black raspberry chocolate chip
9. Made many people read my poems including one scathing one that is too inappropriate to post on my blog but is probably my poetic masterpiece
10. Had not one, not two, not three, but four pomegranate martinis in the hotel bar.
I call that an excellent conference indeed.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
"Personal Business"
When my sister and I were little, a year apart in age, we had a favorite game, if you can call it a game, called "Personal Business." We each had something called a pegboard box: it was a wooden box about the size of an 8 1/2 by 11 pad of paper, with a sliding cover that had little holes in it - that was the pegboard. Inside the box had originally been the pegs, and you were supposed to use them to make peg designs on the cover. But at this point in our childhood, I don't know where the pegs had gone. All we had were the two boxes.
Into each one we'd each put whatever we wanted to "work" on that day: something to write, a book to read - I'm not sure what other kind of thing it would have been - maybe one of those potholders to make with cloth loops on one of those little metal loom? Then we'd take our pegboard boxes and climb back into our beds and work on our "personal business" happily for hours.
That's how I feel when I start out on a short trip for work, like my trip to Cincinnati today for the Association for Practical and Professional Ethics conference. My backpack is my pegboard box stuffed full of appealing little projects to do on the plane. In mine right now is my work-in-progress on my novel, of course, and the book I'm reading for my book group this month - Unbroken, by Laura Hillenbrand - and another book I'm reviewing, and a colleague's manuscript to read, and three essays I'm judging for a university writing contest, plus the special notebook where I write down my goals and dreams.
The fun of the trip starts the instant the bus to DIA pulls away from the Park and Ride, and I take out the first tempting item from the stash and launch into blissful hours of "personal business." In two hours, the game of personal business will begin!
Into each one we'd each put whatever we wanted to "work" on that day: something to write, a book to read - I'm not sure what other kind of thing it would have been - maybe one of those potholders to make with cloth loops on one of those little metal loom? Then we'd take our pegboard boxes and climb back into our beds and work on our "personal business" happily for hours.
That's how I feel when I start out on a short trip for work, like my trip to Cincinnati today for the Association for Practical and Professional Ethics conference. My backpack is my pegboard box stuffed full of appealing little projects to do on the plane. In mine right now is my work-in-progress on my novel, of course, and the book I'm reading for my book group this month - Unbroken, by Laura Hillenbrand - and another book I'm reviewing, and a colleague's manuscript to read, and three essays I'm judging for a university writing contest, plus the special notebook where I write down my goals and dreams.
The fun of the trip starts the instant the bus to DIA pulls away from the Park and Ride, and I take out the first tempting item from the stash and launch into blissful hours of "personal business." In two hours, the game of personal business will begin!
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Pomegranate Martinis Tomorrow
Tomorrow I leave for Cincinnati to attend the annual conference of the Association for Practical and Professional Ethics, a conference I have attended 18 times over the last 20 years. This is the 20th year anniversary of the conference, and I've missed only twice. It's a joyful occasion for me to hear some stimulating papers, but also to connect with beloved former grad students who first attended the conference under my chaperonage and are now all grown-up and coming with grad students of their own.
This year I'm not presenting a paper, but giving comments in an Author Meets Critics session on a book called The Ethics of Parenting by Norvin Richards, newly released from Oxford University Press. A lot of my own philosophical work has been in this area - I've written papers on issues ranging from the rise of the use of Ritalin and other behavior-modifying medications for children to conflicts between parents and non-parents in the workplace - so I was pleased to be invited to read Richards's book and reflect on it.
But the best part of the conference will be the pomegranate martinis with Sara and Chris in the hotel bar of this beautiful art deco hotel, the Netherland Plaza Hilton, on the National Register of Historic Places. Oh, I hope they have them again this year! But even if they don't, I imagine that I can find some palatable substitute. And Sara, Chris, and I will talk for hours and hours and hours, listening to the piano player's schmaltzy selections. I can't wait.
This year I'm not presenting a paper, but giving comments in an Author Meets Critics session on a book called The Ethics of Parenting by Norvin Richards, newly released from Oxford University Press. A lot of my own philosophical work has been in this area - I've written papers on issues ranging from the rise of the use of Ritalin and other behavior-modifying medications for children to conflicts between parents and non-parents in the workplace - so I was pleased to be invited to read Richards's book and reflect on it.
But the best part of the conference will be the pomegranate martinis with Sara and Chris in the hotel bar of this beautiful art deco hotel, the Netherland Plaza Hilton, on the National Register of Historic Places. Oh, I hope they have them again this year! But even if they don't, I imagine that I can find some palatable substitute. And Sara, Chris, and I will talk for hours and hours and hours, listening to the piano player's schmaltzy selections. I can't wait.
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