My Lessons in Literary Culture
Before taking this course, I had previously considered myself to be an adequate if not decent writer—possessing most of the prerequisite knowledge that would be required to complete well-written fiction. It was not until we actually discussed and applied numerous tools, techniques, and strategies for creative writing that I understood how little I previously knew about the subject relative to the wealth of tools, strategies, and techniques that exist. At the beginning of the semester, I never would have thought that these techniques would be as beneficial to writing as they are and have been. Throughout the course of the semester I have learned, used, and adopted a number of these tools and techniques that have allowed me to greatly improve the quality of my creative writing in many different ways.
My experience in this class has taught me to employ imagery, plot, conflict, and character development in a more effective and intentional manner than I was previously capable of doing. Through the incorporation of these techniques into my writing, I have been able to expand my creative writing capabilities to a vastly higher level. By attending the in-class writing workshops throughout the semester, I have learned to harness the power of these creative tools in a more intentional, thoughtful, and ultimately more effective manner. I have also found that I have been able to successfully accomplish these aspects of the creative writing process with greater regularity and with greater confidence in the material itself. These aspects of writing have also contributed to a greater degree of interest, clarity, effectiveness, and persuasiveness in my writing. Collectively, these varied aspects contribute to a more cohesive, concrete, foundational knowledge of the creative writing process itself—which ultimately has the effect of producing higher quality writing. If a writer is well-practiced and well-versed in the various aspects of crafting a piece of creative writing, then they are better able to effectively communicate the subtlety, depth, and character development that is essential to form a connection or emotional bond with the reader. This bond with the reader is essential to any good piece of creative writing; and I have found that I am far better equipped to connect with the reader through my writing that I was previously.
Before taking this creative writing course, I had the tendency to over-utilize summary and rapidly propel the reader through the course of events that constitute the plot of the writing. However, by intentionally slowing down the course of events through the use of imagery and character development, I have found that the overall quality of my creative writing has improved significantly. Developing well-written scenes through the effective use of imagery and pacing has allowed me create stories which are of greater interest to the reader. Slowing down the story has enabled the flow and pacing of my creative writing to be better suited to the scenes and atmosphere that I am attempting to convey with my writing. Because the imagery techniques that I learned are so useful and universal, I feel that I am much more prepared to write effective creative writing than I was previously.
Imagery is not the only aspect of scene development that I have learned about and improved on. The use of character development and dialogue has been a large topic this semester; and I feel that I have improved greatly in this regard. As it has traditionally been difficult for me accomplish believable and meaningful dialogue within my writing, its use has been something that I have typically avoided whenever possible. However, the lessons I have learned this semester have allowed me to utilize character development and dialogue with a greater degree of mastery than was previously capable of accomplishing. These tools have allowed me to demonstrate character interaction, development, and progression through much more than simple summary—and have broadened the scope and capability of my writing enormously. I have learned to utilize techniques that will allow the reader to understand these key mechanisms within a story without the need for summary—they will feel and understand it personally. As these lessons will allow the characters in my writing to not only be more believable but be capable of greater expression and development, this skills will prove to be an asset for me in my future endeavors as a creative writer.
The aforementioned tools and techniques have allowed me to expand the plot and conflict development in my writing as well. By crafting better written characters, scenes, and dialogue, I have found that I am better equipped and prepared to create a well written and cohesive plot that makes sense for the characters in it. The scenes, dialogue, and pacing of the plot have greatly improved as a result of the lessons that I have learned this semester. This has had the effect of making my writing both more enjoyable and believable—which is what readers often remember the most about a given piece of writing.
One of the most useful techniques that I learned in class is that of the narrative arc. The only previous knowledge I had on this subject was the common sense knowledge of a reader. However, I have come to consciously understand this aspect of writing with greater intentionality—and therefore greater effectiveness. The proper employment of scenes, dialogue, and pacing are only able to be assembled into a functioning piece of creative writing by sitting properly within the framework of the narrative arc. This technique has allowed me to better pace the scenes in my writing so as to develop in intensity, interest, and progression in such a way as to achieve the maximum amount of impact with the reader. As readers subconsciously expect the framework of the story to be laid out in the form of a narrative arc, learning to write in such a way has been extremely beneficial to me. The fact that there is a cohesive structure to writing allows me greater flexibility in arranging the plot, as I am not worried about the overall structure of the events’ build up—but am more concerned with the actual events and characters themselves. This has allowed me to delve into character development, imagery, and pacing with greater ease because I know when the plot should be picking up and winding down beforehand.
