Jimmy Chen said: “i can’t believe you spell it cum and not come; that is stupid.”
I said: “I prefer the spelling “cum” to “come.” I’m not sure why. I always thought it was “more correct,” but I guess it’s just the porny spelling? “Come” still seems weird to me. I dunno.”
Maybe “cum” is indeed the “porny spelling” and not the “correct spelling,” but cum is a porny thing and this spelling reflects that. I get confused when it says “come” in a book when they mean “cum.” What the fuck is “come”? You don’t come come; you cum cum.
“Cum” is an evocative word. And it’s not as though “come” is the clinical term… it’s the “polite” version of slang. The first time I heard it (from a 12-year-old girl in Sex Ed) it was most-definitely pronounced “cuuum”.
just what i need, another google hit for “jimmy chen cum,” and by the way, this is a highly inappropriate subject, considering the pic which accompanies this post
had a workshop once where the instructor’s go-to advice was “write into it” which wasn’t bad advice in the sense that it is the opposite of what a person should do necessarily, but was bad advice in that no one could ever really figure out what that meant.
In grad school I wrote a story where a protagonist turned while shaving and talked to his dog. One line of dialogue. A part-time prof/visiting writer told me, aloud at the class, “To have a character talk to a pet is a serious lack of imagination on your part.”
OK. I thought about it. And, in fact, never did that again. He had some sort of point, I felt at the time.
But now, in hindsight, I think that was a crock of shit. I mean come on. It is a device but not one that can seriously indicate a lack of imagination.
I would name the prof but he was recently murdered. As a rule, I never besmirch the recently murdered.
But I still think here he was wrong. Then again, I’m not objective. It was my story.
In it, the author encourages writers to use “energy words”.
The example shows that a bad sentence is:
I got out of bed.
A good sentence with “energy words” is:
I exploded out of bed.
Also, they encourage writers to use similes to ‘show, don’t tell’.
Their example:
Her eyes peered at me like someone already in the grave.
Is that the source piece for the mid-70s movie? I’m going to guess yes. I tried watching it with my girlfriend and then I was like, that dog is a dick.
Man I watched that movie like a month ago and then I got online and read about how sexist people find it. I only really think the last line is bad + stupid. The rest of it I liked pretty well.
I had a prof tell me to write a scene from the inside out. She said it over and over again and for a year she tried to explain it to me but I still had questions. Sometimes she would point out when I was somewhat successful with it in my own work. I felt like I was sort of getting the idea and then after a year of this I read a classmates ‘finished’ work and saw that this inside out thing wasn’t there at all. Don’t ask me to explain, please, but i’ll know it when I see it, or don’t.
Jimmy Chen said: “i can’t believe you spell it cum and not come; that is stupid.”
I said: “I prefer the spelling “cum” to “come.” I’m not sure why. I always thought it was “more correct,” but I guess it’s just the porny spelling? “Come” still seems weird to me. I dunno.”
Maybe “cum” is indeed the “porny spelling” and not the “correct spelling,” but cum is a porny thing and this spelling reflects that. I get confused when it says “come” in a book when they mean “cum.” What the fuck is “come”? You don’t come come; you cum cum.
“Cum” is an evocative word. And it’s not as though “come” is the clinical term… it’s the “polite” version of slang. The first time I heard it (from a 12-year-old girl in Sex Ed) it was most-definitely pronounced “cuuum”.
just what i need, another google hit for “jimmy chen cum,” and by the way, this is a highly inappropriate subject, considering the pic which accompanies this post
had a workshop once where the instructor’s go-to advice was “write into it” which wasn’t bad advice in the sense that it is the opposite of what a person should do necessarily, but was bad advice in that no one could ever really figure out what that meant.
feels like it would be best if such advice would fully commit to its identity and say something like “write as if you are floating through peaceful struggles on a magic easy chair”
In grad school I wrote a story where a protagonist turned while shaving and talked to his dog. One line of dialogue. A part-time prof/visiting writer told me, aloud at the class, “To have a character talk to a pet is a serious lack of imagination on your part.”
OK. I thought about it. And, in fact, never did that again. He had some sort of point, I felt at the time.
But now, in hindsight, I think that was a crock of shit. I mean come on. It is a device but not one that can seriously indicate a lack of imagination.
I would name the prof but he was recently murdered. As a rule, I never besmirch the recently murdered.
But I still think here he was wrong. Then again, I’m not objective. It was my story.
In it, the author encourages writers to use “energy words”.
The example shows that a bad sentence is:
I got out of bed.
A good sentence with “energy words” is:
I exploded out of bed.
Also, they encourage writers to use similes to ‘show, don’t tell’.
Their example:
Her eyes peered at me like someone already in the grave.
