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Archive for the ‘Creative Writing and Literary Criticism’ Category

April is National Poetry Writing Month, also known as NaPoWriMo, an annual creative writing event that challenges participants to write a new poem each day from April 1 through April 30. NaPoWriMo coincides with National Poetry Month, which is celebrated annually in America and Canada.

The project was founded by Maureen Thorson in 2003 and modeled after NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month, which challenges participants to write 50,000 words of a new novel in the month of November. Since its inception, the number of registered participants has grown steadily every year, and many writers’ organizations coordinate NaPoWriMo activities.

Many of us in Chapman University’s MFA program have impending thesis deadlines, and the NaPoWriMo challenge gives poetry students the perfect opportunity and support to complete this last critical component of the degree requirements.

For a comprehensive list of FAQs and guidelines, visit the website at http://www.napowrimo.net.

Have fun, and good luck!

 

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The Pen on Fire Writers Salon is pleased to present an evening with novelists Anita Hughes, Jane Porter, Suzanne Redfearn, and Kaira Rouda on Tuesday, February 11, at 7:00 p.m.  This monthly speaker series, hosted by Barbara DeMarco-Barrett, features authors, literary agents, and others involved in the field of writing.  The events take place in the atmospheric Scape Gallery in Corona del Mar and entail readings, literary discussions, and book signings.

Anita Hughes is the author of Monarch Beach, Market Street, and Lake Como from St. Martin’s Press.  She attended UC Berkeley’s Master’s in Creative Writing program and has taught creative writing at The Branson School in Ross, California.  She is currently working on her next novel.

Bestselling author Jane Porter has been a finalist for the prestigious RITA Award, the highest award of distinction in the genre of romance fiction, four times and has over 12 million copies in print.  Her novel Flirting with Forty is a Redbook Red Hot Summer Read and was made into a Lifetime movie.  Her Brennan Sisters trilogy includes The Good Woman, The Good Daughter, and The Good Wife, which was just released in September.

Suzanne Redfearn’s debut novel Hush Little Baby has received rave reviews and has been described as “a compelling tale of deceit, violation and anguish that ratchets up the tension page by page” (Kirkus Reviews).  Redfearn graduated summa cum laude from California Polytechnic University in San Luis Obispo.

Kaira Rouda is the author of Here, Home, Hope, which won an Indie Excellence Award for fiction and the USA Book Award for Best Books of 2011.  It also received an honorable mention in the Writer’s Digest International Book Awards.  Rouda’s second novel All the Difference is also the recipient of the USA Book Award and earned honorable mention in the mystery/suspense category of the Indie Excellence Awards.

Advance tickets are required to guarantee a seat at this event.  To read more about the speakers or the Pen on Fire Writers Salon and to purchase tickets, visit the website at http://www.barbarademarcobarrett.com/speakers-series/.

 

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Presented annually by the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program, the Writers Studio brings together a community of writing students to workshop with some of Southern California’s most esteemed professional writers and teachers.

Participants select one of ten intensive four-day workshops in creative writing and screenwriting planned for the 2014 Writers Studio, including Courage and Craft: A Writing Workshop to Jumpstart Your Creativity, Writing the First Novel, Writing the Young Adult Novel, Novel Revision Techniques, and Writing Memoir and Personal Essay.  Enrollment is on a first come, first served basis, and each class is limited to fifteen students.  Early registration is strongly advised.

The Writers Studio fee of $895 ($815 through January 6, 2014) includes enrollment in one four-day workshop February 6-9, a continental breakfast on Thursday, a special Saturday guest speaker event, and a Sunday reception.

For more information and to register, visit the website at http://blogs.uclaextension.edu/writers/programs-services/writers-studio.

 

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With the 1st of November just a few days away, writers everywhere are stockpiling food and saying farewell to their family and friends as they prepare to hole up in their writing caves until December 1.  November is National Novel Writing Month, also known as NaNoWriMo, an annual internet-based creative writing event that challenges participants to write a new 50,000-word novel in thirty days.

The project was founded by Chris Baty in 1999 with 21 participants, and the official NaNoWriMo website was launched the following year.  The number of registered participants has grown steadily every year, and the affiliate Young Writers Program and official podcast were developed in 2005.  In 2010, over 200,000 writers registered for the challenge, and nearly three billion new words were written.  A summer version of NaNoWriMo (Camp NaNoWriMo) was launched in 2011 and was held in April and July this year.

