Workshop Critique - Ariel Chu

Your name is Ari. You are a freshman at a prestigious liberal arts college. [[ My name isn't Ari.]] [[I accept this premise. Moving on.->Launch]]

This is really no time for narratological quibbles. Either you accept second-person perspective as a conceit or forfeit this endeavor entirely. [[ Alright, I've learned my lesson.->Home]] [[ Your name isn't Ari either.]]

Leaves shiver in tree branches and fall around your feet. It's autumn in Western Massachusetts. You're sitting at a picnic table, laptop open, ready to get to work. Your biggest priority is getting into ''(text-style:"smear")[FAMOUS AUTHOR]'''s introductory fiction workshop. This is the first step in becoming a real writer. [[ Investigate the submission guidelines for FAMOUS AUTHOR's workshop. ]] [[ What does it mean to be a "real writer"?]]

(b4r:"solid")+(b4r-colour:white)[(align:"<==")+(box:"===XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX=======")[ENG 283: Introductory Fiction Workshop with (text-style:"smear")[''FAMOUS AUTHOR''] What is "fiction"? What makes for a successful narrative? We will be exploring these questions and more, starting with the most fundamental building block of fiction: the short story. In this workshop course, students will produce 3-4 works of original short fiction and engage in weekly critiques of peer writing. In addition, students will read illustrative works by Alice Munro, Amy Hempel, Don DeLillo, and George Saunders, among others. To be granted admission into ENG 283, students must submit a 8-10 page writing sample. Writing samples must adhere to the following guidelines: * Works of prose ONLY (no poetry, drama, "multimedia") * Literary fiction ONLY (no "genre fiction," e.g. sci-fi, fantasy, romance) * Proofread and spell-check your work. No excuses! * Submissions must be Times New Roman, 12-pt font, double-spaced, 1" margins Submit your writing samples to FAMOUSAUTHOR@COLLEGE.EDU no later than Friday, September 30 at 11:59 PM. ]] [[Much to consider.]]

Think Sylvia Plath. Virginia Woolf. Margaret Atwood. Joy Williams (though you don't actually know who this is yet). Think //Collected Works Of//. //Cambridge Companion To.// Think dying at age thirty, right after publishing your magnum opus. [[Some distant dream of New England winters and peacoats and cocktail parties swims in your mind.->Launch]]

After reading and re-reading the guidelines, you start to feel uneasy. You have an ample portfolio of writing from high school, but the phase "literary fiction ONLY" gives you some pause. You're not entirely sure if your work fits the bill. [[Consider your story "The Days After the Darkness."]] [[Consider your story "A Torn Perfection."]] [[Consider your story "Persephone in Glasses."]]

You open "The Days After the Darkness" on your laptop. This is arguably your magnum opus: a 50,000-word fanfiction-in-progress you started when you were thirteen years old. It's a gargantuan undertaking that incorporates free-verse poetry, multiple points of view, and "found" text from a fictional universe. It has over 200 reviews, and most of them are glowing. [[Submit "The Days After the Darkness" to the FAMOUS AUTHOR.]] [[No. This isn't "literary" enough.]]

You open "A Torn Perfection" on your laptop. This is a story you wrote under the suggestion of some roleplaying buddies. After chatting with them about niche relationship dynamics, you wrote an in-depth character study in under two hours. There's a lot here about fraught power dynamics, lost potential, and what it means to be a "prodigy." In your opinion, it's some of your finest character writing. Pretty good stuff. There's also Pokémon in it. [[Submit "A Torn Perfection" to the FAMOUS AUTHOR.]] [[No. This isn't "literary" enough.]]

You open "Persephone in Glasses" on your laptop. Now //this // is literature. You wrote this for a school assignment and turned it in as part of your college portfolio. Your English teachers praised your use of figurative language. And you used a Greek myth as a framing device: it doesn't get more literary than that. This piece also won you a Scholastic Gold Key in Creative Writing. Isn't //that// a marker of literary merit? Seems like this piece is the most logical option. [[ Submit "Persephone in Glasses" to the FAMOUS AUTHOR.]] [[On second thought...->Much to consider.]]

Perhaps against your better judgment, you send "The Days After the Darkness" to the (text-style:"smear")[''FAMOUS AUTHOR'']'s email address. A few days later, you receive a response. [[Nervously click on the email titled "ENG 283 Decision."]]

