That IS weird about the lack of "learning from fellow writer friends" responses! I wonder if it might be a case of not thinking of conversations and time spent with writer pals as "teaching" or "learning" in a strict or formal sense? I have several good writer friends with whom I discuss what we're working on and reading and struggling with in our writing lives. That is incredibly valuable and important to me, but if asked, I might not categorize this as "learning about writing." Maybe it's just a matter of perspective, or semantics...
You may be on to something here, Kristen! We--a societal "we"--tend to think of formalized learning as learning. But I know I learn so much, so often, from these connections with others. A nugget here, a nugget there...
It is NOT strange to me: I never meet writers in my wanderings. I was in a writers group, but it disbanded when one guy's career took off and he stopped coming. Not in a position to justify any more paid courses. Being largely unpublished, I'm not of interest to other writers. Or maybe it's just my personality. Do have one solid writer friend from our writing program years ago.
For me the "strange" was the ZERO. Not one person responding to the survey noted. Yet not all of us work in isolation. So Kristen brings up the point that perhaps some don't see this as a learning piece. That might be true, too.
It IS tough to form a group that is committed as much to each other as to writing, I agree. At one point, a member of a group I was part of, had actually tabulated how many hours she spent working on others' writing, and cited the numbers with her decision to leave. It rather cut!
Maybe because at that point I'd begin to charge for editorial services for others, I was very aware of the gift of working together, sharing/exchanging material. There was no tracking hours; it was gifting and caring.
Wow, I guess I've been really lucky in my writing groups! I was in one for fiction that was absolutely lovely, and the critiques were thoughtful and wise. I'm still in a poetry group, and it's nothing but supportive. I don't pay for either of these groups, and some of us are published, some of us are not. I appreciate this reminder not to take good writing groups for granted!
Lovely rhythm all around, and the alliteration of trampled tracks, and the sounds and half-rhyme of "alone/home"... yes! A sense of circling back is here.
Another excellent post, Alison. Whilst I am not commenting on the weather (most unusual for a Brit, as seemingly that’s all we talk about), I was intrigued with the latter part of your post about sharing or getting support from fellow writers. I honestly don’t know what I would have done without my author friend’s advice and she is my guiding star. Here’s a link to the article for anyone who is interested. We should all be there for each other, particularly in such an isolated pastime. Here’s the link:
I am doing an experiment. I am trying an AI writing assistant called Sudowrite. So here are 2 versions of inspiration from the photo. The first I wrote then I asked the AI to be more descriptive. What does everyone think?
UMBRELLA
"always carry an umbrella, it is important to stay dry when you are on such a journey." That is what her Deda told her. That was his last advice to her so may eons ago.
And now here she was with her last treasure stowed in the breast pocket of her coat.
She had chosen the meeting place. The museum, public, safe. Yes she could have gone to the police station where there was a zone for conducting sales from marketplace, but she was afraid of police, a holdover from her upbringing in Russia.
AI ASSISTED VERSION
His words echoed in her mind, a distant memory from eons ago. "Always carry an umbrella," he had said, "it is important to stay dry when embarking on such a journey." Her Deda's advice had always stuck with her. Now, she stood with her final treasure tucked safely in the breast pocket of her coat.
The meeting place was of her choosing. A museum, bustling with people and filled with modern art. It felt safe, public, and neutral. She could have gone to the police station, where there was a designated zone for conducting marketplace sales, but she was afraid of the police, a holdover from her past. Her heart throbbed in her chest either with anticipation or just age and angina, she couldn't tell anymore. She waited for her buyer to arrive. The soft glow of the museum lights illuminated the falling snow surrounding her, adding an eerie yet fitting atmosphere to the transaction about to take place, it reminded her of home - of Russia.
All right... I was rather hoping that others would weigh in here, too, as this really is interesting! (What DO you think, other Unschoolers??)
First off, I do prefer yours (I'll admit to fighting mentally with the whole AI thing here... trying to keep an open mind, but...) opening with dialogue. Opening in this way always immediately sets up voice, and a touch a drama, and interest. People are always interested in what others say. You manage to invoke both the character and the relative by doing this.
I don't like the "heart throbbed in her chest" (where on earth else would it throb? In the wagon she's pulling at her side??). Tossing in a medical term like "angina" doesn't do anything for me, or the prose...
As for description--fair enough to ask--yes, a line to evoke the museum might be in order in your version.
A lot to say here. Yes, Al's version should have just a bit more sensory detail. No, I'm convinced that AI version is the detail it needs. First, "That was his last advice to her so many eons ago" vs "a distant memory from eons ago." "His last advice to her" is immediate: while it was given eons ago it rings strong. "A distant memory from.." makes the Deda's voice more vague, most lost.
"Final treasure" is a different feel than "last treasure." Final is final: she has been on a definite journey giving up her treasures at definite points. "Last treasure" feels more desparate.
Agree with Alison re "heart throbbed in her chest" - shades of steamy romance - and "angina." Where did that come from? Suddenly she is dated as old: the eons ago are truly eons ago. In Al's version it feels more like huge life changes embodied in the eons as opposed to actual decades passing. Could be 2 years ago. Could be 40 years ago.
