After so much success, the question most readers have is, “What next?” It’s the same question authors ask themselves. Notably, in the obvious way: What the hell am I supposed to write now? But the question tends to arise more often in a writer’s day-to-day life. What do I write about? What do I do with my time? How do I replicate that success? Do I even want to? These questions served as the inspiration for this interview series, What Comes Next?. Every month, I’ll talk to an author outside of the publicity window–that stretch of time where the writing actually happens–about what they’re working on, what inspires them, their routines, and what keeps them returning to the page. 

I couldn’t imagine a better first guest than Torrey Peters. In addition to Detransiton, Baby, Peters is the author of The Masker and Infect Your Friends and Loved Ones, both of which will be reissued in revised editions by Random House in 2022. Peters and I spoke in her apartment in Brooklyn shortly before she left to launch the German translation of Detransition, Baby. We talked about writing routines, her entry into writing, touching hot stoves, happiness, cruelty, and deciding what to publish when everyone wants to publish your work.  

Isle McElroy: Can you talk a little bit about what got you into your writing career?

Torrey Peters: I was still a better reader than a writer. You read enough and you start to imbibe the rhythms of it. And when it came around to college, I was like, I’m good at this. I think I would have liked to spend my life reading. And being a writer is like—

IM: A close second.

TP: But of course, what it means to be a writer took a long time to figure out. The difference between ‘I want to be a writer’ and all the other different valences of that word is still ongoing.

IM : What do you mean by that? Like moving between being a fiction writer or a novelist?

TP: I mean, there’s how to write, there’s what writing is for, there’s writing as a career, there’s writing as communicating something urgent to other people. There’s writing as narrative, there’s writing as the tracks of thought on a page. There’s writing, which is like, whatever, letters, and then there’s so many different reasons why you might do it, never mind the forms in which the actual product in the end might take. I think that the hard part for me wasn’t “What’s the product gonna be?” The hard part for me was figuring out why I was doing it, who I was doing it for, and why it mattered.

IM: How has it changed over time? Or is it just like a refining towards the same direction?

TP: I think I had two distinct periods. One is where I thought about writing as a kind of craft. And when I thought of writing as a craft, I don’t think I knew what writing was for. I thought if you write something beautiful that is enough. Now, I feel that writing is largely about communicating something urgent to certain people. If you don’t have anything urgent to say, it’s a different thing than if you do. Sometimes I don’t have anything urgent to say, and I have to figure out what am I in those moments when I don’t have anything urgent to say?

IM: Are you still a writer at that time?

TP: In the past, I would have said yes. But I currently think no. I think I’m something else in those times. I don’t know what I am. I’m like a practitioner of something.

IM: Like a doctor who’s not operating or something.

TP: Or like, there’s a chess player who plays against other people. And then there’s a chess player who’s just at home, alone, moving the pieces around. And if you’re just at home moving the pieces alone on a board, occasionally thinking about it, are you a chess player? Or are you just kind of vaguely interested in chess?

IM: Yeah, I think that’s perfect.

TP: And I have periods in my life where I’m vaguely interested in chess. More than I’m interested in playing chess against people.

IM: Artists and writers are famously never in competition with each other.

TP: I’m happy to be in competition when it’s time to play. I wouldn’t shy away from competition. I think competition can bring out a lot. But sometimes I don’t have a plan. I don’t have a thing I’m writing for. I don’t think of it as an identity. So if it’s not an identity then it’s not something I always am. That’s really framed.

IM: I want to step back a second. You were talking about reading and feeling the rhythms of the writers you loved. Can you talk a little bit about what rhythms were guiding your work? Are they artistic rhythms or are they ethical—writers who had something to say when they wrote?

TP: I didn’t used to think about it in terms of ethics. I had a change in how I thought of writing as it moved from a craft to a kind of communication. How ethics meshed with that changed. Now I think that things that are artistically good usually have some sort of resonance with things that are ethically good. And I don’t mean that they’re moralistically good. I think lots of things have bad ethics and can be really compelling. But there’s a coherence to the ethics that finds its mirror in an artistic coherence, and the two usually go together.

IM: So who are some of the authors who you feel like have that kind of ethics, or a philosophical viewpoint, right? Rather than is something ethical in terms of good or bad?

TP: That seems more like morality.  [What writers have great ethics?] It changes all the time. I think that’s part of what’s fun. But someone for instance who I think whose ethics are great, but whose morals are not so clear is [Vladimir] Nabokov. There are these beautiful sentences and his ethics are kind of cruel. He has a kind of cruelty in his writing. There’s an inviting-ness and a cruelty to what he does. His writing and his stories are cruel. There’s an ethics and a worldview and a sort of cruel aestheticism to what he does. I don’t think that I do that. But that is somebody who I think of as being coherent in those two poles without necessarily being morally good or morally bad. I’m always looking for that tension in a lot of different writers.  Absolutely.  I go through real phases with writers where I get enamored of them. And I love them for a while, really deeply, and then I fall out of love and then sometimes come back to them. In the last couple of years, I really fell in love with [Elena] Ferrante. She has an ethics of ferocity that finds its mirror in the way that it’s written. Her characters are ferocious about making choices, constantly making choices and are constantly doing things and having agency. And I feel like that has to do with her thoughts about women’s writing but also it’s an aesthetic thing. That was fascinating to me to find somebody who could write this sweeping four volume epic that maintained a level of ferocity that you normally don’t find in 100 pages. People can’t keep it up for a hundred pages and here it is for thousands. Stuff like that is exciting to me.

IM: I’m really curious about cruelty. I was talking to a comedian the other day about the difference between cruelty and meanness. And we decided that meanness is a kind of love and that cruelty oversteps that and gets to a point of separation. But now hearing you talk about Nabokov, I’m thinking of cruelty as a kind of honesty, right? I wouldn’t use the word cruel to describe your work. Listening to other interviews with you, you talk a lot about the question of who the joke is on. And I think at times you are making jokes at your characters’ expense. That can be seen as, I wouldn’t say cruel, but there is a kind of meanness. So where do you situate the relationship between cruelty and honesty? Is there a kind of honest cruelty that comes through in writing?

TP: Explain to me why meanness could come from love, I don’t understand.

IM: Our divide was that meanness is a lesser form of cruelty, that meanness is almost like high school meanness, where there’s an in group of people brought together by the understanding of what mean things they can say. Whereas cruelty oversteps that into actually trying to harm and hurt someone.

TP: I think of meanness as something that’s ungenerous. It doesn’t have enough. Meanness has a scarcity or narrowness to it. And I think of meanness as coming from a place without thought, that you’re just sort of mean, you’re a narrow person, you’re intolerant, you don’t have anything to give. I think of meanness as thoughtless, whereas I think of cruelty as full of malice and pleasure and sadism. Meanness to me is a lack of life. But cruelty, there’s a fullness to it.

IM: You can hear it in the sounds of the words, right? Like meanness is like a dime on the ground.

