Plotters, Pantsers, and Underpantsers: Taking Mythic Structures into the prison

I just finished my first day back with my prison students after a three-week break, and, as usual, I'm totally psyched. Never do the hours fly by faster than there, and I always leave jazzed and happy. Today was especially interesting, because I'm trying something new, something which, to my knowledge, has not been done. I'm taking several different theories of dramatic structure, holding them up alongside several theories of story structure, and carrying all of it into the prison. Throughout the nine-week course, I'm hoping that the students will see that there are many different structures available for planning a long work like a screenplay or a novel. For the less linear, pantser types, I'm doing a lot of freewriting and intuitive exercises, too, ultimately trying to tap into both sides of the brain. From what I've learned so far with my own writing, long projects involve both, and both the planning and revision stages are, at best, a dance between the right and left side of the brain.

So today, the first day, I introduced the basic concept of the course, along with the vocabulary of plotter vs. pantser. I told them how I'd always been a pantser, but I'm really trying to become a plotter, or at least something somewhere in between. When I finish the novel I'm working on now, I'm going to use the curriculum that I'm developing for this class myself to write the next one, hoping that I can forestall some of the major structural overhauling I ended up having to do with this one. I realize that having a plan won't mean that my first draft won't have problems, but I do think that many deep structural issues can be identified early on, in the outline or synopsis stages. At any rate, it's something I'd like to try, both for myself and for my students.

Ironically, when I talked about the plotter vs. pantser approaches, the class sharply divided into two camps. In one of those beautiful learning moments that no teacher can predict, there were two guys who argued--respectfully, of course, over the pros and cons of plotting. They asked each other questions, said things like "but I can't imagine letting my characters take over the story that way" and "but I can't imagine reigning in my characters that way." It was fascinating to watch the conversation unfold, until one shy guy in the corner spoke up.

"I'm an underpantser," he said. The whole room went silent, unsure of what they heard. He said it again, and everyone burst out laughing. Then he explained that prior to the class, he'd always only written for school, and that he usually finished writing his first drafts on the way into the classroom to turn in the paper, if not sitting in the desk while the other students came into the room. He said he felt like he wasn't even flying by the seat of his pants, but by the seat of his underpants. Everyone laughed again, and then he told us that he always had ideas, but just never could commit to writing them down. I told him this class might be good for him, because he could use it to test out whether his ideas were viable, whether they were ideas other people were interested in, but most importantly, whether they would continue to interest him. "A novel is a long commitment," I said, "and you want to be sure that the idea itself is worth it." After getting a little more ribbing from his classmates about that comment, he grinned and nodded.

I don't know what he'll go back to his cell thinking, and I have no idea how much he'll plot, pants, or plan. But I hope he does start putting down his ideas on paper, because it seems like he, like all these guys, has an awful lot to say. And so many of them, given the space, time, and structure in which to write, can tell the most harrowing and interesting of stories.

As I drove back through the winding, coastal Texas roads, thunder clouds gathered above the cornfields and lightning spiked the darkening sky. I came to the place where the road widens, where, if you look off to the left, you can see a building that says 1-800-SKYDIVE. The skydivers weren't out in the thunderclouds and the sputtering rain, but I remembered the times I've seen them, lingering in the air, only five miles from the prison. They leap out, arms outstretched, face forward, meeting the air--and then they glide.

Braveheart

Check out Aubrey Hirsch on the bravery it takes to write a first novel:

"When the despair sets in it reminds me of of being on airplane. I’ve always been a nervous flyer. I analyze every bump and whir. I hesitate to make plans when vacationing, as I never expect to make it to my destination alive. Every time I force myself down the jet-way, I am absolutely positive that I will die."

And yet she keeps flying.

Here's to our firsts.  Keep at it, my friends.