But up to you, Al, if the artificial intelligence version is taking you to the story you meant to tell.
Interestingly enough, on CBC's early morning radio show today (CBC being the government-funded radio that conservatives hate and are continually decreasing funds for) there was a discussion about Artificial Intelligence and writers. I didn't hear the whole thing, but was interested by what Antonia Reed, a CBC producer, had to say. She talked about a short story by Sheila Heti who had a short story in The New Yorker, available to listen to for free by podcast. Sheila asked AI a series of questions and based her story on that. Reed also mentioned interviews given to AI asking for responses as if from known writers. Margaret Atwood's responses lacked her acerbic wit; Cormac McCarthy's were too upbeat to feel real. Reed also predicted that future writers will be like music producers, putting together AI tracks to form written pieces.
She made her careful way back home, the crunch of each step delivering the satisfying confirmation of traction. One had to gain traction, she had always told her sons. Not that they'd listened. And now they were gone from the reach of her lessons. White crystals coated the trees. She had always loved the winter.
It reads as if so much is going on between the lines, as the character's thoughts move from one to the next. the word "careful"--I relate to that after slipping on ice and breaking an elbow... in a split second of not focusing on my step! So the repetition of the word "traction"--so much in her thoughts!--works well.
Then all the "space" between her children not listening, their leaving her behind, a sense here that her "lessons" were paid no heed... and she needs to move on from that. I sense a real pushing of herself to move on; she changes the subject, tries to be positive with what she has "always loved."
Thank you for posting! Amazing what can be in a handful of lines!
I like the first sentence up to the comma. Lots in that image. The second part feels somehow a bit clunky. Maybe it's the "delivering the satisfying.." I also wonder about cutting "And now they were gone from the reach of her lessons." "Not that they'd listened" is so evocative on its own.
Yes, I like these suggestions - I wasn't quite happy with the feel of "delivering the satisfying" myself. Maybe "the crunch of each step a confirmation of traction" or, like Alison suggests, "the crunch of each step confirming traction."
I love all the hard ‘c’ sounds…very satisfying to read. Yes love the underlining message that perhaps she’d tried to teach her sons about ‘traction’ in life or something else. So interesting.
Thanks, Shirley! Glad you enjoyed - I really connect with strong sounds as well. I wonder about her relationship with her sons, too. Loving these prompts for where they can take you.
Follow up to my post where I wrote one short passage and then another one using AI assistant. I found a plug-in on the program that was called Brutally Honest Feedback. I'm going to play with this program and see if I can get a positive Brutal Review.
This is what it said about my first piece.
Alright, let's dive into this passage with brutal honesty. Overall, there are some clear weaknesses that need to be addressed in order to improve the pacing, character authenticity, descriptions, narrative voice consistency, and structural flow.
First off, the pacing feels quite sluggish. The opening line is intriguing enough but then slows down considerably with unnecessary filler words like "may eons ago." It drags the reader down before they even get a chance to fully engage with the story. Tighten it up by getting straight to the point: "That was his last advice to her years ago."
Moving on to character authenticity, we don't really get a strong sense of who this protagonist is or what drives her. Sure, she has an umbrella recommendation from her Deda (which I assume means grandfather?), but it doesn't reveal much about her personality or motivations. Dive deeper into her thoughts and emotions so readers can connect with her on a more personal level.
Next up are overused descriptions. You mention twice that something is her "last" - first as advice and later as treasure in her pocket. This repetition feels redundant and diminishes its impact each time it's used. Instead of outright stating that it's important for her journey or that it's her last treasure without any context or significance attached to them, show us through vivid imagery how these objects hold value for our protagonist.
Narrative voice inconsistencies also rear their head here. In one instance you use proper grammar ("That is what...") while elsewhere you switch abruptly to a more colloquial tone ("Here she was..."). Find a consistent narrative voice throughout the passage and stick with it for better cohesion.
This is what the AI said about the revised story. Note there are several options I Chose Rewrite and then the options are as follows Rephrase, Shorter, More Descriptive, Show, not Tell, More Inner Conflict, More Intense, Customize. I chose More Descriptive. Here is the critic of The More Descriptive AI version that I tweaked in a few places but used over 90% of.
BRUTAL HONESTY BOT - AI Revision
I appreciate you sharing this passage with me. Now, let's dive in and dig deep into the text.
First off, the opening sentence is quite clichéd. The idea of words echoing in someone's mind as a distant memory feels overused and lacks originality. It doesn't grab my attention or make me curious about what comes next.
The advice about carrying an umbrella also falls into the category of clichés. It's a common piece of wisdom that has been used countless times before. We need something more unique and memorable to set this scene apart from others.
Moving on to character authenticity, I have some concerns about how our protagonist is portrayed here. While we get glimpses into her thoughts and feelings, there isn't enough depth to truly understand who she is as a person or what drives her actions. To create an authentic character, we need to delve deeper into her motivations, fears, and desires.
Additionally, the description of the meeting place feels forced and contrived. A museum bustling with people and filled with modern art may seem like a safe choice on the surface, but it lacks realism in relation to our character's situation.' Why would she choose such a public space for such a sensitive transaction? This decision needs further clarification or justification within the narrative.
