"…I have no illusions about the likelihood that some of my specific appraisals are wrong, that I have, say, overestimated or underestimated the merit of certain works I have discussed because of a passionate interest in some problem raised by the work. Which is to say that, in the end, what I have been writing is not criticism at all, strictly speaking, but case studies for an aesthetic, a theory of my own sensibility."
Susan Sontag, from the preface to AGAINST INTERPRETATION
The word "problem" above is a problem. Or, to say it another way, the word "problem" compels me. Or, to say it yet another way, when Sontag talks about a passionate interest in some "problem" raised by the work, what she's saying (as far as I'm concerned) is that... Forget about Sontag. When I say there's some "problem" in a story that I have a passionate interest in, what I really mean is there's something in the story that I envy. For example, Robert Stone's dialogue in his story "Helping" makes me really, really jealous. In The Things They Carried, Tim O'Brien's blurring of the confessional/memoirish voice with fiction makes me insanely jealous. What I mean is there's something in the story that I want. The word "covet" comes to mind. The engine of all stories is longing, and when I read something good (something that causes me problems), I'm filled with longing. Exploring this "problem" then is attempt to itemize, closely, why I'm so covetous. (Why this point of view works so well. Why this structure works so well.) And to try to figure out how I can steal what I've learned, slip it into my own work, and make somebody else covetous, for a change.
But "problem" can be taken another way. Some stories I'm not ready for. They don't make me jealous; they make me defensive. (You therapists out there are thinking that I'm choosing to feel defensive. I don't need your therapy.) Generally, as a writer I feel defensive when my aesthetic is being challenged. (When a new story, right in front of other stories I love, is pointing its long, bony finger at me and shouting, "Limited! Narrow! Simpleton!") At such times, I think, "Damn. Here's a new story that's admired and respected and even loved by other stories I like, but I don't like it. Why? ( Why don't I know how to like it yet?) This is a problem. Exploring this problem is the attempt to get up to speed (reading commentaries on the story or other stories like it, biographies, interviews, etc.), so that I can more fully appreciate the story, even if I don't envy it yet. My hope is to someday envy it. To move from a lower state of neuroses (petty defensiveness) to a higher state of neuroses (inappropriate coveting).
But "problem" can be taken yet another way. Sometimes, I find that I actually know something, that I'm not merely coveting or defensive. Sometimes, I have a strong opinion about why a story, which I admire, is still, nevertheless, dissatisfying. Exploring this problem is about editing the story the way it should have been edited so that it would have been both admirable and satisfying. But there's neuroses here too. Exploring this kind of problem is preventative. I don't want to make that kind of #$%^& mistake. For example, I admire Lucy Grealy's Autobiography of a Face a lot, but the final third is really flawed. It rushes the material, compresses the narrative time (about 15 years) far too quickly. Grealy wasn't content to tell a memoir of her childhood. She wanted to tell a memoir of her whole life, to the detriment of the integrity of the whole.
The Reading Response isn't a scholarly effort, or book review. It's not written by a student for a teacher to complete a requirement. It's not notes. It should look more like a personal essay, on craft (PEC), than anything else. (Like Richard Ford's "Reading", like Tim O'Brien's "The Magic Show.") It's the result of one writer writing to other writers about another writer’s work. It should be about a problem, taken in any of the above senses. In doing so, it should illuminate elements of craft in the stories and essays and books. (The Notes on Craft handout should help some.) The tone should be conversational, not detached or scholarly or stiff or unfunny. Be autobiographical, if you like. If there's an apt analogy to be made which involves your dog and the mail carrier and how you now have to get a P.O. Box, make it. Talk about your own work and how these stories and essays and books are influencing you. Talk about what remains mysterious to you, or what questions you still have which you can't yet answer. One principal question which you should bring to the response is: what can I learn for my own writing from how this was made?
Most importantly, be really, really smart. I'm going to read it, and so is one of your peers. We want to approach your response with anticipation. We'd prefer to not be bored. One easy way to not bore us is to avoid unnecessary summary at all costs. (We've read the stories and essays, and we'll catch the references.) Another way is to abandon any notion that there's some schizophrenic split between your analytic and creative selves. Be creative in these responses, have fun with them, invite a narrative over for a response "play date." Read the material enough in advance so that you have more time than merely slapping down a few thoughts on Wednesday at 2:45.
In graduate classes I've taught for the last four years, there used to be a four-part formula for the reading response. Did the formula stifle the kind of creativity I'm asking for above? Sure. For those of you that have taken my classes before and had to write all those stifled responses: sorry. Many of you wrote lots of good, creative responses anyway, in spite of me and my formulas.
Finally, try hard not to be smart about theme. You've always been smart about theme. Be smart about stuff that you're not so used to being smart about. Be smart about narrative design or time management or conflict or characterization, diction or imagery or point of view.
Reading Responses should be three to five pages double spaced, typed and compellingly titled.
Good Luck!