First, I would like to apologize to my readers (both of you) for my having taken so long to write a new blog. Ninety-nine percent of my brain cells (marinated in cheap vodka and misbeliefs) believe that you are a vast readership starving for my every word, thus the apology). The other one percent of my cranial-enclosed neurons just rolls its little, bloodshot eyes with embarrassment for its deluded brethren.
I’ve wanted to return here with several lengthy essays regarding today’s political scene. Such a scene has provided a wide-reaching garden of material not just fresh for the picking but threatening to wither (at least in my mind’s eye) on the vines if I do not soon tackle its bounty. However, I’ve recently read the fantastic about writing, called Bird by bird. Anne Lamott wrote it. I found her book enchanting. If America and Lamott go to war, she can count on my loyalty. Seriously, it’s a wonderful read, overflowing with charming and candid humor, and it has surfaced within me a desire to write something humorous, something that pokes fun at the writing experience. So (with any luck) I have.
I’ve decided to write about the staples of every writer’s workshop that I’ve ever attended. You see, there is this reoccurring cast of characters always attending them. I’ll list them in order of their frequency, starting with the most frequent and ending with the most sporadic.
First off, in every writer’s workshop—may it be short story, “full-length” fiction, nonfiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, or even (actually, especially) scriptwriting—there is the character that I have dubbed Comic Book Guy, honoring him (and it is almost always a him) after the character from, The Simpsons. I suspect that this character even attends workshops for technical writing, although this remains a suspicion I shall confirm. Comic Book Guy hates everything that has ever seen success. If Comic Book Guy attends a fiction-writing seminar, he thinks Dan Brown is an untalented hack. If Comic Book Guy is at a script-writing-for-movies seminar, he wants to lead a Two Minutes Hate against whichever movie has earned the most money that year. In today’s case, this is Avatar, which he will incorrectly label a rip-off of Pocahontas. In fact, you know what? I’m going to take a moment to address this spreading misconception right now. We’ll return to Comic Book Guy afterwards.
Avatar is a story about a marine who must decide if his loyalty belongs to the marines or the aliens with whom they are at war. This is not the subject of Pocahontas (the historical version or any of the countless Hollywood jobs). The Last Samurai is a story about a soldier who must decide if his loyalty belongs to the army that hired him or the samurais with whom they are at war. The Fast and the Furious is a story about an undercover cop who must decide if his loyalty belongs to the police department or the criminals with whom they are at war. Ditto with Point Break. This has never once been the logline of Pocahontas. Not if you truly think about it. However, so what if Avatar resembles past movies? Show me a movie that fails to resemble anything ever before filmed, and there’s a good chance that you’ve shown me a move that has nothing in common with the human experience. So calm down, Comic Book Guy (whose writing never seems to have a plot of any kind, innovative or timeworn).
The real fun begins when you have more than one Comic Book Guy in the same workshop, because they start playing this game where they take turns swooning over directors and writers of whom no one holds any familiarity. The person who has the biggest orgasm mentioning the most obscure director or novelist wins. They are often stuffing potato chips into their mouths while battling.
Another character that you will meet in a writer’s workshop is the Virgin. The male version of the Virgin subsists in creative nonfiction workshops, and writes and reads aloud what I might politely call “erotica.” These “stories” mimic every lame Dear Penthouse letter ever printed. They’re over the top, gratuitous in mechanical detail, less poetic than most television ads for fungicide, and reek of bullshit. The author will remind everyone about fifteen times every ten minutes that this is a “true story.” I imagine that this author couldn’t pick a vagina out of a police lineup.
There is a female version of the Virgin, but she differs from him so much that she merits a class all her own. I call these characters Ambers, after a girl I knew back in high school. The significant difference between Virgins and Ambers is that the Ambers aren’t full of the same sort of shit. Their “erotica” is true, though I suspect embellished. I suspect that most Ambers lost their virginities early on, and enjoyed a heavy dose of notoriety for it. Now, perhaps entire decades later, they labor to recapture their lost fame by retelling tales of their sexual adventures. It comes across as so desperate as to become pitiful.
Please understand that I’m not frowning upon sexual subject matter. Sex is a major factor of the human experience, and therefore holds a significant place in story, which is, essentially, the exploration of the human experience—our nature and condition—via allegories. However, writing a story straight out of your middle school locker room isn’t very creative—unless, of course, you are writing a story that takes place in a middle school locker room. Otherwise, it doesn’t belong in creative nonfiction, because, chances are, it is neither.
This post is already taking far longer to write, so I’ll mention one character more. Perhaps I’ll hit upon other characters in future posts. No promises.
The final character that I’ll mention is the Dreamer. The Dreamer materializes in nonfiction workshops and exists only to frustrate their professors. The Dreamer will write a story that makes less sense than Michele Bachmann on enough crystal meth to kill a horse, then ends the atrocity with “And then I awoke.” This proves annoying in fiction. In nonfiction, it proves criminal. The author will argue that she “really had this dream,” and that consequently the story is “true” because she acknowledged that she had only experienced a dream.
Don’t be the Dreamer. Be a Dreamer, just not this one. This one’s an asshole. Stories to the tune of “I was in a hot air balloon with a monkey, and then my father floated by and handed me a cupcake. And then the cupcake turned into a shoe for some damn reason. And then I was eating at Burger King. And then I wasn’t. And then a volcano detonated, but it was okay because I was made of metal. And then I flew to Mars and watched my grandmother jam with Def Leppard. Then I vomited fish, and my dead cat told me to invest in Enron and shotguns. Then I awoke and decided to write this all down and waste everyone’s time by reading it in a nonfiction class because I’m some kind of idiot.
<sigh>
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