9. September 2011 by Gore Wehner.

I love to read. And one of my favorite things to read are articles on the writing craft. Sometimes I come across amazing advice, and I realize how much I have yet to learn. Just as often I come across information I already know but never thought about putting into words. And even if I had considered writing about it, I wouldn’t have been able to…at least, not as succinctly.

This was the case today. I’m enjoying The Writer’s Chronicle (September 2011 issue), the first issue I’ve ever read.  Jona Colson wrote an interview with Mark Doty. If you’ve never heard of Mak Doty, you’re not alone. I don’t read much poetry, and he’s a poet. But he’s also written memoirs and non-fiction essays. Basically, from what I gathered between the interview and looking up his work on Amazon.com, he’s a literary super-genius.

Gotta love him.

What really opened my eyes in the interview,  was the question Colson posed about sentimental writing. Colson wanted to know how a writer can avoid it. Doty began his answer with his definition of sentimental writing, that it’s when “…the writer feels more than the reader does” (p. 28). When the writer becomes wrapped up in his own emotion, he can’t find the right way to express himself. (I’m using “him” to refer to the writer, but obviously I could just as easily be using “her.” Do not flog me for using the masculine pronoun!)

I understand this. I recall several times in writing groups when a writer reads his work and halts because his voice breaks. He struggles with his story, and the audience aches for him, this emotion wrung forth from reliving his words. But otherwise we, the audience, remain untouched. We don’t feel  emotion from his prose, only his own response to his writing. In fact, had he read it out loud without the cracking voice, the stilted narrative, we would not feel anything at all from the words.

Doty explains that we need to detach ourselves from our work. Think about the words, the phrases. I’d like to add that if there are any cliches written into the piece at all, we won’t be touched.  Cliches don’t work because they don’t hold meaning to us anymore. If you are going for a vein, you must use a sharper knife. Dull ones won’t make a clear enough cut.

Doty goes on to explain that there is a second type of sentimental writing. The “sweetened version of reality” (p. 29). We give a piece of ourselves, but it’s not deepened. Not enriched. Like those love poems that don’t go beyond the true emotion. You know what I mean. “I love you, your golden hair, your sparkling smile, the way you look at me.” May be true in one sense, but what about probing deeper? “My heart wraps around you like a vine, struggling, choking, the need pure but physical.” Okay, you can tell I’m no poet, but see the difference? Who is the narrator? What does he truly feel? How is the love? One-sided? Which example shows that more clearly?

Consider you own work. Is there a way to express emotion deeper? Make it resonate for the reader? If you blubber when reading it, have someone else read it. Watch the audiences’ reactions. If they’re shedding tears, you may have gotten through. But if they stare out dully, it’s time to go back and study how to make the piece stronger.

This interview was a great article. I suggest you take a look at it if you haven’t already. You may also wish to take a look at Doty’s work. Click on this link to see what he’s written:

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=ntt_athr_dp_sr_pop_1?_encoding=UTF8&sort=relevancerank&search-alias=books&field-author=Mark%20Doty

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1. September 2011 by Gore Wehner.

This class is going to make me dust off brain cells I haven’t used in decades. Yes, I’m pretty old in comparison to the rest of the class. But I can’t tell if the kids taking the class realize I’m old enough to have been birthed them and then purchased an alcoholic beverage immediately afterward. I’m hoping they’re puzzled by my oh-so-trendy red streaks my friend dyed into my hair. (”Maybe she’s twenty-something…but, hm, she talks like my grandmother. And has the same wrinkles in the same places as my mother. Confusing.”) I’d say there are maybe five “older” students in the class, three of us old people are graduate students, the other two undergrad. And two younger people are graduate students. In other words, the class is a mix. There are maybe thirty students in all.

The instructor is super-energetic. Obviously of Mensa intelligence. Wants us all to *gulp* participate in class. This is a critical thinking class, which appears to mean I must spend more time analyzing literature than taking care of my young. I guess we’ll be reading a different book every week. But–yay!–one will be The Hunger Games. Which, by the way, I’m 3/4 of the way through the last book and think the first one is better than books two and three.

I am scared to death of this class, but I assume that’s a good thing. I haven’t been challenged like this in a long time. Maybe it will encourage me to break out of my safe little box and start writing something of great importance.

Or maybe I’ll run screaming from the classroom in frustration.

It could go either way.

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