--MD

Handling Warp Speed

Today on twitter someone described the pace of change in the publishing industry as “blistering.” It’s a good adjective – and spot on. With the pace and the pressure in the book world today, it’s easy, I think, to get wrapped up in the speed, the new vocabulary, the rush to try the newest platform/gadget/software. But for me, in times like this, I actually settle in to myself, simply, literally, put my feet back on the ground. I don’t worry about the latest gadget. I try to avoid the rush and hum. In the midst of the noise, you see, there are always the stories. And stories connect us. It’s not that I’m disinterested in how the industry is developing. I’m keenly interested in the changes. It’s simply that I don’t want to flap and puff about it. Right now everything is shifting. It’s an adventure in books. It’s scary, liberating, challenging, and exciting. Recently I discovered a writer whose novel is a riot—a smart, funny, well written tale that is only coming to me because ebooks allow it. Five years ago, my chances of finding this author would have been nil (more about him later!)

And that’s what I keep my focus on right now, as the publishing world moves in to warp speed: the stories are there, in abundance. Good stories by talented voices.

Buy This Book: Jane Bradley's dark and compelling heartbreaker "You Believers"

Of all the books burning up my TBR pile the last few months, Jane Bradley's You Believers is the one I was dreading most -- for the same reason I dreaded but felt compelled to read Masha Hamilton's 31 Hours. Being the parent of young adults in this world is just flat terrifying. Books about the worst that can happen are not my fave, but when a book is just too beautifully written to resist, well, you know it's going to leave a scar, but you read it anyway.

Oddly enough, this author came to my attention in the context of a text book, Screenwriting 101: Starting Small While Thinking Big (which is terrific but quite expensive, if you're into that), and a bit of the ol' google took me to her short story collection, Are We Lucky Yet?. (Bradley's earlier short story collection, Power Lines and Other Stories was cited as a NYT notable book.) She's an amazing writer, and in her capable hands, a story that could have gone very Nancy Grace ends up being about humanity rather than inhumanity.

Per the PR:

A young woman goes missing, and her mother uproots her life to find her daughter. But it is not just the heartbreak or the deep mystery of the hunt for lost loved ones that Bradley so convincingly explores. Rather, with the help of an amazingly dedicated searcher, family and friends somehow learn to move past unspeakable horror and celebrate the tenacity of the human spirit. ...Part Southern gothic, part crime, part haunting suspense story, You Believers takes us on an infinitely harrowing journey that rewards the reader with insight into how we might endure horrible events with faith, strength, and grace even while it reveals the ripple effects of random violence.

Based on a real crime to which Bradley has a personal tangent, You Believers is a mystery in which there's a murder. We know what happened and who did it early on. The suspense is in agonizing through the experience from various POV's, wondering how anyone can survive, recover, go on, or draw any kind of breath after life takes such a heart-sickening twist.

Quoth Jodi Picoult, the diva of all such stories:
"You Believers examines the anatomy of a horrific crime from every angle. ... Several perfectly pitched Southern narratives weave together to form a strong song of love, loss, and human resilience. A gripping, intense read."

Yeah. What she said.

Active Birds and Quiet Domesticity: Yvonne Murphy reads from Aviaries

When I first got to UH, there were a few young women who were my SHEROS. Brave and talented, these women were smart, savvy teachers and writers and battled gender stereotypes every day. In particular, I resonated with the work and personality of Yvonne Murphy, a poet who also taught for Writers in the Schools. When the WITS staff tapped her as my mentor, I was more than delighted, and went along to the elementary school where she was working with the children on literary techniques like rhyme and onomatopoeia. There's a lot of attention to sound in Yvonne's work, and she was giving those children the gift of that attention. I watched as she taught them to hear the music in other people's poetry and, more importantly, to find the hums and rhythms within themselves.

If you have time today, I hope you can listen to the music of Yvonne's own words, as she reads from her new poetry collection, Aviaries. It's longish (23 minutes, roughly), so you might want to wait until you have the space in your schedule to do it. But if the well is at all dry, I encourage you to dip in and experience Yvonne, the person and the work.

50 nifty state stereotypes in 2 minutes! Hilarious trailer for "States of Confusion" by Paul Jury

Using Radio Interviews to Promote Your Book

Recently, I was asked to stop by Pitch University (an amazing free resource for writers) to talk about using radio to pitch your novel to listeners. Since I'd just completed an interview with host Rowena Cherry and fellow guest Paula Graves on Passionate Radio's "Crazy Tuesdays" show, the timing was great.