Furthermore, there are moments when the narrative voice shifts inconsistently throughout the passage. We start off with an internal monologue from our protagonist but then transition into external observations without smooth transitions or clear indicators of whose perspective we're following at any given moment.
Finally, let's talk about structural flow. The pacing in this passage feels disjointed; it jumps between different elements without really engaging us fully in any one particular aspect—be it emotions or atmosphere.The descriptions often feel heavy-handed rather than organic parts of the story flow
In conclusion,the weaknesses lie primarily in characterization,lacklustre descriptions,and inconsistent narrative voice.I advise revisiting each element carefully,rethinking character motivations and actions for authenticity,and refining the descriptions to create a more engaging scene.I believe with some careful adjustments, this scene can truly shine. Keep up the hard work!
In a quick read through I'd say the "brutally honest feedback" did a better job than the Artificial Intelligence version of your draft. In your version I felt more about the character and her circumstances would be revealed. Umbrellas may or may not be cliched - I can't remember when I last read an umbrella image, but the critique presents you with a challenge to make the story more unique.
I agree. I think the AI Brutally Honest Feedback is a good starting point for rewriting a first draft. I’m not sure its feedback is useful for small snippets.
I think the AI rewriting processes may be useful for sentences within a story. For example if I have a woman exiting a limousine at an English country mansion in the 1930’s the AI can give numerous suggestions in detail of what she is wearing.
Right now I believe it may be a useful tool in the same way that Renaissance painters would place metal grids in front of their scenes to sketch their works accurately or how it is speculated that Vermeer used projector obscura to create his masterpieces.
Perhaps the AI over time will get to know me and allow me to write faster, better quality stories.
I have to admit, something in me just balks! However, I recently had some wonderful emails from a photographer friend who is using it to create images that are unlike anything I've seen! BUT... and it's sizable... without his decades of photography, his input would be very different.I do see HIS work in the AI images. (He does a lot of night photography, and his understanding of light and contrast and so much more is very practiced, and his eye is keen.)
So I am curious. But cautious.
Al-with-an-el, I've been reading your work for a long time now, and always appreciated your story-telling capacity, and the same for how you evoke place and atmosphere. The way you turn a sentence and know--seemingly innately--how to turn a sentence.
Which is perhaps what makes me question: (and for all of us) do we understand enough of what we are bringing to our own material... before we begin to listen to ANY feedback, for that matter?
To keep in mind as you take all forms of feedback: hold it up to your work, and question why you made the choice you did. And then ask what honours the intention an the story itself.
So glad you've weighed in here, Amy, with your thoughts!
I get confirmation from my writer friends on what works. It’s like being on a sports team in the dug out. They are truthful and want the team to win. The trainers and coaches teach because their goals are different. The trust piece is essential with my writer friends and I treasure the connection. Coaches/ Teachers keep a distance as they should, providing a different perspective on techniques to use. And of course they have favorites—the winners.
I think you are right Alison. Feedback of any sort needs to be filtered through your own experience and what you are trying to say. Thanks for your positive comments about my work. It is that sort of feedback that keeps one pushing forward. I think many novice writers struggle with getting feedback, accepting feedback and filtering feedback. I know I do. I remember many moons ago you ran a small group where we posted parts of our story and received feedback from the four other members and you the leader. For me that was the most constructive, instructive and productive time of my writing.
I wonder if the UnSchool can create a place like that, where it is constructive for the participants and financially rewarding for the Instructor.
As for AI I think it will have a role to play. In the same manner that the camera/ photography changed art and moved us beyond realism into Impressionism and abstract art. AI will influence writing. But just as I can appreciate a Picasso or a Jackson Pollock I can still marvel at a DaVinci or Michelangelo.
I've tried to get workshops going here... Have you posted anything to the workshops? If you click on "The Unschool for Writers" at the top of the page, you'll be taken to the Substack page. (You must go there in order to be able to write these comments!) But also click on your icon on upper righthand corner and allow notifications for "The Workshop Space."
THEN email me a piece to be workshopped--short fiction, nonfiction, poetry, or picturebooks, we've been looking at. I'll post the emailed piece, and people can comment...
It's amazing how few people we need... even three works! IF everyone is dedicated enough to offer feedback and post their work. Some of the picturebook feedback has been amazing... even though we are frequently just three of us!
Questions?? Please let me know. Amy's up for it, I know... and others... ??
I have not. But I will. Honestly I don’t think I have explored your Substack enough. I’ve just been passively letting it spoon feed me. I guess it’s time for me to get off the pablum and learn how to use utensils.
Ha! This made me laugh. Yes, please use the utensils.
Workshopping--sharing work and giving and receiving feedback is THE way to learn to write...after you've done the writing itself! Reading about it only goes so far. It's much like learning a language: you need to get out and speak...
Some days I see the Unschool emails come in and I think, they are like candy! Something to savour when I have a special moment. And I can’t wait to unwrap it! And then something sidetracks me…I’m so sad about that because really it’s so important to me (writing and candy) . I feel like I am going to have to book the time in my calendar. (Sometime around my work schedule .)
Umbrellas- protection and attempted preparation against sun, rain, hail and some people assume, even against snow.