TP: I think that the etymology of meanness has to do with—I don’t remember exactly—but a mean lifestyle is a lifestyle without any extras. Whereas I picture Nabokov surrounded by fine things. Sticking pins in insects, watching their suffering. There’s something very alive in that to me and that’s what attracts me to a lot of writing is the fullness of life that a writer can pack into it. Cruelty and malice and sadism exist in the human experience, and what do you do with them? What do you do with the fact that sometimes they can feel good? I think Nabokov is someone who transubstantiates that into aesthetic pleasure. I would say Ferrante can be cruel, because there’ll be a thing where you’re like, Okay, I’ve seen enough of this. And she just is like, Okay, you the reader wants to look away and I’m ratcheting up the humiliation one notch, I’m making it go on another three pages. She’s putting both her characters and the readers through it. What’s great about her is that she will turn around and give you something for having been through it. It’s manipulative, like I acted sadistically to you. And now I’m gonna like—

IM: We get an Ischia page.

TP: I like a writer willing to do that. You know, whether I’m willing to do it I think depends. I think I was crueler than I used to be. The Masker is a cruel book. It’s a cruel story. I was doing something with our cruelty. Whereas now I don’t have the stomach for it.

IM: I relate to that. A lot of my early work strives for aesthetic cruelty. We can call cruelty a kind of attention, too. I’m thinking of that Nabokov story, “Symbols and Signs,” where someone’s pulling their dentures out and they look like tusks. That is a gross level of detail. It’s clear that he has looked so deeply at this thing, but it seems cruel to describe someone in that manner. Can you talk about that evolution of moving [away from cruelty]? Why do you think you’re not as invested now? Is it just where you were emotionally?

TP: I think it’s like—I’ve heard that older people are happier than young people. And that seems weird, because their bodies have more pains and have probably suffered more and stuff like that. But that generally older people are happier because they have learned over the years to mentally not touch the fire. They’re like, if I think about things that are horrible all the time, then I will feel horrible. After 50 years of touching the stove or whatever, eventually they just don’t touch the stove. For me, the excitement of touching the stove and watching the smoke rise at my own expense and watching other people look at me in a horrified way—that impulse has diminished. I’ve done this, I understand how it works. I don’t want to touch the stove anymore. And then there’s a part of me that occasionally will be like, “Well, have you gotten soft?” But like I’ll touch the stove when it’s necessary but I’m not going to touch the stove for fun.

IM: I’m thinking of “touch the stove” also as sort of an authorial drive, too. I could be extremely glib in my comparison but there’s a certain style of writing that is touch the stove writing, that is either confessional touch the stove and then also political touch the stove, where we need to engage with this political subject and that becomes a form of stove touching.  And then there’s the personal, in which I am confessing this personal reality which is its own messy stove touch.

TP: And then there’s Nabokov who is aesthetically grotesque.

IM: He’s holding our hands to the stove. He’s not going to do it himself. To switch gears, but if you’re not [touching the stove], what drives you to write? When you were talking about having something to write or having something to say, where does the question of having like, a personal touch the stove [moment arise]?  Where in the art does it need to happen? And do you think that it needs to sometimes happen in the art and does that drive your desire to write? Or does that drive one’s desire to have something to say?

TP: I think that usually when I have something to say, it’s because something is unresolved. Usually, I feel that lots of things that are unresolved for me are unresolved for others. So in something like The Masker, there was a lot of shame, a lot of cross-dressing, it was about sex and gender. So I just wanted to speak about shame. Shame is so much about what is unsayable.  If I can just say the shameful thing, in a strange way, we will have gone through this thing, and we will come out the other side and feel liberated from it. For a long time, I think the cruel things I was doing had a lot to do with shame. And I don’t feel as driven by shame anymore. I sort of wish I did because it was great material.

IM: Blame Brené Brown.

TP: You know, I get mad about stuff. Usually it’s when some way of thinking that I’m expected to partake in doesn’t feel good to me. And that way of thinking creates an internal tension in me. And that tension needs to be resolved somehow. And usually the way it’s resolved is through all sorts of feelings, like I walk around mad, or I walk around irritated, a lot of negative feelings. So sometimes I want to rant, there’s this desire to express myself, there’s an urgency. But then, of course, I’m just ranting at people. They don’t enjoy that. There’s no catharsis in it. So there’s this tension inside of me and the work is transmuting that tension into something that other people also relate to. I try to make them feel that tension and we feel it together. I’m alone when I write but the magic of reading and writing means we unravel a lot together. But if I don’t have anything to unravel, if I don’t have tension, if I’m just like, check out these words—that’s a valid way to write too, I guess—but I think writing is hard and if I don’t have that tension that moves me to do it, it’s maybe for a paycheck, maybe for validation. Generally, though, there are much better ways of getting both paychecks and validation than writing.  That reminds me of a professor of mine who once said, upon reading something, it felt like it was easy for this person to write it and he didn’t like work that felt like that. And I’m constantly feeling that way. I was talking today about why everyone hates on Sally Rooney. And I think it’s that she makes it look easy. I actually think her work is filled with tension and she’s expressing a lot of it in a lovely way, but there’s the resentment that this is easy for you, you haven’t suffered.

IM: Connected to that, like, it’s about a year and a half since Detransition, Baby came out. How have you felt about the reception and conversation? Those tensions that [drove the book] are so ancient to you—when the book came out, they were already ancient, and now they’re even more ancient. At this point, do you feel you were successful in bringing those tensions to the surface for people to discuss?

TP: I don’t know. I think because I’ve just gotten every single possible reaction to it there’s not a consensus. Some people think it’s too radical, some people think it’s assimilationist, some people think it’s banal, some people think you need a PhD to read the gender theory. There are strong reactions but there’s no consensus. I can’t really know if people got that tension, except that they seem to have an emotional reaction to it. Whatever emotional tension I had seems to have been translated to a bunch of people who got all emotional when they read it. Oh, it must have worked. But how that particular emotional tension diffuses its energy inside of a person once it’s been transferred is much more unpredictable than I had expected. But I can’t be in the business of deciphering those reactions anymore. And that’s one of the things I liked about the Sally Rooney book is that she must have it so bad. Everyone in the world has an opinion about her. And that is what the third book is about, trying to resolve all that. I’m trying to imagine how much tension must have caused that book to be written and then the skill to make it look easy writing under that much tension? That’s not really answering your question, but just some thoughts.

IM: Evasive answers are the best. Can you talk a little bit about the difference in reception? I also had a chapbook come out before my novel came out. So there’s a sense of having a secret thing that you wrote when no one was looking. Your early books are going to be republished by Random House, so how are you feeling about that work now that you are known for this novel that came much later in your career?

TP: Those early books provoked really strong reactions in people. People were really upset by The Masker, they had strong reactions to those first two books. But they were on a scale that I could manage. Everybody who was mad about The Masker probably had my email. Yeah. And everybody who was inspired by Infect Your Friends and Loved Ones got a T4T tattoo. So I understood the reasons why people reacted in certain ways. And I think the difference is quantitative that has become qualitative. When water boils, you can’t put the steam back in the pot. And in those first two I could watch the water in the pot. And in [Detransition, Baby], the steam was everywhere.

IM: Is that shaping how you’re continuing to write?

TP: I spent a lot of time trying to pretend I haven’t read the reactions to Detransiton, Baby.  They can have a really chilling effect on me as a writer. They push me around in all these subtle ways, where if I write something very edgy, am I writing this in reaction to all these conservative things that I’ve read about myself? Or likewise, if I don’t write something edgy is it because the people got to me? And then meanwhile, is a question of edginess versus not edginess one that I picked up because of all that happened. I’ve had a hard time clearing the decks in terms of other people’s opinions to figure out what I have to say right now. What is the generative tension in my life right now? And how do I do it in a way that’s artistically worthwhile and not just because like, Oh, this is a moment I could capitalize on. Or any number of reasons that are fear based, like this is my moment, I got to do something with it or if I don’t do this right, I’ll be a one hit there. Those things are generally bad reasons for me to write. They make me feel bad.

