Saturday, April 30, 2011

A Moment of Criticism in This Young Writer’s Life

I’m a little surprised that I remembered this, but the first short story I ever work shopped with Toby Wolff as an undergrad at Syracuse University was a piece called “The Gray Rose.” It was a classic moment; I came in there fancying myself the Young Author, much celebrated as a high school student and now finding out the difference between the kind of critique I received there and how things worked in college.


Toby had taken my story and made enough copies for the group of about ten other young writers. He had already read and critiqued it, but the process was that you first read your story aloud as your colleagues read along, making notations. Then there was a feedback session, after which you received copies of your marked up manuscript, including the one marked up by the instructor.


I was excited that my turn had finally come up; there had been some good discussion concerning what good short stories were comprised of, and I was certain this one had it all.


I don’t remember the particulars – you’ll understand in a moment why I might have put “The Gray Rose” out of my mind since that back in the early 1980’s. It was a love story, and it ended with the woman setting out on her own, despite the riches that her man offered her.


When I finished reading it aloud, I looked up and saw that my classmates had been moved by the plight of my heroine.


“Okay,” said Toby, “What do people think of ‘The Gray Rose.’”


One by one, my classmates raved about the story. They found it powerful and moving. The could really feel her feeling her feelings. A lot of talk about feelings; that much I remember.


Then cam the moment that changed me forever as a writer. Toby Wolff, who I now knew after having taken a literature class with him, and whose book I owned and admired, said, “Well, I frankly didn’t find the main character believable or very interesting.”


My heart sank. It felt like someone had stabbed me in the heart. He must have seen my expression or picked up on my shock, because he added, “But clearly this story was a success with your audience, so that says something.”


No, this was not comfort. In fact, it made it worse. I didn’t want to be a popular writer – I wanted to be good.


Toby went on to point to some turns of phrase he found interesting and/or original. These were always underlined with a straight, thick line, followed by the word “good” or “nice.” He then picked out a few clunkers – sentences and that strained under the weight of cliché. These were underscored with a squiggly line.


I didn’t really hear anything else he said. I looked up occasionally as he went on, ultimately stating, “This really just feels like a very formulaic “bird-in-a-gilded-cage” story.”


Home at my apartment that night, I licked my wounds, and was faced with a decision. I could either give up on improving and continue to put out this level of material, I could stop writing altogether, or I could look over Toby’s comments and think about what it would mean for me to step up to the plate in the way he was talking about.


By the next week, I was back, listening carefully to his critiques and also reading very closely the published short fiction he assigned us as part of the class: Raymond Carver, Barry Hannah, Tim O’Brien, Bobbie Anne Mason, Richard Ford, and Grace Paley come to mind. All are heavy on character; their stories are peopled by memorable characters who stay with you after you’ve finished reading. They go through something and come out the other end of it changed somehow.


The next story I shared in workshop was called “Looking in Windows” about a voyeuristic little boy who lives his life by looking into the windows, and into the lives, of the people in the building across the street. Still a bit of a too-tight, clichéd ending, but I was on the right track. Toby complimented me on the narrator’s voice, and I knew I was on the right track.


I have since written fiction that has been pretty good, including a novel I’m hoping to find while in New York, and some pretty bad stuff, as well. Toby taught to keep trying. Above all, his message has always been to make the characters matter, and to work, work , work, and read.


I’ve mentioned before that I’m grateful for his guidance and kindness. I was also appreciative of his criticism; it made me a better writer.

1 comment:

  1. i can't remember whether or not this reminiscence is from the Wolff class we took together (probably a class you had with him after i left Syracuse since i don't remember fiction-writing assignments with him -- in hindsight that would have scared me sh*tless!) but it brings me back to those precocious days.

    i recall some brief, cogent remarks of encouragement that Toby gave me which was supplimented years later by that of other writers -- accomplished & otherwise -- who were kind enough to suffer through my rough fictions. one criticism of my attempts i still remember (because it still applies) is that i needed to work harder to "make the characters matter". the problem for me, then & now, is that i'm much more interested in making ideas matter instead of "characters"; Beckett, Kafka, Camus, Borges, Poe, Ambrose Beirce, James Baldwin, Ralph Ellison, Cormac McCarthy, David Markson, Vonnegut, Saramago, Houellebecq et al were / are my models who, no doubt have created some memorable characters, but almost always with a focus on heart-rending / identity-undermining dilemmas (or trilemmas) of ideas: a fiction that portrays 'ideas that have characters' rather than, or over above, 'characters that have ideas'. it's a problem because i've always been a writer who has had no ideas and who can't get out of myself enough (without losing it altogether!) to find an idea that'll have me and drive me to translating it into a narrative. how did i wind up stuck looking through the wrong end of the telescope at the human heart?

    i envy you your heart-felt perspective & reservoir of words, Dan. though i'm much much better read than i was when we took Toby's class almost three decades ago, i've yet to deeply feel the turbulent ambiguities in the gaps between people which i suspect is the raw material of what "makes characters matter"; no doubt this is your well-spring, and no doubt, sooner i think than later, we're going to drink deeply from a story collection or novel/s of yours. no pressure, man, just a vote of confidence. of late i've been scribbling again too and who knows what i might come up with; but i'm betting on you (& Gayle) to fulfill, in some form or another, the promise of those precocious Syracuse days. i, for one, will be damn proud when that happens.

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