Of course. Judging by the (text-style:"smear")[''FAMOUS AUTHOR'']'s guidelines, this piece would be considered "genre fiction." You're not at a prestigious liberal arts college to write "genre fiction." You're here to establish yourself as a writer. You're here to learn from the best of the best. You're here to be taken seriously. [[Much to consider.]]

Perhaps against your better judgment, you send "A Torn Perfection" to the (text-style:"smear")[''FAMOUS AUTHOR'']'s email address. A few days later, you receive a response. [[Nervously click on the email titled "ENG 283 Decision."]]

You're doing it. You submit "A Torn Perfection" to the (text-style:"smear")[''FAMOUS AUTHOR'']'s email address. A few days later, you receive a response. [[Click on the email titled "ENG 283 Decision."]]

(b4r:"solid")+(b4r-colour:white)[(align:"<==")+(box:"===XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX=======")[Subject: ENG 283 Decision To: ari@college.edu From: famousauthor@college.edu Dear Ari, Thank you for your interest in ENG 283, "Introductory Fiction Workshop." I regret to inform you that you were not selected to participate in this course. This is a very selective workshop, and competition for seats was particularly tough this semester. That being said, I encourage you to reapply for workshop admittance next year. Some personal notes on your writing sample: Ari, you obviously have a lot of potential, and I would've admitted you based on craft alone. But as far as your ambitions go, I'm not sure whether you're suited to writing literary fiction. You have a good voice for YA and speculative fiction; I would encourage you to pursue those routes. Unfortunately, I'm ill-equipped to teach those genres, and so I'll have to pass on your writing sample this time. All best, (text-style:"smear")[''FAMOUS AUTHOR''] ]] [[Well, shit.]]

Maybe your parents were right about this whole writing thing. If you can't even get into an Introductory Fiction workshop, how are you supposed to engage the wider literary world? Shame burns through you. You feel impossibly juvenile. [[Try again next year.->Launch]] [[Figure out something else to do.]]

(b4r:"solid")+(b4r-colour:white)[(align:"<==")+(box:"===XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX=======")[Subject: ENG 283 Decision To: ari@college.edu From: famousauthor@college.edu Dear Ari, Congratulations! You have been admitted into ENG 283, "Introductory Fiction Workshop." Please register for this course at your earliest convenience. We will be meeting in the Humanities Hall, RM 358 next Wednesday at 2:15 PM. Some personal notes on your writing sample: Ari, you have a clear gift for characterization, though some of it gets muddled due to extraneous descriptive work. See my notes for suggested edits. In addition, while I very much enjoyed the "Persephone" conceit, some of it reads as derivative. We can talk about tasteful homage later this semester (have you read //Ulysses//?). See you in class next week. All best, (text-style:"smear")[''FAMOUS AUTHOR''] ]] [[Hooray! I guess?]]

You reread the email to make sure you're not dreaming. You got in. You got in! (You haven't read //Ulysses// before, but you'll rectify that soon. Why else are you at a prestigious liberal arts college?) For the first time, you see a future unfurling itself before you. Before you know it, [[you're in Room 358 learning how to be a real writer.]]

You consider your other course options. Before long, you've cobbled together a serviceable list: (b4r:"solid")+(b4r-colour:white)[''FALL 2013 CLASS SCHEDULE'' ECN 101: Fundamentals of Microeconomics BIO 240: Field Botany ENG 384: Origins of Literary Modernity CHI 304: Mandarin Chinese III ] [[At least there's one English class here.]]

You learn about Alice Munro, Don DeLillo, and George Saunders. You learn to write in punchy, concise sentences that convey just the right amount of interiority. You learn that your professor likes stories about familial tensions. You lean into this by writing 2,000-word studies of domestic life. You become proficient in the art of realism. In your junior year of college, you realize that the next step in your writing career involves [[getting into an MFA program]].

By the beginning of your senior year, you've put together a portfolio of five realist short stories. You're an exemplary student. The (text-style:"smear")[''FAMOUS AUTHOR''] agrees to write a letter of recommendation for you. You apply to MFA programs in fiction. [[You get admitted to a fully-funded program]]. In class the next day, the (text-style:"smear")[''FAMOUS WRITER''] forces everyone to give you a standing ovation.