IM: That’s the tension of an entire career though. How are you going to keep finding inspiration?

TP: I love the idea that one day I’ll quit. I probably won’t, but most of my daydreaming isn’t about writing.  Most of my daydreaming is about lots of other things. And as I talked to somebody recently, it was really interesting. I was complaining about [Gabriel] Garcia Marquez. And I was saying, he wrote this perfect book when he was like forty, and then he seemed to be really cool. He hung out with Castro, he punched Vargas Llosa. And when he was in his 70s, he started hanging out in Martha’s Vineyard and wanted to be friends with Bill Clinton or he was friends with Clinton. And after the Monica Lewinsky scandal he wrote a public letter that was like, Why my friend Bill had to lie or do what he had to do. I don’t remember how it was actually written or translated. And I was like, that guy he totally lost what was cool. And this person I was talking to, who speaks much better Spanish than I do, is an expert in Latin American literature and she was like, No, I think he figured out that nothing really matters and he had gotten to a place where he had forgotten that stuff matters. He was like living in this thing where everything was kind of like a joke to [him]. And I don’t know if that’s true. I actually think she’s wrong. And that he actually just bought his own myth. But the idea that he transcended to a trickster god is much more appealing. That he’s a trickster god scampering around Bill Clinton is much more beautiful as opposed to the grumpy old man holding on to his legacy and selling out everything that was beautiful about him.

IM: The writers I love most are the tricksters. I’m thinking like César Aira or Robert Walser. Do you know the story of Walser? The apocryphal story of Walser is that he was a young Austrian writer, celebrated, writing 12 hours a day. And in his early 30s, he checked himself into an institution where he lived for the rest of his life. He was famously asked near the end of his life, “Did you come here to write?” And he was like, “No, I came here to be mad.” After his death, they found what they called the Microscripts, stories written in German on the backs of postage stamps and other materials. I remember like ten years ago, New Directions announced they were publishing a translation of the Microscripts, and I was so excited. I was like, Yes, I’m finally going to see what this guy was writing when no one was watching. And so many of them were about women’s feet. And it makes me think about what someone writes when they are only writing for themselves. For him, it was these weird things, for César Aira, it’s his automatic writing, doing his page a day and doing what he wants. Those are like fascinating figures for me because they’ve figured out a way to [create careers] by not taking themselves too seriously.

TP: But also that writing is horrible to read. The process is interesting. What’s interesting to me is that they transcended being a writer but the rest of us are still treating them like writers. If I ever transcended being a writer, then I actually want to transcend. I don’t want to transcend by writing shit that actually nobody wants to read. It’s cool that he wrote about feet.

IM: Yeah. It’s pretty bad.

TP: I don’t want to read postage size notes about feet. Feet are wonderful. To me, they actually don’t have anything to say. And that’s fine. But then don’t say anything.

IM: Walser is different from Aira, because Aira is still like publishing. And Aira seems like a roll of the dice.  Every six books, something really great happens, but it never seems intentional.

TP: [Karl Ove] Knausgård had a thing about that. Like kicking around—sports metaphor, trigger warning—it’s like kicking around the ball in soccer. Most of the game is like kicking around the ball and then you have like 20 seconds of brilliance but the most is kicking around the ball. I do think that but there’s a part of me that’s here for the 20 seconds of brilliance. I’m not here for kicking around the ball. But I guess kicking is working your way towards figuring out what to say.

IM: Yeah, another sports metaphor, I remember Terrance Hayes talking about practice—I think he played college basketball—so said practice was what he loved most rather than playing in games. That’s when you could try stuff, when you could do interesting things. And the game is a published book, where everything is stone.

TP: Yeah. That’s what I’m trying to figure out now. Because I have an opportunity to write stuff that doesn’t matter. It’s the first time in my life that people will publish crap [that I write]. And it’s tempting.

The post Isle McElroy Asks Torrey Peters “What Comes Next?” appeared first on Electric Literature.

What’s the best thing you’ve ever gotten out of a writing class or workshop as a student?

My first poetry class in college was with the great Ishmael Reed, who, though having such laurels of his own, made sure my, our, writing felt heard. The young poets in our class had such different styles and themes, but he heard and drew out our developing voices, could tell their promise and strength, and this allowed us to both feel witnessed and to feel the confidence needed to keep going. 

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever gotten out of a writing class or workshop as a student?

I was in a class where it felt that the instructor was just talking to himself, not really listening to us, and this felt more about ego than about our voices.

What is the lesson or piece of writing advice you return to most as an instructor?

“You are a writer” – one of my beloved teachers Elmaz Abinader said in a workshop.  I was a writer already, but it felt powerful to affirm it.  As simple as this seems, claiming and reiterating that statement can be extremely necessary and empowering. We could write for years but still have difficulty owning that title, that role, as though it must be earned a certain way.

Does everyone “have a novel in them”?

Sure!  I don’t teach novel writing, but I do write plays and stories, and believe that each person has an interesting life or story their imagination could invent that could lend to a novel.  Now, whether the person has or will do the steps to gain the craft skills to put that to paper is another story.

Would you ever encourage a student to give up writing? Under what circumstances?

No.  Writing is always helpful.  Perhaps someone could re-direct their writing in terms of genre or take some time to write for themselves instead of submitting, but I would never say to give it up.  If you have the drive to write, you must write.

What’s more valuable in a workshop, praise or criticism?

That’s a trick question!  Both are equally important.  AND I do lean a bit towards making sure there’s praise, regardless of how “good” the work is — because we already live in a world that’s so challenging, so discouraging, and most of us are subject to so much criticism that to receive a bit of positive witness for our creative work could be a necessary boost.  I also remind myself to offer praise because I can often jump too quickly to the criticism and forget how essential that bit of positive witness can be for someone to even receive or stomach the criticism.

Should students write with publication in mind? Why or why not?

Generally, no.  Publishers are just one category of audience, and we can forget that behind every publication are just human beings with tastes, with opinions, with favorite authors and styles and aesthetics.  I notice that students who get too focused on publications also get too focused on the rejections that are a necessary part of submission. Write first for yourself, then for your intended audience — those readers for whom you write, those readers whose lives may be changed, or opened up, or who may feel witnessed when you read.  As for me — when I think of an audience, I think about young Filipinas and girls of color who may see some bit of themselves in me.  I can only imagine growing up believing that my story could be central, could be not “strange” and outsider and exotic, but could be important, or even normal.  So in that way, publication is just one means to getting to those audiences.

In one or two sentences, what’s your opinion of these writing maxims?