Follow the link to see what I had to say about doing a phone interview, or to listen to the podcast of my most recent outing.

Buy This Book: Your Voice in My Head, A Memoir by Emma Forrest

Living is a haphazard sometimes painful, sometimes joy-shot experience. There’s the uncertainty, there are setbacks, pressures and bouts with loss of confidence. That’s under normal conditions, whatever “normal” is, but what happens when conditions aren’t normal, when behavior exceeds even the least confining definition of that word? In her compelling memoir, Your Voice in My Head, screenwriter and novelist, Emma Forrest, opens a writerly vein to show what it’s like to live in your own personal little house of horrors. Her story is heart rending and brilliant. It is difficult and uplifting. She was troubled in her teens. Most teens are, but her trouble overlooked a sharper edge, a seemingly never ending, black abyss. She was in constant danger of falling, of losing herself. She battled with her will to live treating it to a smorgasbord of self destructive acts and then, finally, in her twenties, while healing from the effects of yet another near fatal suicide attempt, she experienced what was a searing and brave flash of insight for someone so young and knew she had to reach out, to find help. And she did come under the gentle guidance of a psychiatrist, a doctor who became her anchor, her cardinal north.

But then one day when she called, he wasn’t there and she learned he had died suddenly, right when she was beginning to trust herself, just when she had finally decided she might be worth rescuing after all. The tale from here sketches her faltering steps; there is risk, breath is held. But remember that searing flash of insight? That was out of pure courage, a quality that Emma Forrest has in spades. Self awareness and the ability to face one’s demons is difficult enough in middle age, in old age, but in one so young as she was, it is remarkable, nothing short of fearless. Her memoir may strike some as dark, and it is, but it is also a story of unflinching illumination and the indomitability of the human spirit. In language that is at once spare and wry, as filled with pathos as it is with humor, Your Voice in My Head chronicles a journey of heartbreak and healing, of hope and resolve.

Your Brain Stores Words. But, Like, Seriously...

I'm taking English Grammar this summer and have come to the conclusion that our language is entirely too confusing, but I love it.

Today we were discussing the functions of verbs and nouns and my professor told us that we actually house them in our brain. The front, left side of the brain is its language center and it is subdivided even further. When observing brain activity during conversations with stroke patients, doctors noticed that different spots within the language centerr would light up when people used verbs bersus nouns. We biologically separate them. How freakin' cool is that? It transcends languages and dialect. It goes in the face of the idea that language is something that we learn. The interaction of our brains with language is so incredible.

Other cool things about brains and language development I've learned from random English classes:

No matter how many languages you speak or how long you've spoken them, when you are in an extremely heightened state of emotion, have an extremely high fever, or are otherwise greatly compromised, you revert to the first language you spoke.

"Wolf Children," or people who grow up without and real human interaction, (depressing as it is, they do exist) can't develop language as fully as those who are around it when they are young. The implication of this is that language structure and vocabulary are things that you gain when you are very young and there is, in fact, an age at which you become physically unable to acquire the language.

I don't know if anyone else has noticed this or if it's just me, but I feel like my brain is sectioned off into "English" and "Not English." When I speak a foreign language, it often comes out as a mix of several different ones. It drives my French professor crazy that my minor is French, but I constantly say things in Spanish and even a bit of German. I was surprised to discover how much more I knew when I stopped trying to think just in the terms of one language. I wonder if there's a subdivision similar to the noun/verb one at work...

"But Am I A Real Writer?" The Number One Most Self-Defeating Question a Writer Can Ask

I don't know where she is or what's happened to her, but I'll never forget my first fiction writing professor, Mary Milgram. It was the last semester of my senior year, and I was anxiously waiting to hear back from the creative writing programs I'd applied to. I'd taken Ms. Milgram's fiction class sort of as an afterthought--at that point, I wanted to be a playwright, and was hoping to get an MFA in Theatre. But I'd always had an interest in writing fiction, and in some ways felt it was my first calling, so I enrolled in Ms. Milgram's class. About halfway though the semester, I started hearing back from the programs to which I'd applied, most of which did not have good news. Then came the heartbreaker, a glowing letter from Ohio University, saying I was one of two students they were admitting into their playwriting program that year, but that, because of budget restrictions, there would be little financial aid available.