Is that the source piece for the mid-70s movie? I’m going to guess yes. I tried watching it with my girlfriend and then I was like, that dog is a dick.
a lot of the standard tropes are pretty bad once you get into the real nitty-gritty mechanics of telling a story: “write what you know” … “show don’t tell” … “the first sentence is the most important one”
if this were a thread for ‘worst workshop experiences’ i’d have a ton to share… there’s something kind of cruel (and yet funny) about putting a dozen or so pushing-20 years olds in a room to creatively express themselves through writing for the first time… and then tell them to criticize another’s results (usually without much guidance).
i’ve think i’ve mentioned this before (like someone else has done in this thread) but uni workshops really taught me when NOT listen to my peers for advice, or at least to become more sensitive to the nature of where criticism comes from (especially when coming from other writers).
my favorite was this girl who’s catch phrase quickly became “This doesn’t mean anything.” didn’t matter whether we were talking about an a-historical story about Dark Ages-Germany, a pseudo-philosophical fantasy epic about mermaids, dorm fiction, a story about a young girl coming of age in Soviet Russia, etc. etc. … “This doesn’t mean anything.”
i can’t for the life of me remember what stories of hers she turned in.
I think Sam Pink spells it “come” and when I was editing one of his stories for my journal, I changed it to “cum” because “come” just seems weird. Although I would have changed it back if he wasn’t down with it.
Man I watched that movie like a month ago and then I got online and read about how sexist people find it. I only really think the last line is bad + stupid. The rest of it I liked pretty well.
I had a prof tell me to write a scene from the inside out. She said it over and over again and for a year she tried to explain it to me but I still had questions. Sometimes she would point out when I was somewhat successful with it in my own work. I felt like I was sort of getting the idea and then after a year of this I read a classmates ‘finished’ work and saw that this inside out thing wasn’t there at all. Don’t ask me to explain, please, but i’ll know it when I see it, or don’t.
feels like it would be best if such advice would fully commit to its identity and say something like “write as if you are floating through peaceful struggles on a magic easy chair”
I think Sam Pink spells it “come” and when I was editing one of his stories for my journal, I changed it to “cum” because “come” just seems weird. Although I would have changed it back if he wasn’t down with it.
Workshopping your fiction extensively is the best way to make it read as though nobody in particular wrote it. Find a trusted reader or, even better, imagine what that trusted reader would say. Just stay away from the literary communism of workshops. Being brutally honest with *yourself* ,about what sucks on your page, is power.
heh at ‘literary communism’ rampant in workshops. i always tell people the same re: being brutally honest with your own work, how it should work for what you want it to.
and is that my new army rank and family name? General Remark?
“To have a character talk to a pet / themself / a family member / a friend / their spouse / their television set / their diary (via pen) is a serious lack of imagination on your part.”
Ah, yes, the old favorite, “show, don’t tell.” People peddling that advice clearly haven’t read and Rushdie or Roth. With those guys, there’s always whole lot of telling (or ranting) before or after some showing.
We could make a pretty big list. Millhauser’s almost pure ‘telling’; something the Pulitzer folks didn’t seem to mind. Vollmann and DFW make telling an art form (though they do a lot o’ showing, as well).
What’s been helpful to me is simply listen to advice from actual writers (say John Gardner), try to take it in the appropriate spirit, then find examples in that author’s own work that contradicts his or her advice, and think about why they made the exception…
Workshopping your fiction extensively is the best way to make it read as though nobody in particular wrote it. Find a trusted reader or, even better, imagine what that trusted reader would say. Just stay away from the literary communism of workshops. Being brutally honest with *yourself* ,about what sucks on your page, is power.
I like this “trusted reader” idea. I’ve often thought I would like to read the work of someone whose writing I like & admire (and whose trust I have) and make it better because I care. I would be kind.
And yeah, literary communism = “nobody in particular wrote it”.
Vlad had Vera, after all. He didn’t pass drafts of Lolita around the room and nod humbly when a kid who’d only been shaving for twenty weeks questioned Humbert’s motivation.
“To have a character talk to a pet / themself / a family member / a friend / their spouse / their television set / their diary (via pen) is a serious lack of imagination on your part.”
Ah, yes, the old favorite, “show, don’t tell.” People peddling that advice clearly haven’t read and Rushdie or Roth. With those guys, there’s always whole lot of telling (or ranting) before or after some showing.
We could make a pretty big list. Millhauser’s almost pure ‘telling’; something the Pulitzer folks didn’t seem to mind. Vollmann and DFW make telling an art form (though they do a lot o’ showing, as well).
What’s been helpful to me is simply listen to advice from actual writers (say John Gardner), try to take it in the appropriate spirit, then find examples in that author’s own work that contradicts his or her advice, and think about why they made the exception…
I like this “trusted reader” idea. I’ve often thought I would like to read the work of someone whose writing I like & admire (and whose trust I have) and make it better because I care. I would be kind.
And yeah, literary communism = “nobody in particular wrote it”.
Vlad had Vera, after all. He didn’t pass drafts of Lolita around the room and nod humbly when a kid who’d only been shaving for twenty weeks questioned Humbert’s motivation.
I was once in a fiction workshop where, whenever a story had more than a few long sentences, this girl would comment: “Kerouac. Burroughs.” Nothing else.