• Kill your darlings: This works for me often; when I feel too attached to a character, or a line, but I know intuitively it’s not working, sometimes its best to take them out.  Perhaps they return, but “killing” them, even if they are to be resurrected again, could be what saves the piece.
• Show don’t tell: Usually I tailor this to be “show, more often than tell” — in poetry.  Specificity, palpable, precise details, are indeed what give poems life.  However, if taken too far, it can lose sense.  If you’re writing a letter in first person, or a monologue, sometimes telling is better.  So I think it’s really an entry point, especially for those beginning poetry, to notice where they’re telling us something that really needs to be illustrated, needs to be offered by way of the senses so that the reader can feel/hear/taste/smell for themselves.
• Write what you know:  I don’t often say this upfront, but I do use it as an internal compass when encouraging students to draw from their experiences and knowledge AND to do really good research.  So if you don’t know something, get to know it.  Writing without doing the hard work of getting to know your subjects, the human beings, places, circumstances that are the content of the writing can lead to stereotyping, misrepresentation, or superficial writing.  So it’s not to say that you must write about your own life, but you must care enough about the lives you wish to approximate to decide if, first, it’s really what you want to or should write about, and then render those stories or poems well. That humanization and empathy can only improve the writing.
• Character is plot: This one I’d tailor to say “character drives plot” or “so much comes out of character” when it comes to playwriting or short stories.  Even in poetry, narrative poems can come out of strong understanding of character.  Studying, sketching, understanding, internalizing your characters will often help you to develop plot, because it will have everything to do with how they react to events and pursue their goals.

What’s the best hobby for writers?

Anything that brings you joy!  If it’s dancing, drawing, photography, or knitting, making sure you have something palpable, three dimensional that gives you joy is wonderful.

What’s the best workshop snack?

Popcorn.

The post Aimee Suzara Wants You to Own The Fact That You’re a Writer appeared first on Electric Literature.

What’s the best thing you’ve ever gotten out of a translation workshop as a student?

I don’t think the terms “teacher” and “student” are very applicable in the context of a workshop. We’re all just people sitting in a room, or a zoom room, and one of them makes some suggestions about things we could do, or read, or talk about. But that doesn’t mean everyone has to do that. We collectively decide what we’d like the space (and time) to be used for, and what makes sense to do given our collective abilities, inclinations, and resources. The best thing I’ve ever gotten out of a translation workshop is the feeling that it was possible for me to translate something, and that there were other people who believed that, too. It’s easy to believe that most things are impossible. I like to think of the workshop as a space where that belief can be suspended, at least for a little while.

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever gotten out of a translation workshop as a student?

The worst thing I’ve ever gotten out of a translation workshop was the feeling that what I was translating wasn’t interesting or worth reading closely. Maybe that’s another way of saying: distractedness, inattention, and arrogance.

What is the lesson or piece of translation advice you return to most as an instructor?

Bela Shayevich once told me that not even the worst translation could ruin a truly brilliant text. Sometimes I think about that and it takes the pressure off. It also reminds me that translation is really a negative capability. It’s about not getting in the way of what’s already there. You have to become very quiet, and very ghostly. You have to really listen to the text and not project too much onto it. When reading a piece of music, for example, you know the composer heard something in their head at one point, then they wrote it down, and now you’re looking at this piece of paper, and you have to try and play what they heard, to bring it to life. They left all these clues on the page to help you hear what they were hearing, so your job is to listen deeply, and imaginatively.        

Can everyone translate?

No, because we live in a capitalist society where creativity and self-expression are available only to an elite minority, while the majority of people in the world have to work so hard and so much just to stay alive that they don’t have the time or resources to even think about something like literature, let alone literary translation–however talented they might be. I feel like it’s important not to lose sight of that. That said, it depends on how we define translation. More than half the world’s population speak more than one language (oftentimes not by choice), so I feel pretty confident in saying that people are translating all the time, for each other, for fun, for love, for work, because they are in life and death situations, and so on.      

Would you ever encourage a student to give up translating? Under what circumstances?

Currently, it’s impossible to make a living off of translation, which is part of why the majority of its practitioners are so devastatingly old and white, and why it’s seen as a retirement hobby rather than a vocation. There are lots of practical reasons to give up on translating as a job–precisely because it’s not seen as a job at all–but I hope that translators will use their collective power as workers to demand better pay and working conditions so that less people will have to give it up in the future. Speaking of which, if you’re interested in doing that, hit me up. 

What’s more valuable in a translation workshop, praise or criticism?

That seems like a false dichotomy. The most valuable feedback I’ve received in workshop has taken the form of questions that forced me to think about why I made a particular decision. That said, most translators (and writers) are probably pretty critical of themselves already, or just have a lot of negative self-talk in general, so I think praise can go a long way toward helping someone keep their craft alive. Which is not always an easy thing.

Should students write with publication in mind? Why or why not?

Lurking inside this question, I feel, is the eternal “is translation an art or a job” dichotomy, with the assumption that if you think of it as a job (i.e. translate with a publication in mind) then you somehow aren’t a ‘real’ artist or are some sort of vulgar commercialist. I think that’s ridiculous and if you want to make a living as a translator, you should absolutely translate with publications in mind. I don’t think tailoring your work to your audience diminishes your art. I think we do that all the time anyway. This idea that there is some terrain of pure, free, original expression untainted by the thought of money, or publishing, or editors, or capitalism, is just totally made up. We are always translating or writing with someone or something in mind, the self is an illusion, etc etc. On a more practical note: unless you just feel like it for some reason, don’t translate an entire novel before you find a publisher for it! That is called working on spec and it is uncompensated labor. You can love your art and still respect yourself as a worker and acknowledge that what you do takes time and skill and in that sense has actual value.

What’s the best hobby for translators?

I’m not sure, but I like to go for very long bike rides.

What’s the best workshop snack?

I’m partial to popcorn.

The post Lisa Hofmann-Kuroda On The Importance of Deep, Imaginative, Listening appeared first on Electric Literature.

What’s the best thing you’ve ever gotten out of a writing class or workshop as a student?

A while back, I signed up for a Memoir workshop mainly because my life was feeling vacant and I needed a jolt. When we had to turn something in, I was insecure because I didn’t have a Very Big Thing that all memoirs seemed to be made out of. What I had were all these random, surreal-ish, sometimes-poetic encounters with strangers that were filling in the space where my life used to be. When the piece got workshopped, the big-time enthusiasm I received was a shock, especially since I’d been so down. The exact best thing was a phrase someone said. They said they didn’t really know what it was they were looking at but they “would read a whole book of this.” On the walk home, my body was a riot of endorphins and purpose. I created a playlist called “a whole book of this” and then I spent a year writing the whole book. That’s how No One You Know happened.

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever gotten out of a writing class or workshop as a student?

In a fiction workshop, one dude HATED a story I wrote about a celebrity profile gone wrong. This dude took real glee in trying to tear the story down, which felt like the unforgivable sin (rather than how deeply he’d misunderstood it, which happens!). At one point I remember he said something like “The only interesting thing in the entire story is this one line,” which was just a description of a shower drain. It got to the point that the instructor felt a need to step in and defend it (which helped). While the dude was talking, I wrote a free-form haiku, which I also remember: 

“Bludgeoned by a buffoon
The whacks are hard
But do not hurt.”

I was lying though. It did hurt!

What is the lesson or piece of writing advice you return to most as an instructor?

For nonfiction writers, my bedrock advice is what the tour guide and poet Speed Levitch once called “taking notes on the present tense.” The idea is to raise your alertness by keeping some kind of field notebook (pocket, digital, mind palace, whatever works) for observing, remembering, and riffing. I think it works like writing down your dreams: the more you do it, the more you remember. The more you write in your notebook, the more you’ll observe. 

