ENG 587 Greg Martin
Theory of Fiction/Creative Nonfiction/Poetry
"…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
When there's a "problem" in a story I have a passionate interest in, there's often something I envy. For example, George Saunders's comic sensibility makes me really, really jealous. The word "covet" comes to mind. The engine of all stories is longing, and when I read something really good, it causes me problems, and I'm filled with longing. Exploring this "problem" 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.
"Problem" can be taken another way. Some stories I'm not ready for. They don't make me jealous; they make me defensive. Generally, as a writer I feel defensive when my aesthetic is being challenged. 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 (coveting). Wynton Marsalis, in speaking about Igor Stravinsky and Charlie Parker and Thelonious Monk, says that when you are in the presence of a new art form--when you are in the presence of innovation in art--you have to go to the innovation; it will not come to you. You have to allow yourself to be changed. You must humble yourself and make yourself vulnerable--you have to be open aesthetically. Lots and lots of critics hated Stravinsky and Parker and Thelonious Monk, at first. Now, they're all dead and wrong. To take an analogy from literature: not all poems have to rhyme. Don't be stuck in the 19th century.
"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 and 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 her book as a 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 something like a personal essay on craft. (Like Richard Ford's "Reading") It's one writer writing to other writers about another writer’s work and how this relates to their own work in progress. It should be about a problem, taken in any of the above senses. (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 the mail carrier used the "F" word in your front yard six times and how you had to get a P.O. Box for a while, but now, almost a year later, you and the mail carrier are close, almost friends, as close as people and their mail carriers should be, then by all means, go ahead and make your analogy. Talk about what remains mysterious to you, or what questions you have which you can't yet answer. Talk how these stories and essays and poems and memoirs are influencing you and your daily work. 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 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 same stuff, 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. Read the material well in advance so that you don't merely slap down a few thoughts on Wednesday at 2:45 in the lab around the corner from my office.
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!