Many of us in Chapman University’s MFA program have impending thesis deadlines, and the NaNoWriMo challenge gives us the perfect opportunity and support to complete this critical component of our degree requirements, particularly if we have decided to start a new project for the thesis or complete a novel rather than a collection of short stories.

The novel can be on any theme and in any genre.  However, it cannot be a project already in progress.  Writing of the new novel cannot have commenced prior to midnight on November 1, and the 50,000-word mark must be reached by 11:59 p.m. on November 30.

For a comprehensive list of FAQs and guidelines, visit the website at www.nanowrimo.org.

Have fun, and good luck!

 

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It’s hard for me to believe that four years ago on this day, with a succinct, autogenous “Hello, World!” announcing its quiet arrival on the heavily populated, cyber literary landscape, Archetype was launched.  Conceived originally to chronicle my journey through Chapman University’s dual Master of Arts in English and Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing program and provide a forum for peer critique and camaraderie, I promptly posted passages from one of my short stories (“Windmill Ridge”) and my novel-in-progress Time of Death and invited classmates to contribute their work.  I also posted original essay excerpts on Jonathan Franzen and the waning of a literary America (“Antisocial or socially isolated?”), mirrors and reflective imagery in world literature (“Masks, Manipulation, and Madness”), and the notion of the invoked doppelganger in fiction (“The Self We Seek”), all of which I was studying in those first few months of back-to-school bliss.

362px-Th_Richter_Dame_in_der_BibliothekLike any creative endeavor, the site evolved as I did and now reflects my deepening involvement in and abiding commitment to literary and academic pursuits.  In addition to promoting Chapman fiction and poetry readings and publication opportunities, I mine journals and the Internet for interesting and informative local events taking place beyond the university’s borders.  Details regarding local and national writing contests and Calls for Submissions are also posted regularly, which I think my small but dedicated audience appreciates.  Most recently, I’ve added a section for the growing number of my guest blog posts, my interviews, and other places where I’ve stumbled pleasantly upon my own work.

Followers know that I most often post poems and passages that have timely personal significance.  From my occasional struggles with insomnia and feelings of isolation to my simple delight in a book or summer peach, each post, like a journal entry, suggests precisely where I am intellectually and emotionally.  Early on I rejoiced to find pictures, particularly eighteenth and nineteenth century oil paintings, that evoked or complemented the literary piece I was posting, and I now spend nearly as much time searching for corresponding artwork as I do on literature.

Thanks to my passionate professors and their fascinating courses on Oscar Wilde and the Aesthetic Movement, the life and works of Virginia Woolf, female enchantresses of modern British literature, and Gothic and fantastic fiction, Wilde, Woolf, and the works of A. S. Byatt, Katherine Mansfield, Angela Carter, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Edgar Allan Poe were frequent early Archetype subjects.  Posts on Wilde culminated in November 2009 with the writing of my course thesis on The Picture of Dorian Gray (“The Act of Creation,” “Wilde Irony”), while Woolf reigned in the fall of 2010.  (Click on these links to review excerpts from “The I in the Portrait: A Bakhtinian Analysis of The Picture of Dorian Gray and “On the Wings of Angels and Butterflies: The Chaotic Journey to Woman in Mrs. Dalloway and To the Lighthouse.”)  My penchant for Russian literature and philosophy ENFANT~1was also soon discovered, and I immersed myself and, by extension, Archetype in Gogol, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and Nabokov and began to examine just about everything through the lens of Mikhail Bakhtin.  Later courses exposed me to the intriguing life and works of Gertrude Stein (“Back to Bakhtin: The ‘I’ in Ida), Junot Díaz, Ralph Ellison, and many others, and every newly encountered author was explored here to some extent.

The craft of writing is another recurrent theme on Archetype; “In Celebration of Technique,” “Last Writes,” “More is More,” “Not Quite Write,” “Drafting Perfection,” and “A Sense of Style” are a few of my personal favorites.  However, it is the angst of writing about which I tend to muse and articulate most freely; “Why Write?,” “One True Sentence,” “Bird by Bird,” “Write About Now,” “Demons and Darlings,” “The Reality of Rejection,” “In conclusion…,” “A New Summer of Writing,” and “The Write Stuff” all convey my own grapples with the creative stall and feelings of inadequacy.