Recent gleanings from mine: (1) when I asked someone how they were doing, they responded: “I’m rusting” (2) the mystery of how solitary wasps seem to be spontaneously generating in our apartment, each living the exact same life over and over (3) meeting a man who carries around some kind of lube to maintain his ping pong paddle. 

Many of the gleanings might not amount to anything bigger, but some will. Even for the ones that don’t, there’s often a joy in rediscovering them later.    

Does everyone “have a novel in them”?

I’ll let the novelists duke that one out. Everyone definitely has a piece of flash nonfiction in them, though! A single uncanny moment or anecdote or observation or idea is enough to get going. While brevity comes with its own challenges, on the whole, short nonfiction is a highly accessible form to try out. It’s practical (takes less time) and can be a productive distraction from longer projects while still being extremely powerful in its own right. I enjoy sending flash pieces I love to my friends who “aren’t readers” because even they can be seduced by something that’s just a page or a few.  

Would you ever encourage a student to give up writing? Under what circumstances?

No. That doesn’t feel right to me. 

This is very different, but I do think it’s helpful sometimes to remind students (and myself) that there are so many other worthy, wonderful goals besides, beyond, or in addition to a White Whale they’re chasing. I’ll mention small presses, which cracked open a whole world for me, self-publishing, lit journals, open mics, and the oft-forgotten but pure delight of sharing something you wrote with a friend, reading it out loud, and them hearing it.  

What’s more valuable in a workshop, praise or criticism?

A fruitful workshop combines a mix of what’s working and what’s not, always with a spirit of kindness. It’s really hard to choose because I think they need each other, but gun to my head, I’d say praise!

Should students write with publication in mind? Why or why not?

I like a hybrid approach. I tend to do my best work in the darkness of the cave, without any expectation and just seeing what happens. That takes the pressure off. But sometimes when I’m in a rut or not writing or I’m worried I’ve got the yips, a journal’s submission window opens up, catches my eye, and becomes a prompt in itself. Writing with an outcome in mind lights the match once again. 

In one or two sentences, what’s your opinion of these writing maxims?

• Kill your darlings: Hilariously macabre. I do think it’s a good idea to ask yourself whether a particular piece of a story is distracting or serving the whole, but I also advocate “preserving your darlings” in a dump doc.  
• Show don’t tell: Showing is artful and great and often recommended, but telling gets a bad rap and deserves its day in the sun. This is especially true in flash nonfiction when you frequently need to condense or abbreviate in the name of focusing the camera on something else. 
• Write what you know: Generally sound advice, though I’ve found George Saunders’ comments on disentangling writing from Big Personal Experience liberating and useful.
• Character is plot: This one feels less relevant in my corner of essayistic nonfiction, but I did just watch a roundtable interview with the writers of “Breaking Bad” and they swore by this maxim. Whenever they were lost, they’d come back to the question: “Where’s Walt/Jesse/Skyler’s head at?”

What’s the best hobby for writers?

I would recommend hobbies that get you away from your screen, out of your house, and out of your head. Long gallopy walks in stimulus-rich urban areas have always been my warhorse, though maybe that doesn’t quite rise to the level of “hobby.” Ping-pong works well for me. It’s social, intimate (due to the small table), conversational, and time and again steers me toward new friends.   

What’s the best workshop snack?

Anything someone’s willing to share, because that subtly primes and reminds everyone that the workshop is a community and we’re in it together and here to help each other. If we’re talking specifics, Torres Black Truffle chips are the way to my heart. 

The post Jason Schwartzman Believes Everyone Has a Piece of Flash Nonfiction In Them appeared first on Electric Literature.

What’s the best thing you’ve ever gotten out of a writing class or workshop as a student?

Friendship! Even if we’re not the type of friends that constantly chat, I’ve come to meet so many brilliant, talented, kind souls in workshops and I value those connections very much. I’ve also gotten to meet a lot of writers outside of my generation via writing classes and I’ve come to learn a lot from both their writing and personal insights that has really helped me understand and work through some of the insecurities one can encounter as a young writer with dreams. They helped me age gracefully in my artistic practice and better manage, if not eradicate, a lot of my expectations.

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever gotten out of a writing class or workshop as a student?

I’ve come to find that every now and then there are people who will read your work and immediately project all kinds of things onto it/you, rather than reading the work in an open-minded way. Some people have no curiosity towards anything save for themselves and this creates, in my opinion, very rigid readers and students who are only looking to prove what they saw in the writing rather than focus on what might potentially be most helpful for the writer. For example, I once shared a poem that was about a flock of ancient, magical ibis’ reborn as a young girl. In the google comments, a fellow classmate wrote this lengthy thing about daddy issues … I was like, huh? I vividly recall that it was the only comment I got that week that I found to be wholly unhelpful.

What is the lesson or piece of writing advice you return to most as an instructor?

You don’t need to be an expert. You don’t need to know every technical device, you don’t need to follow the elements of style, you don’t need to have read whatever books/authors so-and-so literary authority says you need to have read to be seasoned. You only need to do and read what feels good and purposeful to you, however you find it. Writing is about style (read: voice) and style is like personality, it grows over a long stretches of time and is influenced by a myriad of interests and experiences. I’m not saying actively ignore good advice but accept that not all good advice is gonna agree with you. In sum: fuck it, we ball. 

Does everyone “have a novel in them”?

Everyone? I don’t know … possessing an internal narrative or a ripe imagination doesn’t automatically translate to one being a storyteller or poet. That’s like asking can everyone sing. Like, yeah I can sing, I can even write a little diddy out but can I hit the notes? Let’s not pretend talent has nothing to do with it.

Would you ever encourage a student to give up writing? Under what circumstances?

I consider writing a vocation—a calling. No one, at least no one with common sense, writes for any other reason but the fact that they feel called to do it. I mean, it’s not inherently lucrative, and it’s an extremely time consuming if not downright haunting practice to dedicate oneself to. Saying that, if someone wanted to quit because their heart was not in it, because they realized that this was not their calling and they would prefer to dedicate their time toward something else then yes, I would absolutely encourage them to quit if they knew it wasn’t right for them. For those who write because they are called to, because they literally can’t fathom doing anything else I would encourage them to slow down when things get overwhelming or frustrating (which they will). Writing will never abandon you. It is patient. It waits.

What’s more valuable in a workshop, praise or criticism?

I recently took a workshop led by Tiana Reid and in class we made a collaborative list of workshop guidelines, a practice I’ve adopted in my teaching. One of the guidelines we all agreed on was “critical generosity”. I loved that idea so much, that one can simultaneously be both generous and critical, that feedback can live outside of the good/bad right/wrong  valuable/nonvaluable binary. In practice, if one is being mindful, as one should always try to be, this concept of critical generosity facilitates a really pleasant roundness to workshop. It breaks down the cycle of fear or hubris critique often inspires and roots praise into something tangible and intentional. It encourages both kindness and honesty, all in all, an easier pill to swallow. 

Should students write with publication in mind? Why or why not?

Having the goal of publication and actively working towards it is fine. Knowing you would one day like to publish is fine but if you’re picking up your pen or sitting down at your computer having already calculated how publishable a poem or story or whatever is then I would seriously encourage you to pause and reflect.

In one or two sentences, what’s your opinion of these writing maxims?