This could just be me not having read respectably widely (the ongoing project), but I’ve found that the “show, don’t tell” rule definitely does always apply when it comes to underlying themes / patterns in a text.
In particular, I remember reading ‘The Barnacle’ by John Jodzio quite recently and being bothered by its repetition of this one sentence structure, which basically went like “[Character] wanted to do [aspiration], but everyone told them they could never do it because [apparently crippling physical attribute / character trait].” It came up three times, as I recall, in as many pages, and felt like it was being forced down my throat, as a lesson might be crammed into the head of a confused child (probably using a plunger and a power-stance) by the kind of overbearing, patronising teacher I think we’ve all encountered at some point.
There was something else, too: some habit of introducing (via narrator) plot elements or character histories — things of that ilk — literally within one or two page-inches of the line of dialogue in which their relevance became apparent. I’d have to fish out my copy of it to pinpoint it again, but it bothered me. It was just a bit, “Okay, so you don’t trust me to remember this fact for more than a paragraph before you bring it up again.”
I guess those examples are both, arguably, instances of showing, not telling, but the over-explicit, slightly ham-fisted manner in which it was all handled made it feel like, if he wasn’t Telling, Jodzio was at the very least making a real show of telling me all about how much he was showing me. It killed most of the subtlety of the piece.
(I did think that the story was pretty great in the end, by the way, but those problems certainly detracted significantly from its execution, I felt.)
I was once in a fiction workshop where, whenever a story had more than a few long sentences, this girl would comment: “Kerouac. Burroughs.” Nothing else.
This could just be me not having read respectably widely (the ongoing project), but I’ve found that the “show, don’t tell” rule definitely does always apply when it comes to underlying themes / patterns in a text.
In particular, I remember reading ‘The Barnacle’ by John Jodzio quite recently and being bothered by its repetition of this one sentence structure, which basically went like “[Character] wanted to do [aspiration], but everyone told them they could never do it because [apparently crippling physical attribute / character trait].” It came up three times, as I recall, in as many pages, and felt like it was being forced down my throat, as a lesson might be crammed into the head of a confused child (probably using a plunger and a power-stance) by the kind of overbearing, patronising teacher I think we’ve all encountered at some point.
There was something else, too: some habit of introducing (via narrator) plot elements or character histories — things of that ilk — literally within one or two page-inches of the line of dialogue in which their relevance became apparent. I’d have to fish out my copy of it to pinpoint it again, but it bothered me. It was just a bit, “Okay, so you don’t trust me to remember this fact for more than a paragraph before you bring it up again.”
I guess those examples are both, arguably, instances of showing, not telling, but the over-explicit, slightly ham-fisted manner in which it was all handled made it feel like, if he wasn’t Telling, Jodzio was at the very least making a real show of telling me all about how much he was showing me. It killed most of the subtlety of the piece.
(I did think that the story was pretty great in the end, by the way, but those problems certainly detracted significantly from its execution, I felt.)
I like some good telling. Writers who can tell for pages at a time and keep my interest, I got some respect for that. Rushdie’s a good example. Kundera’s pretty good, too.
I like some good telling. Writers who can tell for pages at a time and keep my interest, I got some respect for that. Rushdie’s a good example. Kundera’s pretty good, too.
Most suspicious advice: “Come to Portland! Come! Come to Portland! Really, it’s beautiful here! Cool writers everywhere! Everyone’s happy! The rain washes away all your troubles! Come! Come!”
In her craft text “Method and Madness,” Alice LaPlante explains the problem with this common advice quite well.
To paraphrase her, what teachers often mean when they say, “show, don’t tell” is “make your telling more interesting.”
“Show, don’t tell”–for these teachers–is thus an easy (yet obviously flawed) way to tell writers that their narrative language should be fresher, since writers often associate fresh language with concrete details and imagery, the kind of descriptive language we expect in the heart of a scene. However, any experienced writer and/or teacher knows that narrative (or telling) can create its own concreteness through sentence rhythm, “voice,” sound, and word choice.
The advice to “show, don’t tell” is often damaging because students are taught that all narration is bad, when they should be taught that boring and dull narration is bad.
Sure, taken on their own terms, most of the individual pieces of advice he gives are hard to disagree with. But don’t you think his book is directly responsible for much of the uniform, mediocre kind of “Creative Writing Program” writing that makes you want to take a nap?
Most suspicious advice: “Come to Portland! Come! Come to Portland! Really, it’s beautiful here! Cool writers everywhere! Everyone’s happy! The rain washes away all your troubles! Come! Come!”
In her craft text “Method and Madness,” Alice LaPlante explains the problem with this common advice quite well.
To paraphrase her, what teachers often mean when they say, “show, don’t tell” is “make your telling more interesting.”