This photo reminded me of growing up in Montreal and how unprepared I always was for the first snowfall. I remember heading to university or work on the train in my nylon stockings and high heels with a light jacket , oblivious of weather forecasts. Sometime during the day a blizzard would descend on the city and by the time I took the train home that evening blowing snow accumulating in drifts would be everywhere. As I slipped and tripped on my suddenly lethal shoes, tearing my nylons, and freezing hands and feet I'd vow to be better prepared the following year. As I'd walk through the door freezing and disheveled my mother would greet me , ask me about my day and turn back to meal preparations without a word of sympathy as to my forlorn condition. It was the time before cellphones and second cars and it was just the way it was.
On January 11th, there was a snowfall…on January 11th, you had been with me for 11 days.
In many ways we were snowed in.
Over Christmas you fell at my sister’s house and broke your hip, ended up in the hospital. It was decided, as I had no stairs and no dogs, that you would stay with me when you came out. For healing and rehab. It was a decision that weighed as heavy and damp as a winter cloud because ever since my Dad passed we had not been on the same page, of the same mind, or barely in the same room. To say things had become difficult was an understatement. I was wounded myself.
When asked to care for someone, in this case, a step-mom, have you ever thought… do I have to? And what if they were just recently horrible to you, crushing your heart under their heel and upsetting ‘the way things have always been’. Well then, do you have to? Out of duty? Obligation? Do you really have a decision or is it just one of those things you must do? Of course, I could have said no, but the drift of cold between us would’ve been buried deeper and icier.
So I said, yes…and then searched my heart and soul for how I would cope with my broken heart and your broken hip. I had no doubt I could be a caregiver. I’d raised 3 children. But what about the hurt? I spent time alone, thinking of all the books and quotes I’d read. How to separate feelings from action and response. How to ‘see’ a feeling outside of yourself then let it fall to the ground and roll away like a snowball.
I knew I would have to dig deep to do this. It would be like burrowing in a snow bank to a place where it’s quiet, still and numbing. From there I’d keep a fort around my heart. To care for someone who needed care but not do too much. To do this for my Dad maybe, as an ode to him, even though that brought up difficult feelings about what he actually owed to me as a father. I would carry a shield but be open to a change in temperature. I would be kind and giving as that is my fucking nature…but not foolish, not over kind or over giving.
You moved into my condo and we sorted out equipment for you: indoor walker, outdoor walker, shower stool. We went through papers and got things in order. I cleared pathways in my rooms and put tennis balls on the bottom stalks of the indoor walker so the click click click of the legs would glide more smoothly. I kept the fireplace on because you felt chilly. I helped you in the shower, putting on my bathing suit and gently holding a towel over the bandage that covered your bruised and jagged incision. I held your arm gently when you walked, I helped you dress. I washed your clothes, your bedding, our dishes. Monitored your exercises. Fed you nutritious meals and shopped for things you liked but only when you were resting and I could leave you for a short amount of time.
I stole an enema. That was your third or fourth night with me. Things were not moving and you asked me to run to the store. With my snow boots on, I walked through the quiet streets to the grocery store and straight to the pharmacy. It was closed and I noticed certain shelves had been locked up. Sure enough, I could see a Fleet Enema in the dark behind the lock. With the fear of a cold and constipated step mom on my mind, I reached behind the locked board, stretching my arm, praying there was no alarm and grabbed the box. No alarm went off - or if it did it was silent and the checkout person didn’t seem to care that they were scanning a secured product. It saved the night, and you still laugh at imagining me caught, arrested in handcuffs with an enema as the illegally obtained property.
//
Over time as you healed, we fell into a calm routine. You helped out by folding towels and cloths in neat and tidy squares. You loaded the dishwasher and rinsed the French press coffee pot, scraping soggy grounds into a container. On Saturdays I picked up lattes from the local coffee shop and you paid for them, the almond croissants and the morning glory muffins. I bought you an eyebrow liner and while you sat, smiling, almost childlike, I traced your thin brows with the light brown gel. We made sure you didn’t stand too long as that caused your feet to swell, the delicate skin stretching taut and shiny.
There were many of these quiet, ordinary and sometimes tender moments and then there were other moments when you were in pain and we spent time adjusting medications. Then times when you cried, for your aching body and for my Dad. I sat beside you, pillows behind us, my arm around you and we talked in soft voices about the sadness of how my Dad had suffered. But how we’d all had the privilege of caring for him. Not everyone gets to. Our tears fell like melting snow.
More days passed and tears still came but they came from a deeper well. Not so much physical pain but more centred around grief and loss and the unsaid words between us. You mentioned how crazy the summer had been and how you weren’t in your right mind. Somehow that prompted a softening, a release of something suspended. It cracked and loosened. With my own sorrow still closely held, I told you how I was truly grateful we had this time together.