I'm not exactly sure how it happened, but Ms. Milgram somehow bumped into me on my way to class, when I was holding the letter and bawling my eyes out, realizing there was no way I could afford to go. The tuition alone was $15000 a year, paltry by today's standards, but back then, there was no way I was in a position to afford that, even with student loans. Ms. Milgram asked me what was wrong and I showed her the letter.

"But Kathryn, this is great news!" She said, and I explained the situation. I can't remember all of what she said then, but the one thing I do remember is that she told me I was a "real writer," and that she had every faith that if I went to school that it would be worth the investment. And somehow, after class that day, she took me into her office, and made a couple of phone calls, and I ended up on the phone with the director of the English Department at the University of Cincinnati. Playwriting was located within the English Department there, Ms. Milgram had said, so it would be possible for me to do both fiction and playwriting. Then she reiterated to the director her assessment that I was a "real writer," and I ended up being offered the chance to apply--well after the deadline. I did apply, and to my astonishment, was offered a full ride, and, at the ripe old age of 21, a teaching assistantship!

I didn't know then how very rare that was. I know it now, and I will be eternally grateful to Ms. Milgram for what she did. She did not have to put herself out there like that, but she did. And most importantly, her belief in me and my talent bolstered me through many years of study. But somewhere along the way, all the negative and mean-spirited criticism in workshop eroded that belief, eroded that vote of confidence--probably because it was her vote of confidence, and I'd never really had time to develop confidence in myself. I began to be obsessed with the question of whether I really was a "real writer," since I could never get my plays produced or my short stories published. Never mind that people like Edward Albee and Francine Prose liked my work--in my mind, none of that counted, because all I got was rejection letters from places like Story Magazine, Zoetrope, and The Missouri Review. (Yeah, I realize the problem now).

Then I got into the PhD program at UH, and that naggy little voice of doubt started screaming. "Look at your PhD cohort and where they've published, and you haven't had a single publication!" "Look at how smart they are and where they've been to school--they're all Ivy league and they're so much better than you." "Listen to that girl who says you shouldn't have gotten into the program, that you don't know how to create character and that your plots are 'bizarre' and 'convoluted.'" "How can you possibly call yourself a writer, when there are all these people out there smarter, faster, more accomplished, and harder working?"

This was the point, that, despite being at one of the most prestigious writing programs in the world, I stopped writing. Complete stop, for well over a year. Part of that was that I was in the middle of PhD comprehensives, but more of it was the fact that I just didn't believe anymore in the vote of confidence Mary Milgram had in me. I didn't believe anymore that my professors at Cincinnati were right, or, at best, I thought "well, I'm one of those people who had a white hot talent that burned out before it developed. I'm one of those people whose talent has fizzled."

I was barely 30, and I thought my talent had fizzled! I thought there was something wrong with me because I didn't yet have a Pulitzer Prize! How ridiculous is that, in retrospect! How ridiculous, but yet how pervasive the attitude among students in competitive programs, who will list five writers they like and then immediately proceed to rank them in terms of various technical attributes (no kidding--I watched this happen at AWP). And how stifling the aesthetic that says that no genre beyond literary fiction can matter. But, even more stifling, is that question itself, that question that hangs there, somewhere near but just out of focus, in the corners of our eyes.

"Am I a real writer?" It taunts us. "Am I a real writer?" It chatters in our dreams. It kept at me and at me until finally, one day when I was walking through my neighborhood and looking at the shadows of the trees, I just stopped right in the middle of the street and said "Screw you! I may not be a real writer, but I'm still going to write, damn it! And if you have a problem with that then get out of my head!" Actually, I said it with a lot more cursing, and a lot more anger, and it probably scared the crap out of my neighbors.