“Show, don’t tell”–for these teachers–is thus an easy (yet obviously flawed) way to tell writers that their narrative language should be fresher, since writers often associate fresh language with concrete details and imagery, the kind of descriptive language we expect in the heart of a scene. However, any experienced writer and/or teacher knows that narrative (or telling) can create its own concreteness through sentence rhythm, “voice,” sound, and word choice.
The advice to “show, don’t tell” is often damaging because students are taught that all narration is bad, when they should be taught that boring and dull narration is bad.
Sure, taken on their own terms, most of the individual pieces of advice he gives are hard to disagree with. But don’t you think his book is directly responsible for much of the uniform, mediocre kind of “Creative Writing Program” writing that makes you want to take a nap?
sweet
a professor once advised against the spelling, “cum”, instead of “come”.
damn. i wonder how he sleeps at night.
Matt:
Dude, Aare you getting help?
Seriously! Peep game: http://htmlgiant.com/random/god-damn-it/#comment-78997
Jimmy Chen said: “i can’t believe you spell it cum and not come; that is stupid.”
I said: “I prefer the spelling “cum” to “come.” I’m not sure why. I always thought it was “more correct,” but I guess it’s just the porny spelling? “Come” still seems weird to me. I dunno.”
Maybe “cum” is indeed the “porny spelling” and not the “correct spelling,” but cum is a porny thing and this spelling reflects that. I get confused when it says “come” in a book when they mean “cum.” What the fuck is “come”? You don’t come come; you cum cum.
Note: Jimmy Chen was addressing someone else, not me.
fortunately, it wasn’t my story.
“Cum” is an evocative word. And it’s not as though “come” is the clinical term… it’s the “polite” version of slang. The first time I heard it (from a 12-year-old girl in Sex Ed) it was most-definitely pronounced “cuuum”.
yes. especially as a noun, “cum” makes more sense. it resembles “gum”.
just what i need, another google hit for “jimmy chen cum,” and by the way, this is a highly inappropriate subject, considering the pic which accompanies this post
fee fi fo cum
Changing the pic is a good idea
had a workshop once where the instructor’s go-to advice was “write into it” which wasn’t bad advice in the sense that it is the opposite of what a person should do necessarily, but was bad advice in that no one could ever really figure out what that meant.
In grad school I wrote a story where a protagonist turned while shaving and talked to his dog. One line of dialogue. A part-time prof/visiting writer told me, aloud at the class, “To have a character talk to a pet is a serious lack of imagination on your part.”
OK. I thought about it. And, in fact, never did that again. He had some sort of point, I felt at the time.
But now, in hindsight, I think that was a crock of shit. I mean come on. It is a device but not one that can seriously indicate a lack of imagination.
I would name the prof but he was recently murdered. As a rule, I never besmirch the recently murdered.
But I still think here he was wrong. Then again, I’m not objective. It was my story.
I guess he ever read the much-anthologized, “A Boy And His Dog”
DO NOT CHANGE THE FUCKING PIC.
This article from the Writer’s Digest blog gives some ‘great’ advice:
http://blog.writersdigest.com/norules/2010/07/09/UsingPoetryTechniquesToPolishYourFiction.aspx
In it, the author encourages writers to use “energy words”.
The example shows that a bad sentence is:
I got out of bed.
A good sentence with “energy words” is:
I exploded out of bed.
Also, they encourage writers to use similes to ‘show, don’t tell’.
Their example:
Her eyes peered at me like someone already in the grave.
I hate when corpses peer at me.
Is that the source piece for the mid-70s movie? I’m going to guess yes. I tried watching it with my girlfriend and then I was like, that dog is a dick.
Sean, do you remember what the character said to the dog?
Jason Robards was the dog, I think; Don Johnson his master.
Read the story: it’s worth it.
“Show, don’t tell.”
So you’re saying I should never write narration?
Tim, that is a lost, lost story, but maybe I can dig up some lost word files and answer your question.
Not sure here who knows me but I AM NOT CHANGING THE FUCKING PIC.
Please.
That felt good. Been a while since I went CAPS.
I doubt we were serious?
“Always name your characters, so the reader doesn’t have to.”
never give up
FORGET ABOUT THE FUCKING TOE!
Worst advice: I was told every story should be written in third person, past tense. No exceptions
I was told this in seven separate workshops for the past three years of my life.
they’re gonna kill that poor woman!
darby rocks.
Is the “Don’t Try” Bukowski headstone an urban legend or reality??
reality
“Her eyes were like limpid pools.”
any poem that doesn’t have to be in first person should be changed to third, to “take the ego out of the poem”
fake it til you feel it
Nor Travels with Charley.
You need a different school.
for some reason, knowing about that headstone makes me think of his poem 40,000 Flies.
Nah. I just learned how to stop listening.
Man I watched that movie like a month ago and then I got online and read about how sexist people find it. I only really think the last line is bad + stupid. The rest of it I liked pretty well.
Ha! Yeah, I’ve heard a similar thing, which is that they should all be in close third past tense unless there is a VERY GOOD REASON.
What’s a good reason to shit in someone’s mouth?