//
Lying in bed one night toward the end of your stay, more snow fell and swirled outside. Large crystal flakes sparkled under the globe-like garden lights while a lighter dusting fell like frosting on the hedges, turning them into soft slices of Christmas cake. Outside the air was hushed with minimal traffic and no one about. Inside was quiet too as we both rested in separate rooms, the fireplace not yet ash. And it was then, in that peace, that I felt a searing heat in my chest. A radiating burn between my ribs. I knew it was not there to bring fear or a medical emergency but a cauterizing. A cauterizing of an ancient glacial pathway where a suffering had once travelled and become wedged. As the burning faded, it left a small candle of heat and a soft pulsing bruise, like when your fingertips first thaw from frost. And I fell asleep. After months of no dreams, I began to dream again.
//
It took your fall and this snowfall. It took your injury and my injury. It took your healing and rehab to become my healing and rehab. And the snow fell all around, all around. And the snow fell all around. In a wintry storm we were held, suspended, until the time would come to step out on the new ground that lay ahead.
Love how you kept the snow, cold, winter, glacier metaphors going through the whole piece. Very moving - kinda felt a tear or two push at back of eyeball.
All right... another day has passed, filled with the horrors of assembling tax materials! And I return for a second read.
Amy is so right about the tears that push.
The winding progression here is like the turns of a can opener--a stiff old can opener, that one has to work at. And just as should be. Beginning with broken parts in both and the snow, always the snow. The movement from resentment/anger/hurt/frustration... to opening, peeling back, acceptance...healing...
From the mentions of books and quotes, those things we've come to rely on (if social media is to be believed... but we need to press on. And you do. Far beyond). Digging. from practical, the details of routine, setting up. Then to emotions.
That night of more snow and silencing and being still and emotions and awareness of change that has occurred. The fire and cold of cauterization and snow. That point just tops me. So well done. The wondrous humour of the "stolen" enema--perfect timing. The reader needs that levity. It gives us insight into the lightening that happens through caregiving without taking away from the grounding (and pounding) of the rest.
Healing. It's such an incremental path. And you've captured it here. Made it seem possible, without minimizing any one precious and terrifying step.
This comment relates to the February poll. When I revise the nuts and bolts of a scene (for specific details): I write what I know and research for exact names and add them in. Once the scene flows, I ask questions of my fact-checker. This can be people in my writers group, my husband, or others I know in the industry. The description has to reflect the way the characters interact in their environment or it falls apart. To me "finding your writer's voice" is more about how to harness observation so that it amplifies each character's rhythm of being. A good story can be turned into music because each element is part of the score.
One thought on the seeming absence of writer friends: was this the last option listed in the poll? The poll only let me choose one answer before jumping to show me the results, though I would have liked to select two. Perhaps those with writer friends simply also learn from a different source as well?
I'm way late to the game here! Both this post and the writing life. While I've learned a lot about writing from books on writing, I think I have learned the most from actually writing. And from reading and analyzing what I love and what did not work for me. But I've had some wonderful conversations with writer friends over the years that have taught me a lot. Not enough of those conversations, though. I'd like more of that. More walking and talking and sharing work and thoughts. I find this gets me out of my head in a way that reading and thinking of writing do not. Different realizations and understandings come this way.
So much comes and grows from this kind of sharing.
As a result of certain editorial requests, I've been pondering dashes and ellipses, and discussing. It's brought about some real thinking about the nature of...
Aeneas and Dido and Iphogeneia and Agemenon and Clytemenstra, hot human blood and grief and hard revenge wild in wind-driven obscuring snowflakes, humanity clear and true. Family killing family. Loved ones killing loved ones. Cold cold snowflakes piling into cold hot calculated grieved killings. Ambition. Revenge. Vengeance.
Iphogeneia, "strong-born," sacrificed by her loving/driven by the cold harsh winds of vengeance father Agememnon. Clytemnestra, hot/cold avenger, wife of Agememnon, mother of blood-sacrificed Iphogeneia, sister of abucted or not Helen of Troy for whom Agememnon goes to war. Agememnon sacrifices, grief-stricken, his daughter for the sister of his wife. He needs those ships to sail.
But at some point he had frozen out the more powerful Artemis and her snow-packed heart demanded Iphogeneia's blood to release his stranded frozen ships.
They all loved, but they all coldly demanded blood.
Clytemnestra, sister to Helen of Troy for whom her husband went to war, mother of Iphogeneia sacrificed by her husband for the sake of her sister, in hot grief coldly killed, upon his return from the too-stupidly-human war, her husband, father of Iphogeneia, Agememnon.
Hundreds and hundreds of years later, snow-misted in the swirls of time and conviction that humanity has evolved, we clearly and coldly feel the cruel reality of who we are.
All wrought with snow and cold and ice and repetition. The repetition builds with a sense of freezing madness. "cold hot calculated." Wow. I still remember sitting in MFA workshops, with people pouncing on repeated words, like cats with moths. But there is such value in--here in both words and ideas, pounding.
That IS weird about the lack of "learning from fellow writer friends" responses! I wonder if it might be a case of not thinking of conversations and time spent with writer pals as "teaching" or "learning" in a strict or formal sense? I have several good writer friends with whom I discuss what we're working on and reading and struggling with in our writing lives. That is incredibly valuable and important to me, but if asked, I might not categorize this as "learning about writing." Maybe it's just a matter of perspective, or semantics...
You may be on to something here, Kristen! We--a societal "we"--tend to think of formalized learning as learning. But I know I learn so much, so often, from these connections with others. A nugget here, a nugget there...