With the MA in English recently attained, a few modest awards under my belt, and conferral of the MFA degree scheduled for next spring, I can’t help but consider what’s next – for me academically and literarily and for this site.  It’s no secret among those who know me best that PhD programs in both English and Comparative Literature are especially enticing next prospects.  However, with applicant Leonid_Pasternak_001admission rates of approximately four to five percent at local universities, I’m keeping the likelihood of acceptance in perspective.  Nonetheless, the pursuit of admittance will be next summer’s undertaking and will, of course, be recounted here.  For now, my focus will remain on completing and defending my MFA thesis, submitting my short fiction and nonfiction work to various conferences and journals, and preparing for the Graduate Record Examination.  Oh, yes…and there is still my novel to finish (“This is the Year”).

During the last 48 months, I have published 487 posts about literature, critical theory and writing technique, literary figures and events, submission opportunities, favorite poems and passages, articles of interest, books I’m reading, papers I’m writing, other literary blogs I’m following, conferences I’m attending, and demons I’m wrestling.  Archetype celebrates holidays, welcomes new seasons, and even gives the occasional nod to lunar activity.  Finally, personal aspects of my affective life and literary journey are memorialized and shared (“Write of Passage,” “Cartwheels Under the Arch,” “Pathetic Fallacy,” “Beyond Words,” “On the Write Track”), even when the discovery and healing are mine alone.  The site maintains a small but seemingly loyal band of subscribers and blogroll partners, to whom I feel completely accountable and utterly grateful.  I hope you will all follow me through this final chapter at Chapman and into the next – wherever the next may lead.

 

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Lately I’ve struggled with the word constraint of a guest column I write.  No matter how concisely I try to present my ideas, I’m routinely asked to cut between twenty and forty words from each submission.  Not long ago, I spent a painful weekend pruning over 4,000 words or roughly fifteen pages from a complex essay that took over a month of previous weekends to write.  All this excising of carefully crafted thought has left me increasingly puzzled by and frustrated with the stringent word count restrictions imposed by editors, literary and academic conferences, and writing competitions, and I’m wondering for the umpteenth time in my literary career…why is brevity so universally celebrated?  And when exactly did less become more?

In a world of tweeting, texting, cinquains, and the widely popular flash fiction and short shorts, the art of epic articulation is no longer appreciated and extolled.  As writers, we are called upon constantly to synopsize, abstract, and shorten our work.  Most literary journals and conference calls for submissions set essay and story limits of 2,000 words, which not only makes comprehensive analysis or lavish storytelling impossible but also, quite frankly, cramps my style.  Heck, my list of works cited typically comprises 1,000 words alone.

The length parameters of most submission opportunities are about a third of the critical essay and creative prose minimum page requirements in graduate English and Creative Writing programs.  Weeks and even months of research and writing are required for a 15- to 25-page paper or narrative of “publishable” quality, which needs to be summarily condensed to a scant seven pages in order to meet the submission guidelines for publication or presentation.  Any writer who has attempted to abridge fiction prose or an essay or a column to meet an editor’s space limitations knows well the instability of what remains once its structure has been so severely compromised.

I’m doing my best to adapt to the attention deficit world in which we now live and must attempt to create.  As I write each blog post, column, essay, and fiction piece, I monitor the number of words at the bottom of my computer screen like a frugal taskmaster, making more efficient choices and trying not to lament all that is left unexpressed too much.  But it hasn’t come easily.

In the end, with just a few hours remaining before my recent target conference submission link was closing, I read the culled fragments of my original 6,000-word Bakhtinian analysis of Oscar Wilde’s only novel and decided against submitting it.  The part was simply inferior to the whole.  Call me verbose; I still believe more is more.

 

The seven volumes of Marcel Proust's "À la recherche du temps perdu" ("In Search of Lost Time") total over 4,200 pages and an estimated 1.2 million words.

The seven volumes of Marcel Proust’s “À la recherche du temps perdu” (“In Search of Lost Time”) total over 4,200 pages and an estimated 1.2 million words.  (Photo by Amakuha.)

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My office is in chaos – again. After finishing my course thesis on the parallels between Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man and Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground last month, I spent a Saturday clearing the disarray of books, critical essays, notepads and Post-its with my jotted thoughts and references, my highlighted and dog-eared MLA Handbook and dictionary, half-empty water bottles, bags of kale chips and chocolate covered almonds, and uncapped pens and highlighters scattered on the desk and floor of my den. For weeks this project had consumed me as I worked to create an organized, meaningful, well-written essay from a jumble of notes and fragmented ideas by the midnight deadline.