I had a prof tell me to write a scene from the inside out. She said it over and over again and for a year she tried to explain it to me but I still had questions. Sometimes she would point out when I was somewhat successful with it in my own work. I felt like I was sort of getting the idea and then after a year of this I read a classmates ‘finished’ work and saw that this inside out thing wasn’t there at all. Don’t ask me to explain, please, but i’ll know it when I see it, or don’t.
“write what you know.”
also,
“if you don’t write every day, you’re not a writer.”
sweet
a professor once advised against the spelling, “cum”, instead of “come”.
damn. i wonder how he sleeps at night.
Matt:
Dude, Aare you getting help?
Seriously! Peep game: http://htmlgiant.com/random/god-damn-it/#comment-78997
Jimmy Chen said: “i can’t believe you spell it cum and not come; that is stupid.”
I said: “I prefer the spelling “cum” to “come.” I’m not sure why. I always thought it was “more correct,” but I guess it’s just the porny spelling? “Come” still seems weird to me. I dunno.”
Maybe “cum” is indeed the “porny spelling” and not the “correct spelling,” but cum is a porny thing and this spelling reflects that. I get confused when it says “come” in a book when they mean “cum.” What the fuck is “come”? You don’t come come; you cum cum.
Note: Jimmy Chen was addressing someone else, not me.
fortunately, it wasn’t my story.
“Cum” is an evocative word. And it’s not as though “come” is the clinical term… it’s the “polite” version of slang. The first time I heard it (from a 12-year-old girl in Sex Ed) it was most-definitely pronounced “cuuum”.
@ Mike:
“What’s a good reason to shit in someone’s mouth?”
Serbian Film
yes. especially as a noun, “cum” makes more sense. it resembles “gum”.
just what i need, another google hit for “jimmy chen cum,” and by the way, this is a highly inappropriate subject, considering the pic which accompanies this post
fee fi fo cum
Changing the pic is a good idea
had a workshop once where the instructor’s go-to advice was “write into it” which wasn’t bad advice in the sense that it is the opposite of what a person should do necessarily, but was bad advice in that no one could ever really figure out what that meant.
i love shitty metaphysical writing advice
feels like it would be best if such advice would fully commit to its identity and say something like “write as if you are floating through peaceful struggles on a magic easy chair”
In grad school I wrote a story where a protagonist turned while shaving and talked to his dog. One line of dialogue. A part-time prof/visiting writer told me, aloud at the class, “To have a character talk to a pet is a serious lack of imagination on your part.”
OK. I thought about it. And, in fact, never did that again. He had some sort of point, I felt at the time.
But now, in hindsight, I think that was a crock of shit. I mean come on. It is a device but not one that can seriously indicate a lack of imagination.
I would name the prof but he was recently murdered. As a rule, I never besmirch the recently murdered.
But I still think here he was wrong. Then again, I’m not objective. It was my story.
participate in workshops – terrible advice.
I guess he ever read the much-anthologized, “A Boy And His Dog”
DO NOT CHANGE THE FUCKING PIC.
This article from the Writer’s Digest blog gives some ‘great’ advice:
http://blog.writersdigest.com/norules/2010/07/09/UsingPoetryTechniquesToPolishYourFiction.aspx
In it, the author encourages writers to use “energy words”.
The example shows that a bad sentence is:
I got out of bed.
A good sentence with “energy words” is:
I exploded out of bed.
Also, they encourage writers to use similes to ‘show, don’t tell’.
Their example:
Her eyes peered at me like someone already in the grave.
I hate when corpses peer at me.
Is that the source piece for the mid-70s movie? I’m going to guess yes. I tried watching it with my girlfriend and then I was like, that dog is a dick.
Sean, do you remember what the character said to the dog?
Jason Robards was the dog, I think; Don Johnson his master.
Read the story: it’s worth it.
“Show, don’t tell.”
So you’re saying I should never write narration?
Tim, that is a lost, lost story, but maybe I can dig up some lost word files and answer your question.
Not sure here who knows me but I AM NOT CHANGING THE FUCKING PIC.
Please.
That felt good. Been a while since I went CAPS.
I doubt we were serious?
“Always name your characters, so the reader doesn’t have to.”
never give up
FORGET ABOUT THE FUCKING TOE!
Worst advice: I was told every story should be written in third person, past tense. No exceptions
I was told this in seven separate workshops for the past three years of my life.
they’re gonna kill that poor woman!
a lot of the standard tropes are pretty bad once you get into the real nitty-gritty mechanics of telling a story: “write what you know” … “show don’t tell” … “the first sentence is the most important one”
if this were a thread for ‘worst workshop experiences’ i’d have a ton to share… there’s something kind of cruel (and yet funny) about putting a dozen or so pushing-20 years olds in a room to creatively express themselves through writing for the first time… and then tell them to criticize another’s results (usually without much guidance).
i’ve think i’ve mentioned this before (like someone else has done in this thread) but uni workshops really taught me when NOT listen to my peers for advice, or at least to become more sensitive to the nature of where criticism comes from (especially when coming from other writers).
my favorite was this girl who’s catch phrase quickly became “This doesn’t mean anything.” didn’t matter whether we were talking about an a-historical story about Dark Ages-Germany, a pseudo-philosophical fantasy epic about mermaids, dorm fiction, a story about a young girl coming of age in Soviet Russia, etc. etc. … “This doesn’t mean anything.”
i can’t for the life of me remember what stories of hers she turned in.
darby rocks.