I totally agree--we should expand our definition of learning beyond formal structures. My writing community is essential!
It is NOT strange to me: I never meet writers in my wanderings. I was in a writers group, but it disbanded when one guy's career took off and he stopped coming. Not in a position to justify any more paid courses. Being largely unpublished, I'm not of interest to other writers. Or maybe it's just my personality. Do have one solid writer friend from our writing program years ago.
For me the "strange" was the ZERO. Not one person responding to the survey noted. Yet not all of us work in isolation. So Kristen brings up the point that perhaps some don't see this as a learning piece. That might be true, too.
It IS tough to form a group that is committed as much to each other as to writing, I agree. At one point, a member of a group I was part of, had actually tabulated how many hours she spent working on others' writing, and cited the numbers with her decision to leave. It rather cut!
Maybe because at that point I'd begin to charge for editorial services for others, I was very aware of the gift of working together, sharing/exchanging material. There was no tracking hours; it was gifting and caring.
A writing group requires trust and genuine regard for each others talent. I nurture as long as it lasts. The friendship grows gradually.
The same is true for writing workshops, I've learned, even if you pay for them.
There has to be genuine generosity of spirit.
Absolutely key. Real commitment to each other and each other's work.
YES to understanding the nurturing piece, and I appreciate your "as long as it lasts."
Wow, I guess I've been really lucky in my writing groups! I was in one for fiction that was absolutely lovely, and the critiques were thoughtful and wise. I'm still in a poetry group, and it's nothing but supportive. I don't pay for either of these groups, and some of us are published, some of us are not. I appreciate this reminder not to take good writing groups for granted!
SO very true, Kristen.
My writing on the photo :)
Yesterday I walked this road and thought I was alone;
today I see the trampled tracks of those who've gone before.
And so I'll thank the mess, the slush,
the hush that brought me home.
Your four lines is in overdrive--so much here! The thought of others' paths with our own, when feeling alone and isolated.
And the wonderful movement of "mess/slush/hush"! I so like how that works--from mess to hush.
Beautiful. Thank you for posting!
Thank you!
Lovely rhythm all around, and the alliteration of trampled tracks, and the sounds and half-rhyme of "alone/home"... yes! A sense of circling back is here.
I hadn't thought of circling back, thanks for your kind words, and the inspiration!
Glad you posted!
"....the mess, the slush and hush..." and that nails life. I like this poem.
This is beautiful!
Love this - satisfying sounds with the words you use. And I have a good visual and sense of the experience.
Another excellent post, Alison. Whilst I am not commenting on the weather (most unusual for a Brit, as seemingly that’s all we talk about), I was intrigued with the latter part of your post about sharing or getting support from fellow writers. I honestly don’t know what I would have done without my author friend’s advice and she is my guiding star. Here’s a link to the article for anyone who is interested. We should all be there for each other, particularly in such an isolated pastime. Here’s the link:
https://open.substack.com/pub/rosygee/p/being-there-for-a-writer-in-their?r=faoyr&utm_medium=ios&utm_campaign=post
Ah, yes, went in for a read, and I have read-- a good post, Rosy, yes!
I am doing an experiment. I am trying an AI writing assistant called Sudowrite. So here are 2 versions of inspiration from the photo. The first I wrote then I asked the AI to be more descriptive. What does everyone think?
UMBRELLA
"always carry an umbrella, it is important to stay dry when you are on such a journey." That is what her Deda told her. That was his last advice to her so may eons ago.
And now here she was with her last treasure stowed in the breast pocket of her coat.
She had chosen the meeting place. The museum, public, safe. Yes she could have gone to the police station where there was a zone for conducting sales from marketplace, but she was afraid of police, a holdover from her upbringing in Russia.
AI ASSISTED VERSION
His words echoed in her mind, a distant memory from eons ago. "Always carry an umbrella," he had said, "it is important to stay dry when embarking on such a journey." Her Deda's advice had always stuck with her. Now, she stood with her final treasure tucked safely in the breast pocket of her coat.
The meeting place was of her choosing. A museum, bustling with people and filled with modern art. It felt safe, public, and neutral. She could have gone to the police station, where there was a designated zone for conducting marketplace sales, but she was afraid of the police, a holdover from her past. Her heart throbbed in her chest either with anticipation or just age and angina, she couldn't tell anymore. She waited for her buyer to arrive. The soft glow of the museum lights illuminated the falling snow surrounding her, adding an eerie yet fitting atmosphere to the transaction about to take place, it reminded her of home - of Russia.
All right... I was rather hoping that others would weigh in here, too, as this really is interesting! (What DO you think, other Unschoolers??)
First off, I do prefer yours (I'll admit to fighting mentally with the whole AI thing here... trying to keep an open mind, but...) opening with dialogue. Opening in this way always immediately sets up voice, and a touch a drama, and interest. People are always interested in what others say. You manage to invoke both the character and the relative by doing this.
I don't like the "heart throbbed in her chest" (where on earth else would it throb? In the wagon she's pulling at her side??). Tossing in a medical term like "angina" doesn't do anything for me, or the prose...