Three weeks later the clutter is back, as I now work to meet the deadlines for several guest blog spots, a newspaper column, and my MFA thesis. I’m familiar with the muddle of my surroundings and in my mind and am oddly calmed by it. Scribbles on scraps of paper, napkins, envelopes, receipts, sticky notes, and index cards are once again ubiquitous, tacked to my bulletin board and adhered to my computer monitors, reminding me to add a transition, description, or a bit of dialogue to some work-in-progress. Books, writing magazines, and drafts of my columns, stories, essays, and novel chapters, defaced with nearly illegible edits and suggestions (mine and others’), litter the floor in shambolic piles that seem incongruous with my reputed compulsion toward extreme tidiness. It appears this is how I create. Even without the looming deadlines, disorder is part of my process.

While writing my Bakhtinian analysis of The Picture of Dorian Gray a few years ago, I learned that the crude journals in which Mikhail Bakhtin had written one of his most influential manuscripts were lost for nearly seventy years, buried in a lumber room where rats and seeping water had severely damaged much of them. About what could be discerned, Michael Holquist says this: “In the faded scrawl we can see the race between the occurrence of ideas and their feverish transcription. This volume provides a chance to see Bakhtin in all the heat and urgency of thought as it wrestles with itself. In Toward a Philosophy of the Act we catch Bakhtin in the act – the act of creation” (ix).

An 1890 typescript of Dorian Gray with Wilde’s corrections and emendations reflects a similar, seemingly haphazard approach to the process. Words and even entire sections are crossed out or rewritten, and handwritten insertions run between the typed lines and up the margins. Nearly indecipherable notes and corrections to himself and to his typist fill the white space of each page of what we know is not even an early draft of the narrative.

A characteristically organized person, the chaos of my own comparatively tiny writing life vexes me. Over the years, I’ve created paper and computer files and designated bins to contain my various projects, but, once immersed in the work, the system seems to fall apart. And no matter how many journals I purchase, the ideas and insights continue to be recorded on the nearest scrap.

The act of creation, it would seem, is simply messy.

 

Published on TreeHouse: An Exhibition of the Arts on June 12, 2013.

 

First galley proof of Marcel Proust's "A la recherche du temps perdu"

First galley proof of Marcel Proust’s “A la recherche du temps perdu”

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With the year nearly half over, it’s painfully obvious that fulfilling my sole 2013 (and 2012 and, yes, 2011) resolution of dedicating ninety minutes each day to my thesis novel is once again in serious jeopardy.  According to my calculations at the beginning of the year, approximately 234 hours should have been allocated to this endeavor to date with almost eighty pages of new words to show for the effort.  To admit that I’m woefully behind would be an arrant understatement.

Finding stretches of uninterrupted time to write fiction was a recurring topic in my four years of workshops and technique classes in Chapman University’s MFA program.  While full-time professional writers can hole up for days and weeks or even months to attend to their craft, the novice or aspiring professional writer has a “real” job and other demands that take precedence – or at least appear to in the moment.

In my defense, I’ve had a busy academic and professional year so far.  But I have to confess there’s more than busyness going on here.  The truth is…I’m terrified.  There.  I’ve said it.  Despite the encouragement and favorable criticism I’ve received from respected instructors, authors, and editors regarding my work, the inadequacy Demon taunts me relentlessly (and a little too gleefully, I might add) and, at the moment, has me whimpering in a corner with my pile of draft chapters.

With graduation scheduled for early next year, the thesis portion of my novel is due in about nine months.  There’s simply no time for the Demon or for whimpering.  There is, however, time for the wisdom and irreverent humor of Anne Lamott:

“How?” [her] students ask.  “How do you actually do it?”  Write, that is. 

You sit down. […] You try to sit down at approximately the same time every day.  This is how you train your unconscious to kick in for you creatively. […] You turn on your computer and bring up the right file, and then you stare at it for an hour or so. [...] You look at the ceiling, and over at the clock, yawn, and stare at the paper again.  Then, with your fingers poised on the keyboard, you squint at an image that is forming in your mind – a scene, a locale, a character, whatever – and you try to quiet your mind so you can hear what that landscape or character has to say above the other voices in your mind.  The other voices are banshees and drunken monkeys.  They are the voices of anxiety, judgment, doom, guilt.  Also, severe hypochondria.  There may be a Nurse Ratched-like listing of things that must be done right this moment: foods that must come out of the freezer, appointments that must be canceled or made, hairs that must be tweezed.  But you hold an imaginary gun to your head and make yourself stay at the desk.  There is a vague pain at the base of your neck.  It crosses your mind that you have meningitis […]. 

Yet somehow in the face of all this, you clear a space for the writing voice, hacking away at the others with machetes, and you begin to compose sentences.  You begin to string words together like beads to tell a story.  You are desperate to communicate, to edify or entertain, to preserve moments of grace or joy or transcendence, to make real or imagined events come alive.  But you cannot will this to happen.  It is a matter of persistence and faith and hard work.  So you might as well just go ahead and get started (Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, 6-7).