Is the “Don’t Try” Bukowski headstone an urban legend or reality??
reality
I think Sam Pink spells it “come” and when I was editing one of his stories for my journal, I changed it to “cum” because “come” just seems weird. Although I would have changed it back if he wasn’t down with it.
I hear a lot of this kind of advice at Naropa.
I think the “energy word” thing is good advice with a really bad/overwritten example.
“Her eyes were like limpid pools.”
any poem that doesn’t have to be in first person should be changed to third, to “take the ego out of the poem”
fake it til you feel it
Nor Travels with Charley.
You need a different school.
for some reason, knowing about that headstone makes me think of his poem 40,000 Flies.
Nah. I just learned how to stop listening.
Man I watched that movie like a month ago and then I got online and read about how sexist people find it. I only really think the last line is bad + stupid. The rest of it I liked pretty well.
Ha! Yeah, I’ve heard a similar thing, which is that they should all be in close third past tense unless there is a VERY GOOD REASON.
What’s a good reason to shit in someone’s mouth?
I had a prof tell me to write a scene from the inside out. She said it over and over again and for a year she tried to explain it to me but I still had questions. Sometimes she would point out when I was somewhat successful with it in my own work. I felt like I was sort of getting the idea and then after a year of this I read a classmates ‘finished’ work and saw that this inside out thing wasn’t there at all. Don’t ask me to explain, please, but i’ll know it when I see it, or don’t.
“write what you know.”
also,
“if you don’t write every day, you’re not a writer.”
@ Mike:
“What’s a good reason to shit in someone’s mouth?”
Serbian Film
i love shitty metaphysical writing advice
feels like it would be best if such advice would fully commit to its identity and say something like “write as if you are floating through peaceful struggles on a magic easy chair”
participate in workshops – terrible advice.
I think Sam Pink spells it “come” and when I was editing one of his stories for my journal, I changed it to “cum” because “come” just seems weird. Although I would have changed it back if he wasn’t down with it.
I hear a lot of this kind of advice at Naropa.
I think the “energy word” thing is good advice with a really bad/overwritten example.
Workshopping your fiction extensively is the best way to make it read as though nobody in particular wrote it. Find a trusted reader or, even better, imagine what that trusted reader would say. Just stay away from the literary communism of workshops. Being brutally honest with *yourself* ,about what sucks on your page, is power.
(not @you, Zus… general remark)
heh at ‘literary communism’ rampant in workshops. i always tell people the same re: being brutally honest with your own work, how it should work for what you want it to.
and is that my new army rank and family name? General Remark?
“To have a character talk to a pet / themself / a family member / a friend / their spouse / their television set / their diary (via pen) is a serious lack of imagination on your part.”
Exploding out of bed sounds like a hilarious sex death
haha a+
Ah, yes, the old favorite, “show, don’t tell.” People peddling that advice clearly haven’t read and Rushdie or Roth. With those guys, there’s always whole lot of telling (or ranting) before or after some showing.
We could make a pretty big list. Millhauser’s almost pure ‘telling’; something the Pulitzer folks didn’t seem to mind. Vollmann and DFW make telling an art form (though they do a lot o’ showing, as well).
What’s been helpful to me is simply listen to advice from actual writers (say John Gardner), try to take it in the appropriate spirit, then find examples in that author’s own work that contradicts his or her advice, and think about why they made the exception…
Werd
Sir! Yessir! Sir!
Workshopping your fiction extensively is the best way to make it read as though nobody in particular wrote it. Find a trusted reader or, even better, imagine what that trusted reader would say. Just stay away from the literary communism of workshops. Being brutally honest with *yourself* ,about what sucks on your page, is power.
(not @you, Zus… general remark)
I like this “trusted reader” idea. I’ve often thought I would like to read the work of someone whose writing I like & admire (and whose trust I have) and make it better because I care. I would be kind.
And yeah, literary communism = “nobody in particular wrote it”.
YES IF THE CHARACTER IS NOT ADEQUATELY PORTRAYED SIMPLY THROUGH OBSERVANCE OF THE PHOTONS AROUND HIM YOU HAVE FAILED AS A WRITER
Vlad had Vera, after all. He didn’t pass drafts of Lolita around the room and nod humbly when a kid who’d only been shaving for twenty weeks questioned Humbert’s motivation.
Worst advice: “Your last name should be shorter than your first.”
Second worst: “You have to learn the rules before you break them.” My argument: It’s much easier to understand the rules once you break them.