As for description--fair enough to ask--yes, a line to evoke the museum might be in order in your version.
Others...???
A lot to say here. Yes, Al's version should have just a bit more sensory detail. No, I'm convinced that AI version is the detail it needs. First, "That was his last advice to her so many eons ago" vs "a distant memory from eons ago." "His last advice to her" is immediate: while it was given eons ago it rings strong. "A distant memory from.." makes the Deda's voice more vague, most lost.
"Final treasure" is a different feel than "last treasure." Final is final: she has been on a definite journey giving up her treasures at definite points. "Last treasure" feels more desparate.
Agree with Alison re "heart throbbed in her chest" - shades of steamy romance - and "angina." Where did that come from? Suddenly she is dated as old: the eons ago are truly eons ago. In Al's version it feels more like huge life changes embodied in the eons as opposed to actual decades passing. Could be 2 years ago. Could be 40 years ago.
But up to you, Al, if the artificial intelligence version is taking you to the story you meant to tell.
Your last line here, Amy, is key!
Note: Al (with an L!) and AI are tough to distinguish :)
Interestingly enough, on CBC's early morning radio show today (CBC being the government-funded radio that conservatives hate and are continually decreasing funds for) there was a discussion about Artificial Intelligence and writers. I didn't hear the whole thing, but was interested by what Antonia Reed, a CBC producer, had to say. She talked about a short story by Sheila Heti who had a short story in The New Yorker, available to listen to for free by podcast. Sheila asked AI a series of questions and based her story on that. Reed also mentioned interviews given to AI asking for responses as if from known writers. Margaret Atwood's responses lacked her acerbic wit; Cormac McCarthy's were too upbeat to feel real. Reed also predicted that future writers will be like music producers, putting together AI tracks to form written pieces.
I hadn't heard that, about the Heti story! Thanks for sharing this, Amy!
Upbeat Cormac McCarthy... hmmm... And Atwood's acerb-ery (!)
Makes me wonder: what piece, about our own work, would AI miss/be unable to replicate??
She made her careful way back home, the crunch of each step delivering the satisfying confirmation of traction. One had to gain traction, she had always told her sons. Not that they'd listened. And now they were gone from the reach of her lessons. White crystals coated the trees. She had always loved the winter.
It reads as if so much is going on between the lines, as the character's thoughts move from one to the next. the word "careful"--I relate to that after slipping on ice and breaking an elbow... in a split second of not focusing on my step! So the repetition of the word "traction"--so much in her thoughts!--works well.
Then all the "space" between her children not listening, their leaving her behind, a sense here that her "lessons" were paid no heed... and she needs to move on from that. I sense a real pushing of herself to move on; she changes the subject, tries to be positive with what she has "always loved."
Thank you for posting! Amazing what can be in a handful of lines!
Thanks, Alison, for the comments! Also - ouch!!— broken elbow?!
I walk VERY DIFFERENTLY on slippery stuff now...
I bet!
I like the first sentence up to the comma. Lots in that image. The second part feels somehow a bit clunky. Maybe it's the "delivering the satisfying.." I also wonder about cutting "And now they were gone from the reach of her lessons." "Not that they'd listened" is so evocative on its own.
So you're thinking: the crunch of each step confirms/ed/ing (?) traction... or something like... moving from the sound to the response to the sound...
Yes, I like these suggestions - I wasn't quite happy with the feel of "delivering the satisfying" myself. Maybe "the crunch of each step a confirmation of traction" or, like Alison suggests, "the crunch of each step confirming traction."
It was a good catch on Amy's part. It speaks to how we "think through" when in reality, we simply respond!
I love all the hard ‘c’ sounds…very satisfying to read. Yes love the underlining message that perhaps she’d tried to teach her sons about ‘traction’ in life or something else. So interesting.
Thanks, Shirley! Glad you enjoyed - I really connect with strong sounds as well. I wonder about her relationship with her sons, too. Loving these prompts for where they can take you.
Follow up to my post where I wrote one short passage and then another one using AI assistant. I found a plug-in on the program that was called Brutally Honest Feedback. I'm going to play with this program and see if I can get a positive Brutal Review.
This is what it said about my first piece.
Alright, let's dive into this passage with brutal honesty. Overall, there are some clear weaknesses that need to be addressed in order to improve the pacing, character authenticity, descriptions, narrative voice consistency, and structural flow.
First off, the pacing feels quite sluggish. The opening line is intriguing enough but then slows down considerably with unnecessary filler words like "may eons ago." It drags the reader down before they even get a chance to fully engage with the story. Tighten it up by getting straight to the point: "That was his last advice to her years ago."
Moving on to character authenticity, we don't really get a strong sense of who this protagonist is or what drives her. Sure, she has an umbrella recommendation from her Deda (which I assume means grandfather?), but it doesn't reveal much about her personality or motivations. Dive deeper into her thoughts and emotions so readers can connect with her on a more personal level.
Next up are overused descriptions. You mention twice that something is her "last" - first as advice and later as treasure in her pocket. This repetition feels redundant and diminishes its impact each time it's used. Instead of outright stating that it's important for her journey or that it's her last treasure without any context or significance attached to them, show us through vivid imagery how these objects hold value for our protagonist.