The process of revision has been invaluable to me throughout my time in the class. The benefits that revision offers have allowed me to greatly enhance the quality of my writing. It is only through numerous revisions that we as writers are able to hone the craft of creative writing, and clarify its intended message to a degree of quality that is representative of the ideas that the author had originally hoped to express. Although I have always used this process and write many revisions of all my writing, the work that I have accomplished throughout the course of the semester has necessitated more revision than I had been previously accustomed to doing for most of my writing. I found that during in-class workshops, my fellow students would always be able to find things that could be clarified or improved upon—despite the numerous revisions I had already done. This forced me to rethink the way I write, and also to revise my work to a degree of polish that I had not previously accomplished.
In addition to revision, my group members contributed greatly to the overall quality of the writing that I have produced throughout the semester. They would often notice things like the repetitive use of words, or when something about the story or a character wasn’t clear. This helped me to analyze the way in which readers actually read my writing in an entirely different way. All of this contributed to the quality of my writing as I was better able to pinpoint the areas of my writing that could be improved upon. This feedback was incredibly valuable, as when the time to revise my creative writing came, I would always have a list of notes and suggestions to look over and incorporate. This made me feel as though I always had fresh ideas at hand; and this greatly helped me to avoid writer’s block.
In the time that I have spent in the class, I have come to appreciate the fact that as a writer, I am intertwined with and a part of literary culture. Creative writing can serve as a commentary on society, express ideas and emotions, as well as place the mind of the reader firmly within the mind of another individual. These aspects of the writing serve both to enlighten and entertain the reader in a way that no other medium of human expression can effectively replicate. With the techniques and ideas that I have learned in this class, I feel better prepared for any future writing that I might engage in. I feel that the repertoire of tools and techniques that this class has given me will be essential for me to successfully accomplish creative writing in the future. But most importantly, I now understand that as a writer, I am a part of the literary community. I have learned that the thoughts, ideas, concepts, and observations contained within my writing are as valid as any other writer’s—and as such, I should strive to enhance and hone the craft of my creative writing as much as is possible.
Cold Night Air
When Winston snapped back into consciousness, he realized that he was nearly to the alleyway. He had been so entrenched within his thoughts that he had hardly noticed the walk—that for him was typically a mildly dreaded, but necessary evil. He always found it peculiar that the perceived flow of time is radically altered, either slowed or sped up, by engaging in intense thought. How peculiar that at times, this kind of intense thought could bring time itself to a crawl—a standstill. But now, at this specific point in time, and at this specific point in space, he had found that he had already walked the two miles to the pub in what seemed like an instant. “For Christ’s sake…”, Winston murmured to himself; “She always hated this meaningless, tangential stuff.” He had to stop thinking about this nonsense, but the thoughts of her and of Harold continued to creep back into his mind no matter how hard he tried to suppress them. He thought to himself “Maybe, nonsense is all I have…” He was doing it again; he was nearly there and must compose himself. There would be people there and he couldn’t appear to be the least bit odd, or unusual. Unusual people get noticed. Harold was dense, but even he might notice that something wasn’t normal and get suspicious.
Harold was a former co-worker of Winston’s, whom he had now been friends with for several long years. Winston was on his way to meet Harold at the local pub for drinks, as was typical of their relationship with each other. Winston thought to himself, “Harold, you son of a bitch.” as he took notice of the apparent fact that many of his personal relationships apparently seemed to hinge upon the context of consuming large amounts of alcohol. Finally returning his attention to his surroundings, Winston found that he was in the long dark alleyway that ran between two large, rather old looking, red brick apartment buildings. The buildings sat directly across the street from the pub that was to be Winston’s destination on this cold, solitary evening. As he gazed up at the buildings, he saw the multi-colored mineral deposits that were typical of brick structures of this age. Winston thought of how many winters that these old, tarnished, mineral streaked, red bricks must have endured. And yet, here they were—still fulfilling their intended purpose.
For a moment, Winston wondered how much the rent on one of these apartments would be. While contemplating the notion, he slid back into that sad, cold, unrelenting thing that he knew from some measure of personal experience to be reality. He had scoured the city for weeks to find an apartment with rent as low as that which he currently enjoyed. Winston became conscious of the fact that the buildings he now walked past looked a bit more aesthetically pleasing than the building which he currently occupied. After a few moments of contemplation, he was now convinced that they looked much nicer than his meager, dilapidated, dingy old apartment building. There were potted flowers littered about, typically near the doorways along the perimeter of the building. Of course it was the middle of winter, so flowers shouldn’t be blooming—and certainly not with the six inches of snow that these particular Rhododendrons currently had strewn over the top of them. Sure, it was obvious that they were made of plastic, but at least this building actually made some kind of an attempt to disguise the squalor in which its residents live. Where he lived now, there were no such illusions. There was no attempt to make it appear to be anything but what it was—a run down, poorly maintained apartment building that happened to have particularly low rent. Well, at least it was an honest apartment building. He knew where he stood with it; and it knew where it stood with him. At this thought, he felt slightly better about his current living situation. By now he was used to deceiving himself, and fell into the habit without much conscious effort.