Flash forward a year or so later, to when I taught my first "real" (there's that word again) graduate level playwriting class. One of the students came into my office, a middle-aged, wisecracking individualist with purple hair. She worked for Boeing in a male-dominated environment and wanted to write a play about the Space program. She walked in, sat down spread eagled in front of me, and fingered her skinny, purple braid.

"What's up?" I said, detecting a little attitude.
"Be honest with me." She said. "Do I have talent?" And then she popped her gum.

I thought about what to say, rifled through all the possibilities, until finally, I said what I wish someone had said to me long ago. The thing I wish Mary Milgram had told me along with her assessment that I was a "real writer."

"Yes, you have talent. But talent is not what matters. What really matters is what you do with that talent, where you go with it, how you use it, and that you keep working. That you keep growing. The question of whether or not you have talent is really a pernicious question. It's like trying to get a leg up on the opposition because of some inherent characteristic. It's like you want to know that so that you can somehow take a shortcut to writing success. But the reality is that there's no guarantee of writing success, either to the talented or the untalented. And all of us have to make our way. It's like Noel Coward said. 'Thousands of people have talent. I might as well congratulate you for having eyes in your head. The one and only thing that counts is, do you have staying power?'"

I don't know if the student was satisfied. I don't know if, at 21, I would have been. But what I do know is that I wasted so much time looking towards external assessments of my own abilities rather than working to develop my talents myself.

Are you a real writer? Are you? No, don't ask it. Be it.

Your Own Worst Enemy: Are you using psychological warfare…on yourself? | The Kaizen Plan: Small Steps to Big Change

If you read nothing else this week, check out this post on self-defeating behavior from the blog The Kaizen Plan:Small Steps to Big Change! The career you save may be your own!

Week 21: Are you using psychological warfare…on yourself? | The Kaizen Plan: Small Steps to Big Change

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised (Go with God, Gil Scott-Heron)

According to the NYT obit: "Gil Scott-Heron, the poet and recording artist whose syncopated spoken style and mordant critiques of politics, racism and mass media in pieces like “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” made him a notable voice of black protest culture in the 1970s and an important early influence on hip-hop, died on Friday at a hospital in Manhattan. He was 62 and had been a longtime resident of Harlem."

His death was announced in a Twitter message. The revolution continues.

The Summer They Bridged the Gap

It's hot as hell in Texas this week. It's hell in Afghanistan this decade. So what's new? Clayton James Goss is what's new.

Our country has been at war since he was 10 years old. He's grown up thinking the middle east was an impossible place to go unless you had camo and a big gun. He's grown up being taught that things there can only be fixed militarily. He's grown up knowing that Afghanistan is a thousand worlds away and ten lifetimes back.

Clayton never joined the army or ventured to fight anyone. He talks. A lot. In fact, he's the International Public Debate Association's national champion. Finding solutions and selling them like cool water on a hot day is what he does best. This summer, he joined a cadre of other debaters from our circuit to make history. They've rejected everything they've grown up with and been taught. They chose to create their own path and find a new way to bring our countries a little closer together. They've joined forces with one of the universities in Kabul to teach their students IPDA debate.

At 4:24am our time, a battle was won. Clayton ran the first IPDA debate round in the history of Afghanistan. As the nation around us rallied behind war as the only solution, five young debaters went to a war-torn country to teach students to accomplish change through argument. Armed with pens, flow pads, and sharp suits, they carved out a little piece of history for themselves and the US. They fought back against stereotypes of college kids, young adults, and Afghanistan. They built a bridge across an expanse that no one else saw.

Today we honor the soldiers who have died throughout history and fought to the end for each other, for their country, and for the American dream. But, today I'm also honoring those five debaters who shoot words like bullets and drop smiles like bombs. They, too, are forging ahead into the unknown.

"Pioneers! O Pioneers!

For we cannot tarry here,
We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,
We, the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend, Pioneers! O pioneers!"
- Pioneers! O Pioneers! by Walt Whitman