You fall asleep in almost every single Microeconomics class. Field Botany is the most challenging course you've ever taken. You collect over two hundred local specimens and press them onto blotting paper. Before long, your dorm room floor is littered with dessicated flower petals. Origins of Literary Modernity is a complete dud. The professor loves the sound of his own voice. Whenever you try to speak in class, he cups his ear and asks "Sorry, was that a mouse?" You blitz through Mandarin III. The professor wonders if you'd consider [[majoring in Chinese.]]

It's nice to be good at something. You like being praised as a student. You like thinking about language. And you grow to like translation: it's a practical way to study writing. You entertain notions of becoming some kind of diplomat. [[Over time, you get so busy that you stop writing stories altogether.]]

You graduate with Honors in English. You relocate to a quiet little city to begin your MFA program. You move into a house with four other fiction writers, all of them hungry and wide-eyed. You take your first graduate workshop, and you're amazed at how well you fit in. [[You're becoming a real author.]]

Like everyone else, you write 20-30-page short stories about disaffected young people. (Sometimes the characters are even queer and Asian, which sets you apart in some fundamental way.) Like everyone else, you submit to prestigious literary journals. Like everyone else, you rub elbows with the visiting writers and get into your professors' good graces. [[You are no longer writing fan fiction.]]

You are amazed at how you've kept this charade going for so long. Is it a charade? Is it? You're a writer now, right? Your degree in English proves it. Your published stories prove it. Your MFA in Creative Writing will prove it too. But your luck is running out. Your time in the program is almost at an end. You've gotten fellowships and awards for calling yourself a "writer," but those sources of support are drying up too. You dig in your heels. You didn't come this far just to give up. [[There's only one way forward.]]

You graduate from your MFA program. By all accounts, you are considered "successful." Some of your cohort members have given up on writing, become high school English teachers, or died. [[Meanwhile, you've gotten into a fully-funded PhD program in Creative Writing.]] You say that you're doing this to work on your novel.

By your first year in the PhD program, you've grown very good at imitating the type of work that passes for "literary." Your library is full of books written, blurbed, and cited by your professors. Like the other writers in your MFA program, you have a subscription to //Publishers Marketplace//. You know what sells and doesn't sell. [[You continue to write serious literary fiction.]] It's what got you into the program. It's what allows you to have health insurance.

You struggle with yourself most days. You wonder if you're actually proud of the work you produce. People seem to respond well to it, but truth be told, you're // bored.// Your stories feel anesthetized, lifeless. You are sick of writing in clipped sentences. One day, you revisit the stories you wrote as a teenager. You hesitate to call them good stories, but they carry some kind of electric charge, some kind of desperately giddy affect you abandoned long ago. There is something to this kind of writing. And there is something to the kind of person you were when you produced it. You wonder if you can recapture that part of yourself. [[You wonder how things would've been different if — all those years ago — you'd tried to be a different kind of writer. ->Launch]]

It's not like you disavow creative writing. It's more like you just... stop doing it. There's no time for stories amidst all your schoolwork. The semesters come and go, and pretty soon you're on the cusp of graduating from college. [[You double major in English and Chinese.]] You didn't end up taking that fiction workshop after all (but maybe it was for the best: some of your writer friends left that class feeling seriously demoralized).

Sometimes you revisit the forum threads and fan fiction you used to love as a teenager. It's still fun to read those artifacts, even if you aren't actively writing anymore. It's bittersweet, imagining the kind of life you could've had as a creative writer. But in other ways, it's nice knowing that you're not trying to monetize your artistic impulses. You're happy, for the most part. Content. Getting by as a professional translator. Truth be told, you lie awake sometimes, [[wondering what would've happened if you'd gotten into that fiction workshop->Launch]].

Very clever. Calling attention to my thinly veiled self-referentiality is kind of obvious, don't you think? In any case, can we please stop talking about narrative devices and focus on the story at hand? [[ Alright, I've learned my lesson.->Home]] [[You, the author, are actively offering me a means of critiquing you.]]

This piece is first and foremost an educational tool. I have added these options so that readers unfamiliar with hypertext fiction might familiarize themselves with genre conventions. [[ Alright, I've learned my lesson.->Home]]