• Kill your darlings: Honestly, I had to google what this lil adage even meant so I could answer this because every time I previously encountered it I would cringe, it sounded so corny and I’m often suspicious of corny shit so it never got incorporated into my belief system. Now that I’m in the know I can say my instinct was correct: it’s silly and counterintuitive.
• Show don’t tell: This won’t always work or be the best practice. For that reason I also tend to discard this as a whole and just do me.
• Write what you know: This has gotten to be a little too rooted in identity for my taste. Outside of the representational, I think writing about things you don’t know or only have some kind of orbital or abstract and incomplete knowledge about is a worthwhile venture. The Passion According to G.H. by Clarice Lispector is a whole book about not knowing or, better yet, sensing that leads to raw knowledge (Truth). Maybe it’s my inclination toward poetics but I would throw out this rule too.
• Character is plot: This is the most interesting of the four to ponder because it’s really more like a koan to contemplate the heavy lifting of world building. Feels sorta like a prism, lots of angles to look through. No comment.

What’s the best hobby for writers?

Rest. I believe every writer should be resting as often as they can. Indulge in it and if inspiration strikes while you are resting pull out your notebook or your phone to make notes you can revisit later. Also stretching. I believe genius unfurls in stretching.

What’s the best workshop snack?

Seedless red grapes.

The post Gabrielle Octavia Rucker Says Every Writer Should Be Resting as Often as They Can appeared first on Electric Literature.

What’s the best thing you’ve ever gotten out of a writing class or workshop as a student?

Once, in one of my early workshop experiences, a fellow poet – let’s call them Poet A – snapped at me for interrupting them, even though I was certain that what I was saying was affirming and in praise of their work. (I know, I know, I hear myself – it works out in the end, I promise.) I was quite hurt by the level of vitriol I perceived that poet as aiming my way, and during a break I sought out another workshop participant – let’s call them Poet B – to ascertain whether I was, in fact, the asshole I felt I’d been made out to be. “Sometimes,” Poet B said, taking a drag off their cigarette, “you have to be aware of how much space you take up.” I was, I’m embarrassed to say, stunned to hear this. I’m the fat black queer kid – don’t I deserve all the space? In that workshop – I had not noticed this until my conversation with Poet B – I was the only cisgender male, and was, sadly, perhaps (probably) toxically, performing as such. I’ve never entered a workshop space the same way again, and I believe that’s been to my own and my fellow workshop participants’ and students’ benefit. 

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever gotten out of a writing class or workshop as a student?

I feel blessed in that any challenging workshop experiences I can remember having had have largely been moments of growth for me. This tiny little thing sticks with me, though: once in a workshop a poet read a poem which included the line “sharp as rock” and the workshop leader said “but rocks aren’t sharp.” What? It taught me something about perspective for one (where is this world where obsidian or flint doesn’t exist?) but also – even if there were no sharp rocks in this world, we’re poets – can’t we imagine or conjure up what doesn’t exist? I sure hope so.

What is the lesson or piece of writing advice you return to most as an instructor?

The poet Willie Perdomo told me once in a workshop “write the hard poem.” And I take that shit as gospel. Whether you read it as angry or heartbreaking or gutting or funny or silly, every poem I write is high-stakes, at least in my own mind.

Does everyone “have a novel in them”?

I believe that everyone has one or more stories in them that deserves documenting/writing down. I also believe that sometimes that “novel” is a memoir. Or an essay. Or a film, or a song, or a canvas, or a poetry collection. Or a single poem. Beyond this – there’s thousands of miles of white space between having a story that’ deserves a novel/canvas/poem and having the will or desire or drive to create that novel/canvas/poem.  

Would you ever encourage a student to give up writing? Under what circumstances?

This question only makes sense to me in the context of capitalism. It’s the “circumstances” for me. If a person loves to write, if the process of writing brings them joy or enlightenment or any little sense of value in their life, why would they ever stop? Why would anyone ever encourage them to? It feels like the question presumes that the student has a set of expectations about what tangibles their writing will afford them – awards? recognition? financial compensation? – and that I, if I’m encouraging them to stop, have made some judgment about what I believe their chances of achieving those tangibles are. Encouraging someone under any circumstances to not write, when they want to – that feels borderline criminal to me. It feels like a silencing. 

What’s more valuable in a workshop, praise or criticism?

Praise. Periodt. 

Should students write with publication in mind? Why or why not?

For me, thoughts of publication come after the writing. Once I have a poem or manuscript that I perceive as approaching some sense of completeness, or at least finality, then is the time I think about publication. I can’t imagine considering publication before I write, or while I’m writing. How do I think about where something will be published or read, or by whom, without it affecting what I write? I want to be unencumbered by anyone else’s expectations when I write and if I’m thinking about publication as I write that feels difficult, if not impossible. 

In one or two sentences, what’s your opinion of these writing maxims?

• Kill your darlings: First off, the language sucks. (I’d rather not kill, thank you very much.) Also – I often find a use for the “darlings” I end up excising from my poems. Maybe we could change the language to “recycle your darlings?” Or “save your darlings for another day?”
• Show don’t tell: Show AND tell, I say. 
• Write what you know: There’s this lovely film from 2018, José, about a young queer Guatemalan man who tries escape his culture and circumstances to find what we like to think of as true love. The film was directed and co-written by Li Cheng, a man who was born in China and moved to the United States as an adult. I had the pleasure of meeting and talking with Li Cheng at a showing of the film in Fort Lauderdale in 2019. Li Cheng lived for a year in Guatemala and conducted interviews with, by his count, some 300-plus young men he met through his Grindr profile (in which he offered to buy coffee for anyone who would sit down with him for an interview about their queer Guatemalan lives) before he ever put pen to paper to write the screenplay. Be like Li Cheng.  
• Character is plot: Yes and also no and also do you. (I feel like I need to add a fifth maxim: Rules were made to be broken.)

What’s the best hobby for writers?

Whatever takes us out of the literal process of writing. It’ll end up feeding our writing, anyhow, but we writers ought all to every so often engage in some pastime that looks not at all like a series of letters or words or lines or paragraphs on a page. In this moment I’m partial to gardening, like, say, a Ross Gay or an Aimee Nezhukumatathil – but that might be because I’m partial to those poets, as poets and as humans. Or because my mother somehow has somehow made bountiful offerings of cucumbers and tomatoes and green peppers and greens (is Swiss Chard not a wonderful thing?) to dozens of her neighbors, all summer, every year, for as many years as I can remember, out of maybe a fifteen-foot-square plot of dirt in her back yard. And her produce always tastes better than anything I’ve ever purchased in a supermarket. Or a farmers’ market. And don’t get me started on her profusion of sunflowers and Black Eyed Susans. I stay surprised that folks don’t pick them at will. (I’m playing. No one who knows my mama would mess with her like that.)

What’s the best workshop snack?

I was reading Abeer Hoque’s response to this question from last January and she mentioned that she sometimes brings samosas and empanadas to workshop and no workshop I lead going forward will ever be the same. Also now I know what I’m having for lunch.

The post Jubi Arriola-Headley Wants Poets To Conjure Up What Doesn’t Exist appeared first on Electric Literature.

What’s the best thing you’ve ever gotten out of a writing class or workshop as a student?

Hot, Medium, or Mild

At the start of a nonfiction workshop in college, Cris Beam said: “Before we talk about your work, we need to know how you want us to talk about it. Tell us, on a scale of hot-to-medium-to-mild, what level of intensity you’re ready for.”