Dumbest (read: most meaningless) comment: “What’s the point of this?”
excellent example
“To have a character talk to a pet / themself / a family member / a friend / their spouse / their television set / their diary (via pen) is a serious lack of imagination on your part.”
Exploding out of bed sounds like a hilarious sex death
That poor slut kidnapped herself.
Your characters and stories are so sad. Make them happy.
haha a+
Third worst advice: “Your characters should never be known to urinate, or defecate.”
Ah, yes, the old favorite, “show, don’t tell.” People peddling that advice clearly haven’t read and Rushdie or Roth. With those guys, there’s always whole lot of telling (or ranting) before or after some showing.
We could make a pretty big list. Millhauser’s almost pure ‘telling’; something the Pulitzer folks didn’t seem to mind. Vollmann and DFW make telling an art form (though they do a lot o’ showing, as well).
What’s been helpful to me is simply listen to advice from actual writers (say John Gardner), try to take it in the appropriate spirit, then find examples in that author’s own work that contradicts his or her advice, and think about why they made the exception…
Werd
Sir! Yessir! Sir!
I like this “trusted reader” idea. I’ve often thought I would like to read the work of someone whose writing I like & admire (and whose trust I have) and make it better because I care. I would be kind.
And yeah, literary communism = “nobody in particular wrote it”.
YES IF THE CHARACTER IS NOT ADEQUATELY PORTRAYED SIMPLY THROUGH OBSERVANCE OF THE PHOTONS AROUND HIM YOU HAVE FAILED AS A WRITER
Vlad had Vera, after all. He didn’t pass drafts of Lolita around the room and nod humbly when a kid who’d only been shaving for twenty weeks questioned Humbert’s motivation.
Worst advice: “Your last name should be shorter than your first.”
Second worst: “You have to learn the rules before you break them.” My argument: It’s much easier to understand the rules once you break them.
Dumbest (read: most meaningless) comment: “What’s the point of this?”
excellent example
That poor slut kidnapped herself.
Your characters and stories are so sad. Make them happy.
Third worst advice: “Your characters should never be known to urinate, or defecate.”
This comes up a lot. Who the hell started it? What is the rationale behind it? At least half of the books that I really love are in first person.
Every writer needs a Vera
I was once in a fiction workshop where, whenever a story had more than a few long sentences, this girl would comment: “Kerouac. Burroughs.” Nothing else.
i agree with this fully. i hate the spelling “cum”. It’d be like using “ur” instead of “you’re” or even “yr”.
“The History of Canonical Literature” started it
This could just be me not having read respectably widely (the ongoing project), but I’ve found that the “show, don’t tell” rule definitely does always apply when it comes to underlying themes / patterns in a text.
In particular, I remember reading ‘The Barnacle’ by John Jodzio quite recently and being bothered by its repetition of this one sentence structure, which basically went like “[Character] wanted to do [aspiration], but everyone told them they could never do it because [apparently crippling physical attribute / character trait].” It came up three times, as I recall, in as many pages, and felt like it was being forced down my throat, as a lesson might be crammed into the head of a confused child (probably using a plunger and a power-stance) by the kind of overbearing, patronising teacher I think we’ve all encountered at some point.
There was something else, too: some habit of introducing (via narrator) plot elements or character histories — things of that ilk — literally within one or two page-inches of the line of dialogue in which their relevance became apparent. I’d have to fish out my copy of it to pinpoint it again, but it bothered me. It was just a bit, “Okay, so you don’t trust me to remember this fact for more than a paragraph before you bring it up again.”
I guess those examples are both, arguably, instances of showing, not telling, but the over-explicit, slightly ham-fisted manner in which it was all handled made it feel like, if he wasn’t Telling, Jodzio was at the very least making a real show of telling me all about how much he was showing me. It killed most of the subtlety of the piece.
(I did think that the story was pretty great in the end, by the way, but those problems certainly detracted significantly from its execution, I felt.)
This comes up a lot. Who the hell started it? What is the rationale behind it? At least half of the books that I really love are in first person.
Every writer needs a Vera
I heard a similar “Why am I reading this?”
I was once in a fiction workshop where, whenever a story had more than a few long sentences, this girl would comment: “Kerouac. Burroughs.” Nothing else.
“You shouldn’t even buy a pencil until you read and understand every. single. word Dickens ever wrote”
i agree with this fully. i hate the spelling “cum”. It’d be like using “ur” instead of “you’re” or even “yr”.
“The History of Canonical Literature” started it
This could just be me not having read respectably widely (the ongoing project), but I’ve found that the “show, don’t tell” rule definitely does always apply when it comes to underlying themes / patterns in a text.
In particular, I remember reading ‘The Barnacle’ by John Jodzio quite recently and being bothered by its repetition of this one sentence structure, which basically went like “[Character] wanted to do [aspiration], but everyone told them they could never do it because [apparently crippling physical attribute / character trait].” It came up three times, as I recall, in as many pages, and felt like it was being forced down my throat, as a lesson might be crammed into the head of a confused child (probably using a plunger and a power-stance) by the kind of overbearing, patronising teacher I think we’ve all encountered at some point.