Winston thought, “Why Harold? What in God’s name is so great about him?” His thoughts were cut short when he realized that his hand had begun to hurt. It occurred to him that he was tightly clenching his fists and that his untrimmed nails-now rather long and dirty and showing the signs of disrepair and neglect that were present in the rest of Winston’s physical features-were digging into the horizontal creases in the palms of his hands. Winston stopped walking for a moment and quietly stated, “No. She is gone—and nothing I can do will be able to change that now. She is with Harold now.” He redoubled his efforts to regain composure and retain mental clarity. He was very nearly to the end of the alleyway and would soon arrive at the entrance to the pub. The cold was really starting to work its way into the joints of his fingers and in a way he was glad to be so near his destination. It would be warm in the pub, and after a few drinks he would soon become completely impervious to the ill effects of weather and temperature.
As he exited the alleyway, the soft, ambient, yellow glow of several street lights washed over him. His senses, having become accustomed to the darkness of the alleyway were temporarily heightened, and upon exposure to this new visual experience the brightness of the light seemed to be amplified by several orders of magnitude. For a brief instant Winston was immersed in the warm, yellow glow of the light and temporarily forgot about the cold. He felt as though he had been immediately transported to a warmer, less foreign place. As Winston’s eyes acclimated to the light, he realized that he hadn’t seen another human being all night—not a single car or person on the way to the pub. “Perfect.”, Winston thought, “Tonight couldn’t be more perfect.” Although Winston knew perfectly well that there were no cars on the road, he still peered down both directions of the street before entering and crossing the road. The familiar glow of the neon beer signs provided a strange feeling of comfort to him. With the briefest moment of hesitation and with an inaudible sigh, Winston reached out his hand to grasp the pub door’s handle.
Upon entering the pub, Winston was immediately greeted by a rush of warm air and the bitter, yet sweet smell of stale lager and cigarette smoke. These new odors stood in stark contrast to the cold, vacant, nearly scentless winter air that had up until this very moment been occupying his lungs. His ears were filled with the generic classic rock music that came out of the tinny-sounding speakers that were precariously mounted to the walls. The coat that sat upon his shoulders now felt exceptionally heavy and cumbersome—strange. Up until this moment it had seemed to Winston a barrier between his fragile physical body and the cold, unforgiving night air. It had been a friend, a companion, an impenetrable wall that had offered him protection from nature’s cruelty. Now, it would seem that its only purpose was to inhibit his movement through the plethora of barstools and small tables that stood like a gauntlet between Harold and himself.
There were a couple of people in the pub that Winston had seen before. He had seen them often enough to know their faces, yet he knew literally nothing about them. Oddly, one of them nodded at him, and he actually returned the gesture. He frequented this pub often enough to be generally recognized by one or two people, but not enough that they actually knew his name or talked to him. “So typical of contemporary society” Winston thought to himself. He doubted that even the bartender knew his first name. He always paid for his drinks with cash. Winston sighed to himself, and thought, “Cheers is full of shit. No one is actually like that.” As he walked past the out of order pool table and approached the desired booth, he noticed that Harold had arrived before him. The booth sat in a relatively dark, quiet corner that comprised about half of the rear area of the pub. Harold was waiting, smoking a cigarette and nursing a beer. He nodded at Winston with an arrogant expression on his face, as if to say, “What took you so long?” It was too much for him; Winston had formulated a perfect plan. He would lure Harold back to his house with the promise of more drinks, and when they got to the alleyway… “Fuck the plan.” Winston thought to himself. Upon seeing Harold, he had quietly pulled the folding knife from his pocket, opened the blade, and was now subconsciously preparing to make his move. Sadly, “Harold, you piece of shit!” were the only words that Winston actually managed to elicit before plunging the knife deep into Harold’s chest, looking around, seeing the patrons of the pub staring at him with wide eyes and looks of horror on their faces, and running out the emergency exit in the rear of the pub as quickly as his legs would take him. Running as quickly as he could through the dark alleyway, Winston only took time to throw the knife and his now bloodied coat into a passing dumpster. He took a deep breath and steadied his nerves before running the rest of the way back to his run-down, yet generally honest apartment building—the whole while feeling the frigid night air creeping down the back of his neck.
clayboitnott 