Forty-five pages by August 26 – I can do that.  I must do that.  It’s time to slay the Demon and get started…again.

 

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What I know about writing I know from having read the work of the great writers. If you really want to learn how to write, do that. Read Shakespeare, and all the others whose work has withstood time and circumstance and changing fashions and the assaults of the ignorant and the bigoted; read those writers and don’t spend a lot of time analyzing them. Digest them, swallow them all, one after another, and try to sound like them for a time. Learn to be as faithful to the art and craft as they all were, and follow their example. That is, wide reading and hard work. One doesn’t write out of some intellectual plan or strategy; one writes from a kind of beautiful necessity born of the reading of thousands of good stories poems plays… One is deeply involved in literature, and thinks more of writing than of being a writer. It is not a stance.

 

                                               ~ Richard Bausch (“How to Write in 700 Easy Lessons,” The Atlantic, August 2010)

 

Bausch is the award-winning author of eleven novels, eight short story collections, and one volume of poetry and prose.  I am thrilled to be taking my final fiction writing workshop of the MFA program at Chapman University with Professor Bausch, commencing Monday, January 28.

 

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Mikhail_bakhtinI don’t know what it is about Russian philosopher Mikhail Bakhtin, but, since making his acquaintance during my first year in Chapman’s English and Creative Writing graduate program, I can’t seem to shake him.  I’ve looked at Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray and the works of Virginia Woolf through the Bakhtinian lens and, now, with my Gothic romp in and around the motifs of mirrors and portraiture and the literary doppelgänger in Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Dorian Gray, and Dracula wistfully behind me, I’m back into Bakhtin’s theories in the context of Gertrude Stein for my final thesis of the semester.  As if she weren’t abstruse enough.

On the surface, Stein’s novel Ida is about a very tired woman who loves dogs and likes to marry.  Throughout much of the tale, Ida is sitting or resting or talking with one of her dogs or herself or marrying or leaving.  She leaves and rests a great deal.  Neither the protagonist nor the plot is all that interesting, which leads one to believe that its simplistic, albeit quirky banality belies a deeper message that Stein is perhaps so intent on conveying she forgets to use punctuation.

The existence of a twin is presented at the onset of the novel, when Ida is born to two kind parents: “And as Ida came, with her came her twin, so there she was, Ida-Ida.”  From this description of her birth, the notion of Ida’s divergent consciousnesses is foreshadowed; however, it may take you a while to realize there is no actual twin.  Ida-Ida, or, rather, Ida-Winnie is, in fact, the manifestation of a troubled child grappling with abandonment issues.  A few paragraphs into the tale, we learn that Ida’s parents “went off on a trip and never came back,” the first of a great many “funny things” that happen to dear Ida in Stein’s Bildungsroman.  In the early part of the novel, Ida’s clone is omnipresent, emerging as Ida’s foremost self: “The place was full, nobody looked at Ida.  Some of them were talking about Winnie.  They said.  But really, is Winnie so interesting.  They just talked and talked about that. / So that is the way life went on. / There was Winnie.”

A close look at these other “funny” events of Ida’s youth and Stein’s incoherent telling of them reveals the perspective of a confused child coping with parental desertion and the indifferent negligence of other family members as she grows up.  Throughout the novel, Ida flits from relative to relative, state to state (geographic and mental), and marriage to marriage in her quest for authentication.  Much like her numerous canine connections, Ida’s human associations are superficial and fleeting, always ending abruptly and thereby compounding Ida’s sense of isolation and separateness and providing the early impetus for a double or decoy that can interact with others on her behalf.   

Ida is an odd little story that, with its illogical “plot” shifts, contradictions, and chattering, Ionescoan streams of consciousness such as “The next dog and this is important because it is the next dog.  His name is Never Sleeps although he sleeps enough,” would be well played in the Theatre of the Absurd.  But there is a serious undertone to Stein’s absurdity, and a thoughtful examination of the text exposes Ida’s conscious foray into the rich and multifaceted themes of identity, authenticity, and the paradox of anonymity in celebrity.  As Marianne Hauser avows in her review of Stein’s work, it is “too deliberate to be called crazy, and too well done to be laughed off.”

We’ll see what Mikhail has to say about it.  And if you don’t hear from me in a week, someone, please, come looking for me.

 

Carl Van Vechten, 1934

Carl Van Vechten, 1934

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