The sound of my relief was audible. The suggestion that my feelings mattered, that bleeding out on the page might affect me psychologically, that I could be serious about bettering my craft without sacrificing my safety, was nothing short of life changing. Her care gave me permission to write into experiences of danger with the knowledge that, in her hands, I’d be treated with respect and dignity. 

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever gotten out of a writing class or workshop as a student?

I would not have guessed anyone could misunderstand this assignment so thoroughly.

A college professor scrawled that on the last page of my weekly creative writing assignment (I photographed it). His prompt instructed us to tell a story from a collective perspective. Usually, weekly assignments were brief sketches, the seeds of something, a few pages at most. But that prompt unearthed something inside me. A story I’d been circling around, really hiding from, emerged when I wrote it from the vantage point of two children instead of one. I turned in an eight- or ten-page story. My professor didn’t comment on a single moment, word, sentence, or phrase in the piece besides his closing assertion that I’d misunderstood what he wanted. 

Writing isn’t for your professor. Writing is for yourself and for your reader and for the artform.

What is the lesson or piece of writing advice you return to most as an instructor?

The first draft of a novel is you telling yourself the story.

I read that advice shortly after finishing the first draft of my debut novel. I’d sent the draft off to my agent in a flurry, working on a two-month deadline that meant the draft was really hundreds of pages of ideas, bones, sketches of who my characters were, slivers of what they wanted. The novel was stuck behind fogged glass. You could see the shape of something if you looked closely, but so much of it was still blurry. I so badly wanted that advice to be untrue, but it wasn’t. Very often, our first drafts are singular, magical, delicate sketches of what our stories or novels or memoirs will become, but in the beginning, we’re writing them to figure out what the story is. In some ways, that’s the hardest part. Once we know the story, once we have distance from it, then we can shape it into something meaningful for our readers.   

Does everyone “have a novel in them”?

To me, that question is a bit like the question: Are people born inherently good? Maybe. Maybe not. But I certainly don’t have the power to determine that for someone else (frankly no one should). I do think everyone has a story inside them. The story of why they are who they are. Of what happened to them. That story isn’t justification for violence or cruelty, but it can help us understand them better. I wish more people had the privilege of time and space to tell theirs.

Would you ever encourage a student to give up writing? Under what circumstances?

In my senior year of college, I had a professor (see question 2) who, during our final workshop, which doubled as a holiday party at his home, announced to the class that I was not talented enough to be a real writer. Then he coaxed my classmates along, encouraging them to say disparaging things about me. I sat on his sofa, pinching the fat on my thigh, trying not to cry. Then he placed a chocolate caramel—a caramel I’d brought him as a gift—into his mouth and smiled. So, no. I would never encourage a student to give up. Writing can save you. It saved me. Not everyone will get published. But writers don’t write for the sole purpose of publication. At least they shouldn’t. Writers write to tell a story, to make someone feel something, to help them understand themselves better, to figure out what they think and who they are.  

What’s more valuable in a workshop, praise or criticism?

At its worst, praise can artificially inflate a writer’s ego, discouraging them from probing their work and trying to make it better, but at its best, praise can make a vulnerable writer feel like they matter, like their perspective is valid, like even if they don’t conform to an arbitrary style or writing exercise or way of expressing themselves, that doesn’t mean their art is any less important. The best workshops begin with praise, then move into criticism.

Should students write with publication in mind? Why or why not?

See question 3.

Fear is the crushing weight on the keyboard. Preventing us from facing our shame, our anxieties, our darkness. Write without thinking about how anyone will feel when they read it. The moment you let someone else into the room, the room stops being yours. Stay in that room by yourself as long as you can. Make the thing that only you can make. Then revise the hell out of it.

In one or two sentences, what’s your opinion of these writing maxims?

There is no one size fits all. In anything. Writing or life. Take the advice that speaks to you and discard the rest.

• Kill your darlings: Some sentences sound like velvet, but don’t make you feel anything. Cut them, but save them in a separate document. Tell yourself you’ll use them later. Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t.

• Show don’t tell: There’s no shame in saying something plainly. Abstraction often creates distance. Go ahead and just name the thing.

• Write what you know: Write from an emotional truth, but let that truth lead you into spaces that are unfamiliar to you.

• Character is plot: I used to refuse to let anything happen to my characters. Their stuck-ness was the story I was telling. It turns out that we’re always feeling and changing and growing and regressing and backpedaling even when we’re depressed and unmoving. 

What’s the best hobby for writers?

For me, the answer is baking. I think the best hobbies are ones that allow writers to complete a task from start to finish, preferably with tangible results of their labor, like coarsely salted pretzel rolls or sugared rhubarb tarts. The writing process, from draft to-revision-to-submission-to-rejection-to-re-submission-to-eventual publication is so long, so shapeless, and so often lacking in hope, that having proof, something one can hold in their hands, makes the journey a little easier.  

What’s the best workshop snack?

Anything that helps make you feel safe or more comfortable is advisable. My favorite is a box of chocolate caramels (see question 5).

The post Hot, Medium, or Mild? Jenessa Abrams Values How You Want to be Critiqued appeared first on Electric Literature.

What’s the best thing you’ve ever gotten out of a writing class or workshop as a student?

A community of fellow writers that continue to show up, support, and celebrate each other’s trials and success.

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever gotten out of a writing class or workshop as a student?

That my work was unbelievable and felt made up.

What is the lesson or piece of writing advice you return to most as an instructor?

JoAnn Beard once told me if a story isn’t working, start over or write something new. That felt brutal and profound at the time, but now, especially after I started teaching, that perspective feels necessary and true.

Does everyone “have a novel in them”?

Sure, if they want to have a novel in them.  

Would you ever encourage a student to give up writing? Under what circumstances?

No. Maybe a hostage situation? Sounds like a writing prompt!

What’s more valuable in a workshop, praise or criticism?

Praise is an opportunity to assess the feedback you are receiving from fellow writers. From their praise, you can tell if your story resonated. Do they get it?  Are they able to help you get your points across more fully? Praise is as much an opportunity to establish trust and mutual understanding as it is to encourage. If the writer agrees with the positive feedback, then they should look at the criticism. In my classes, we don’t criticize so much as raise questions, connect themes, strategize plot possibilities, etc. 

Should students write with publication in mind? Why or why not?

Yes and no. Get the content down any way you can. A few drafts later, after you shape the structure, characters, and the reader’s experience, you can begin to think about publication. It’s important to remember that while we write alone, publication is when our work joins a much larger community. Once you move into the editing process, it’s smart to do research on lit journals, magazines, blogs, and understand the conversation your work will be joining. Publication is the last step in the overall process and one that does a great deal to energize and validate emerging writers. 

In one or two sentences, what’s your opinion of these writing maxims?

• Kill your darlings: Still useful in the context of focusing a large project, but there are no true do’s and don’ts in writing.
• Show don’t tell: Show and tell are not mutually exclusive. Show is especially effective in writing compelling scenes, especially if we’re working with emotional arcs.
• Write what you know: Yes, especially when it comes to identity, race, gender, disability, etc. And if you are writing about characters or situations that’s not familiar, make sure you find/pay a sensitivity reader.
• Character is plot: This is true for my writing, but I wouldn’t say it’s true for all writers.

