I thought the group meeting with Tiffany, Ian and myself this past Tuesday went extremely well, and although I can only definitively speak for myself, I’m pretty sure we all left feeling better about not just our Capstone projects, but our role as writers in general. I use the word “role” intentionally because identity seems to be the prevailing plot thread unfolding before me as I venture further into this program and this semester. I used to have a notion that great fiction was a trade that only people with a massive imagination and intellect could pursue, a myth created by the false impression that great writers are able to create work that has nothing to do with them by achieving some kind of disconnect that I couldn’t even begin to fathom. I do not know if there are, in fact, some people who write with such wild creativity, but I know for certain from many of the readings we have studied in this program that many authors write from a distinctly unique perspective grounded in who they are and what they know (so far).
I take great comfort in this. Granted, I still worry about my ability (or lack of) to take any of my own experience pallet and use it to ignite the kind of projects I want to write, but at least I know that there is nothing intrinsically wrong with writing what you know.
As after our group concluded, I finally realized why workshop activity is so valuable, and as I elaborate, bear in mind that when I first joined the program I DESPISED group work of any sort. The three of us couldn’t have had three projects that were much less alike. Ian is working on fiction, I’m doing all kids of hybrid work, including the piece titled “Exerienced” that I showed them, and Tiffany is doing a literary experiment of sorts that is closely tied to the sound, feel and meaning of words chosen somewhat randomly. Yet, despite us coming from such different angles, we were all able to understand and see merit in the work of one-another. I realized as we were discussing my piece that despite me feeling a bit uptight before the meeting, I had quickly loosened up and was fully receptive to advice and interpretation from the other two.
Therein lies the true hidden gem of workshop collaboration- the breaking of the isolation in which we all do so much of our writing. It’s so easy to imagine a thousand potential responses to your work, but nothing can really prepare you for the wondering eyes of the mind of another. When I loosen up and let other people into my world as a writer, I don’t have to sacrifice anything- as I told Ian and Tiffany, we are certainly all welcome to take the advice with a grain of salt. But without taking the chance on opening the blinds and letting in a new perspective, my work sits in its own silent corner until the first reader comes along and gives it a look.
Collaboration and workshop efforts are a useful part of editing, and although I wish the full truth of this revealed itself to me earlier, I’m grateful for it now. If I hadn’t met with my classmates and enjoyed such a lively discussion I doubt I would have the confidence to take a swing at this new fragment of fiction.
Locks Turn Numbers, Numbers Turn You
Henry David paused. Then he paused again, long enough to realize he was pausing… frozen in mid-stride. Caught in a long ray of sunshine on a cold February afternoon, he felt speechless, a peculiar sensation to a man alone. There it was, a sturdy looking combination lock, approximately half embedded in a pool of semi-frozen clear ice on the ground, not more than six inches from his rear tire. Standing just outside of the music store, he swiveled on one heel, as if a glace back at the miniature shopping-plaza might reveal a clue as to why such an item would be found here- a storage facility that sold locks, a mailbox place, a lock-smith…but there was nothing except a dry-cleaner advertising 24-hour Martinizing and a quaint little place called Custom Frame with pictures in the window.
It was something, this lock. He even tried to walk past it and get in the car, but stopped, insistent on another look to dispel this frozen little apparition.It was a standard combo-lock, curiously unlocked, leaving the latent power to snap it shut hanging on Henry like a past due bill. But locked, the combination could be 22-17-33, or it could be 8-18-28, or it could just as likely be something dreadfully random like 31-4-9. The thought of such an imminently forgettable combination caused Henry to shudder internally. He shook his head in denial and kicked the lock free from the soft ice into the edge of a muddy snowbank a couple of feet away. The effort was solid, yet he remained deeply unsatisfied. Finally, after what felt like agonizing minutes, he was able to get into the Chevy and start the engine. “ -to be continued
My Postmodern Swell by L. Hyland 