There was something else, too: some habit of introducing (via narrator) plot elements or character histories — things of that ilk — literally within one or two page-inches of the line of dialogue in which their relevance became apparent. I’d have to fish out my copy of it to pinpoint it again, but it bothered me. It was just a bit, “Okay, so you don’t trust me to remember this fact for more than a paragraph before you bring it up again.”
I guess those examples are both, arguably, instances of showing, not telling, but the over-explicit, slightly ham-fisted manner in which it was all handled made it feel like, if he wasn’t Telling, Jodzio was at the very least making a real show of telling me all about how much he was showing me. It killed most of the subtlety of the piece.
(I did think that the story was pretty great in the end, by the way, but those problems certainly detracted significantly from its execution, I felt.)
I heard a similar “Why am I reading this?”
every writer hopes to find a Vera.
i wonder if the editors over at Stars and Stripes can possess the rank of general?
or a Vlad.
or conceivably someone in between… a Vladera?
“You shouldn’t even buy a pencil until you read and understand every. single. word Dickens ever wrote”
-Never write a narrator who is not of your gender.
-Move to New York.
Vladera works. Or Verad. She/he can be imaginary, too, I suppose.
a writer and his/her imaginary ideal critic as a substitute for the soul-mate partner-in-crime(writing) he/she has never been able to find…
… but eventually does! sounds marketable enough to sell as romantic comedy. i’d pound out a 2-page treatment if i didn’t not-care so much.
Pound it out anyway!
-Never write a narrator who is not of your gender.
-Move to New York.
Vladera works. Or Verad. She/he can be imaginary, too, I suppose.
Pound it out anyway!
http://www.amazon.com/Art-Fiction-Notes-Craft-Writers/dp/0679734031/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1281629622&sr=8-1
nuff said.
http://www.amazon.com/Art-Fiction-Notes-Craft-Writers/dp/0679734031/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1281629622&sr=8-1
nuff said.
More hilarious sex death please! I mean, like, in general.
I like some good telling. Writers who can tell for pages at a time and keep my interest, I got some respect for that. Rushdie’s a good example. Kundera’s pretty good, too.
More hilarious sex death please! I mean, like, in general.
I like some good telling. Writers who can tell for pages at a time and keep my interest, I got some respect for that. Rushdie’s a good example. Kundera’s pretty good, too.
Most suspicious advice: “Come to Portland! Come! Come to Portland! Really, it’s beautiful here! Cool writers everywhere! Everyone’s happy! The rain washes away all your troubles! Come! Come!”
Hey! No picking on John Gardner!
In her craft text “Method and Madness,” Alice LaPlante explains the problem with this common advice quite well.
To paraphrase her, what teachers often mean when they say, “show, don’t tell” is “make your telling more interesting.”
“Show, don’t tell”–for these teachers–is thus an easy (yet obviously flawed) way to tell writers that their narrative language should be fresher, since writers often associate fresh language with concrete details and imagery, the kind of descriptive language we expect in the heart of a scene. However, any experienced writer and/or teacher knows that narrative (or telling) can create its own concreteness through sentence rhythm, “voice,” sound, and word choice.
The advice to “show, don’t tell” is often damaging because students are taught that all narration is bad, when they should be taught that boring and dull narration is bad.
Werd and double-werd.
Sure, taken on their own terms, most of the individual pieces of advice he gives are hard to disagree with. But don’t you think his book is directly responsible for much of the uniform, mediocre kind of “Creative Writing Program” writing that makes you want to take a nap?
Most suspicious advice: “Come to Portland! Come! Come to Portland! Really, it’s beautiful here! Cool writers everywhere! Everyone’s happy! The rain washes away all your troubles! Come! Come!”
Hey! No picking on John Gardner!
‘write what you know’ lead to some of the worst poems/short stories/screenplays I read in undergrad
In her craft text “Method and Madness,” Alice LaPlante explains the problem with this common advice quite well.
To paraphrase her, what teachers often mean when they say, “show, don’t tell” is “make your telling more interesting.”
“Show, don’t tell”–for these teachers–is thus an easy (yet obviously flawed) way to tell writers that their narrative language should be fresher, since writers often associate fresh language with concrete details and imagery, the kind of descriptive language we expect in the heart of a scene. However, any experienced writer and/or teacher knows that narrative (or telling) can create its own concreteness through sentence rhythm, “voice,” sound, and word choice.
The advice to “show, don’t tell” is often damaging because students are taught that all narration is bad, when they should be taught that boring and dull narration is bad.
Werd and double-werd.
Sure, taken on their own terms, most of the individual pieces of advice he gives are hard to disagree with. But don’t you think his book is directly responsible for much of the uniform, mediocre kind of “Creative Writing Program” writing that makes you want to take a nap?
‘write what you know’ lead to some of the worst poems/short stories/screenplays I read in undergrad
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