All these maxims derive from craft tools developed for the workshop model, and as we grow and evolve as writers so should the model. These maxims are a guide, not a rule. Once you have foundational understanding, trust yourself and take some risks. Figure out what does and doesn’t work for you as a writer.

What’s the best hobby for writers?

Physically, the best hobbies are walking, hiking, or traveling. I also like to paint, and I always encourage my students to interact with other mediums of art and creation. Writing nonfiction can be intense emotionally and physically, and it’s good self-care practice to play with other art forms that can stimulate the same part of the brain.

What’s the best workshop snack?

Cake!

The post The Real Reason Anna Qu Wants You to Pay Attention to Praise appeared first on Electric Literature.

What’s the best thing you’ve ever gotten out of a writing class or workshop as a student?

The concept of restraint, and the idea that I can trust my reader to put more things together. I’ve pared back my use of adjectives over the years, and I’m also experimenting with a dash of ambiguity as a spice.

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever gotten out of a writing class or workshop as a student?

At first, I felt like I wanted to “fix” every issue that came up in a workshop. It took me a while to realize that I wasn’t supposed to be answering all of the questions in my manuscript–they were supposed to help me define what I wanted the work to be doing. That’s something I wish I’d heard explicitly from instructors earlier on.

What is the lesson or piece of writing advice you return to most as an instructor?

I find myself returning to these questions from David Mamet again and again: “Every scene should be able to answer three questions: Who wants what from whom? What happens if they don’t get it? Why now?” I find them helpful not at the beginning of the writing process, but when you get to the muddle in the middle and start to question why you’re even writing this thing.

Does everyone “have a novel in them”?

Great question. I know there’s tremendous pressure toward novels, but I don’t think everyone has to write one. I’ve gotten swept away by short stories and flashes that have stuck with me longer than many novels I’ve read. I want to read your truths, whatever the word count. The connection is what I’ll remember.

Would you ever encourage a student to give up writing? Under what circumstances?

No, never. I might, however, encourage a student to focus on writing and not worry about publishing right away. Those two aren’t the same thing, and I wouldn’t want a student to feel like a failure just because they’re not getting anything published.

What’s more valuable in a workshop, praise or criticism?

Stepping back a bit, I’m a fan of starting with a brief synopsis to clarify what I’m seeing on the page, which helps me determine what the author’s intention might be. Without that clarity, any other praise or questions/suggestions (my preference over the word “criticism”) may not be of use to the author. It’s hard to help someone get to where they want to be when you’ve misread where they want to go, and it’s important for the author to know if multiple folks are having the same problem.

Should students write with publication in mind? Why or why not?

I don’t think anyone should write with publication in mind. The story is going to come out of you, but whether it ever sees a submission queue is another matter. You might be inspired by a call for entry, which is great, but I’d caution against letting the call and the submission deadline squeeze the story into a shape it doesn’t want to take. There will always be more calls, and I find it freeing to focus on the story itself rather than who might accept it.

In one or two sentences, what’s your opinion of these writing maxims?

• Kill your darlings: Don’t kill them, just cut and paste them into another document to live another day.
• Show don’t tell: All absolutes are flawed. (See what I did there?) I like to say show more than tell, to give your reader a chance to participate in creating meaning, but also keep them on the right path when absolutely essential.
• Write what you know: Or research the hell out of what you don’t know. And even then, depending on what it is, know that you may have to find a different way to tell the story.
• Character is plot: Okay, I’m down with this one—mostly. Actions do reveal character, but it can also be helpful to peep into a character’s thoughts to know whether they’re conflicted about what they’re doing, and if so, why.

What’s the best hobby for writers?

Anything that doesn’t involve thinking about reading or writing. When I was stressed out by the pandemic, I turned to knitting, because I could let my mind wander and still feel productive—if this can be called productive. Exercise is great too, especially after sitting at our desks for so many hours. And gardening has been a gift, digging my hands in dirt and eating tomatoes from my own little balcony garden months later.

What’s the best workshop snack?

Almonds. They’re my go-to. They don’t stink up the workshop room and you can shovel them into your face endlessly while still pretending to be healthy.

The post Tara Campbell Doesn’t Think You Need to Fix Every Critique appeared first on Electric Literature.

What’s the best thing you’ve ever gotten out of a writing class or workshop as a student?

Writer friends who read my work and let me read their work, and who are practicing their craft in ways that have informed and inspired mine.

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever gotten out of a writing class or workshop as a student?

In an MFA workshop with a guest editor from a literary magazine, I was told by said editor that my writing was “soft.” This person was a cisgender, straight, white male who I can only guess was more interested in seeing imprints of his perceived self in the works he was reviewing than he was about assisting someone in their craft. He didn’t say what could be done, why “soft” was apparently bad, or what he even meant by the word. Not even when I asked for him to expound. I learned from that experience who or what I did NOT want to be as an editor or teacher.

What is the lesson or piece of writing advice you return to most as an instructor?

I tell writers all the time, as I do with my child and myself, “Practice does not make perfect; practice makes practice.”

Does everyone “have a novel in them”?

I’ll get back to you when I actually finish mine, ha.

Would you ever encourage a student to give up writing? Under what circumstances?

If it’s harmful to them or others, yes. And “harmful” can be many different things. Luckily, I’ve never had to say this to anyone.

What’s more valuable in a workshop, praise or criticism?

We all need praise and encouragement, so I lavish people in my classes with these. I don’t really give criticism as much as I ask questions, offer solutions or alternatives (sometimes in a visual or animated way!), or suggest that someone let the work and their mind rest prior to revisions. I want to be helpful as much as my bandwidth, schedule, and boundaries will allow, and I think whether it’s one-sentence or one-page feedback that I give, I give it AFTER I’ve established trust. Just with any relationship, the basis of it are attunement (verbal and non-verbal understanding of motives and feelings), containment (respecting, making room for, and carefully holding someone’s ideas and personhood), and repair (assisting someone as they reconstruct or deconstruct however necessary). 

Should students write with publication in mind? Why or why not?

I think that depends on who the person is, where they are in life and in their career, and what energizes them. I am very entrepreneurial, so it’s energizing for me to imagine where I could place an essay and who might read my work. I guess, for me, publication isn’t so much about the byline but knowing and examining who my audience is. That’s maybe the only reason why I would tell someone to imagine publishing their work somewhere—ask yourself who you are writing to and why.

In one or two sentences, what’s your opinion of these writing maxims?

• Kill your darlings: I’ve never killed anyone or anything, except a few plants… so I can’t recommend the killing method.
• Show don’t tell: I show AND I tell now, which I wasn’t taught to do early on at school… I wish I was more explicit in my earlier writing.
• Write what you know: Writing is a discovery for me and I’m a very impatient and easily bored person, so the unknown is so much more interesting to me.
• Character is plot: Character can be plot but it doesn’t have to be… the world is so big. The imagination is too.

All these maxims have been used as tools for oppression, so no wonder they all sound so condescending and limiting. They’re all about elimination.

What’s the best hobby for writers?

It’s not really a hobby, but I highly recommend breathwork. Walking, too.

What’s the best workshop snack?

IRL, anything that has no allergens and that can be consumed by all. But in my perfect world, a cheeseboard…preferably one created by the poet Tiana Clark, who has a knack for them.

The post Cinelle Barnes Doesn’t Care If You Think She’s Soft appeared first on Electric Literature.