Teaching Statement (Spring 2019)
My biggest complaint with creative writing workshops is that they often lack space for writers—particularly emerging writers—to discuss their work in a dialogue. The silencing of the author, while beneficial to gauging whether a work “stands on its own,” can shut down new writers and close them off to new ideas and ways of thinking about their work and their creative process. Therefore, I structure my class to allow ample time during workshop for the author to participate: to ask questions, redirect comments, explain choices, and address concerns directly. I believe in doing so, it situates writing as a communal experience, not one that is entirely solitary (an assumption many beginning creative writers make). It also gives writers a sense of ownership over their work, something I think is particularly important for emerging writers.
Working against the silencing of the author is a major part of my pedagogical approach, for several reasons. One, it limits their ability to grasp creative writing as a process rather than a perfectly formed product the first time around. “Writing can be both a noun and a verb;” writes Tim Meyers in Creative Writing Pedagogies for the Twenty First Century (2015), “writing harbors both static and dynamic dimensions; it is both product and process.” Beginning creative writing students feel pressure to create on the page work at the level they’ve read in published manuscripts, and often aren’t engaged with the process of revision, and have no basis for the amount of re-working (and not simply “editing”) that goes into those manuscripts. In my creative writing courses, I encourage multiple revisions of the same pieces, asking students to submit and critique the same (re-worked) story or poem at least twice during the semester. This encourages students see revision as a process rather than a hurdle. It also helps them understand that sometimes, only a kernel of an original work will remain; that massive overhauls are common and encouraged; and that simply because a piece wasn’t “working” the first go-around doesn’t mean it is completely without merit or inspiration.
To that end, I believe the silencing of the author creates a second problem: an atmosphere of revision as a largely anti-social process, when I believe it to be the exact opposite. In standard creative writing workshops, students are given a bare 5 minutes at the end of most workshops to pose questions to the class about their work; however, most are already overwhelmed and overloaded by the feedback they’ve just received, and any questions they might have prepared ahead of time might be answered or irrelevant by the time workshop ends. When students walk away from workshop feeling like they have a list of things to “fix” in their work, it can create a feeling of frustration, and/or, the feeling that once the list is checked off the piece will be “done.” In my class, I prefer students to engage in a dialogue about their work with other students. I want them to be able to ask clarifying questions throughout the workshop, as well as explain their goals in the piece so other writers can better direct them toward what they want their piece to be—not what the workshop decides the piece should be (this is also a common problem in traditional workshops).
Third, I think silencing the author actively works against minority students, particularly for those who are writing about their personal experiences. For example, I have seen entire creative writing workshops derailed by group conversations such as, “Can a six year old really care for chickens?”, where the focus of the conversation became about answering an inane question rather than focusing on more relevant areas of the author’s work. A question with a simple answer from the author—“Yes, they can, and in fact that used to be my job on the farm growing up.”—took over the seminar, and left the author feeling disappointed and frustrated. While some clarifying questions are valuable interrogating, many become niches for students to hide in, while ignoring the work as a whole. Worse still, many of these questions often relate to upbringing, issues of gender, use of other languages, queer issues, issues of race, and so on. This “Nitpicking” moments are not only unproductive critiques, but they can also be triggering to students who are attempting to write about their own histories for what could be the first time.
By allowing the author to speak during the critique, and not simply five minutes after it has ended, my goal is to create a safe space where dialogue is encouraged. When students feel like they are addressing a text, rather than a human being, they can sometimes be less careful with their language, less aware of their positionality, and more willing to criticize and condemn rather than support and uplift. By involving the author from the start, readers understand that there is a human being behind the page, and tend, in my experience, to act accordingly.
My biggest complaint with creative writing workshops is that they often lack space for writers—particularly emerging writers—to discuss their work in a dialogue. The silencing of the author, while beneficial to gauging whether a work “stands on its own,” can shut down new writers and close them off to new ideas and ways of thinking about their work and their creative process. Therefore, I structure my class to allow ample time during workshop for the author to participate: to ask questions, redirect comments, explain choices, and address concerns directly. I believe in doing so, it situates writing as a communal experience, not one that is entirely solitary (an assumption many beginning creative writers make). It also gives writers a sense of ownership over their work, something I think is particularly important for emerging writers.
Working against the silencing of the author is a major part of my pedagogical approach, for several reasons. One, it limits their ability to grasp creative writing as a process rather than a perfectly formed product the first time around. “Writing can be both a noun and a verb;” writes Tim Meyers in Creative Writing Pedagogies for the Twenty First Century (2015), “writing harbors both static and dynamic dimensions; it is both product and process.” Beginning creative writing students feel pressure to create on the page work at the level they’ve read in published manuscripts, and often aren’t engaged with the process of revision, and have no basis for the amount of re-working (and not simply “editing”) that goes into those manuscripts. In my creative writing courses, I encourage multiple revisions of the same pieces, asking students to submit and critique the same (re-worked) story or poem at least twice during the semester. This encourages students see revision as a process rather than a hurdle. It also helps them understand that sometimes, only a kernel of an original work will remain; that massive overhauls are common and encouraged; and that simply because a piece wasn’t “working” the first go-around doesn’t mean it is completely without merit or inspiration.
To that end, I believe the silencing of the author creates a second problem: an atmosphere of revision as a largely anti-social process, when I believe it to be the exact opposite. In standard creative writing workshops, students are given a bare 5 minutes at the end of most workshops to pose questions to the class about their work; however, most are already overwhelmed and overloaded by the feedback they’ve just received, and any questions they might have prepared ahead of time might be answered or irrelevant by the time workshop ends. When students walk away from workshop feeling like they have a list of things to “fix” in their work, it can create a feeling of frustration, and/or, the feeling that once the list is checked off the piece will be “done.” In my class, I prefer students to engage in a dialogue about their work with other students. I want them to be able to ask clarifying questions throughout the workshop, as well as explain their goals in the piece so other writers can better direct them toward what they want their piece to be—not what the workshop decides the piece should be (this is also a common problem in traditional workshops).
Third, I think silencing the author actively works against minority students, particularly for those who are writing about their personal experiences. For example, I have seen entire creative writing workshops derailed by group conversations such as, “Can a six year old really care for chickens?”, where the focus of the conversation became about answering an inane question rather than focusing on more relevant areas of the author’s work. A question with a simple answer from the author—“Yes, they can, and in fact that used to be my job on the farm growing up.”—took over the seminar, and left the author feeling disappointed and frustrated. While some clarifying questions are valuable interrogating, many become niches for students to hide in, while ignoring the work as a whole. Worse still, many of these questions often relate to upbringing, issues of gender, use of other languages, queer issues, issues of race, and so on. This “Nitpicking” moments are not only unproductive critiques, but they can also be triggering to students who are attempting to write about their own histories for what could be the first time.
By allowing the author to speak during the critique, and not simply five minutes after it has ended, my goal is to create a safe space where dialogue is encouraged. When students feel like they are addressing a text, rather than a human being, they can sometimes be less careful with their language, less aware of their positionality, and more willing to criticize and condemn rather than support and uplift. By involving the author from the start, readers understand that there is a human being behind the page, and tend, in my experience, to act accordingly.