Narrative voice inconsistencies also rear their head here. In one instance you use proper grammar ("That is what...") while elsewhere you switch abruptly to a more colloquial tone ("Here she was..."). Find a consistent narrative voice throughout the passage and stick with it for better cohesion.
Interesting! Am I reading this correctly--that this is AI generated feedback? Did you ask for feedback on the second (the AI) piece?
This is what the AI said about the revised story. Note there are several options I Chose Rewrite and then the options are as follows Rephrase, Shorter, More Descriptive, Show, not Tell, More Inner Conflict, More Intense, Customize. I chose More Descriptive. Here is the critic of The More Descriptive AI version that I tweaked in a few places but used over 90% of.
BRUTAL HONESTY BOT - AI Revision
I appreciate you sharing this passage with me. Now, let's dive in and dig deep into the text.
First off, the opening sentence is quite clichéd. The idea of words echoing in someone's mind as a distant memory feels overused and lacks originality. It doesn't grab my attention or make me curious about what comes next.
The advice about carrying an umbrella also falls into the category of clichés. It's a common piece of wisdom that has been used countless times before. We need something more unique and memorable to set this scene apart from others.
Moving on to character authenticity, I have some concerns about how our protagonist is portrayed here. While we get glimpses into her thoughts and feelings, there isn't enough depth to truly understand who she is as a person or what drives her actions. To create an authentic character, we need to delve deeper into her motivations, fears, and desires.
Additionally, the description of the meeting place feels forced and contrived. A museum bustling with people and filled with modern art may seem like a safe choice on the surface, but it lacks realism in relation to our character's situation.' Why would she choose such a public space for such a sensitive transaction? This decision needs further clarification or justification within the narrative.
Furthermore, there are moments when the narrative voice shifts inconsistently throughout the passage. We start off with an internal monologue from our protagonist but then transition into external observations without smooth transitions or clear indicators of whose perspective we're following at any given moment.
Finally, let's talk about structural flow. The pacing in this passage feels disjointed; it jumps between different elements without really engaging us fully in any one particular aspect—be it emotions or atmosphere.The descriptions often feel heavy-handed rather than organic parts of the story flow
In conclusion,the weaknesses lie primarily in characterization,lacklustre descriptions,and inconsistent narrative voice.I advise revisiting each element carefully,rethinking character motivations and actions for authenticity,and refining the descriptions to create a more engaging scene.I believe with some careful adjustments, this scene can truly shine. Keep up the hard work!
In a quick read through I'd say the "brutally honest feedback" did a better job than the Artificial Intelligence version of your draft. In your version I felt more about the character and her circumstances would be revealed. Umbrellas may or may not be cliched - I can't remember when I last read an umbrella image, but the critique presents you with a challenge to make the story more unique.
I agree. I think the AI Brutally Honest Feedback is a good starting point for rewriting a first draft. I’m not sure its feedback is useful for small snippets.
I think the AI rewriting processes may be useful for sentences within a story. For example if I have a woman exiting a limousine at an English country mansion in the 1930’s the AI can give numerous suggestions in detail of what she is wearing.
Right now I believe it may be a useful tool in the same way that Renaissance painters would place metal grids in front of their scenes to sketch their works accurately or how it is speculated that Vermeer used projector obscura to create his masterpieces.
Perhaps the AI over time will get to know me and allow me to write faster, better quality stories.
I have to admit, something in me just balks! However, I recently had some wonderful emails from a photographer friend who is using it to create images that are unlike anything I've seen! BUT... and it's sizable... without his decades of photography, his input would be very different.I do see HIS work in the AI images. (He does a lot of night photography, and his understanding of light and contrast and so much more is very practiced, and his eye is keen.)
So I am curious. But cautious.
Al-with-an-el, I've been reading your work for a long time now, and always appreciated your story-telling capacity, and the same for how you evoke place and atmosphere. The way you turn a sentence and know--seemingly innately--how to turn a sentence.
Which is perhaps what makes me question: (and for all of us) do we understand enough of what we are bringing to our own material... before we begin to listen to ANY feedback, for that matter?
To keep in mind as you take all forms of feedback: hold it up to your work, and question why you made the choice you did. And then ask what honours the intention an the story itself.
So glad you've weighed in here, Amy, with your thoughts!
I get confirmation from my writer friends on what works. It’s like being on a sports team in the dug out. They are truthful and want the team to win. The trainers and coaches teach because their goals are different. The trust piece is essential with my writer friends and I treasure the connection. Coaches/ Teachers keep a distance as they should, providing a different perspective on techniques to use. And of course they have favorites—the winners.
I think you are right Alison. Feedback of any sort needs to be filtered through your own experience and what you are trying to say. Thanks for your positive comments about my work. It is that sort of feedback that keeps one pushing forward. I think many novice writers struggle with getting feedback, accepting feedback and filtering feedback. I know I do. I remember many moons ago you ran a small group where we posted parts of our story and received feedback from the four other members and you the leader. For me that was the most constructive, instructive and productive time of my writing.
I wonder if the UnSchool can create a place like that, where it is constructive for the participants and financially rewarding for the Instructor.
As for AI I think it will have a role to play. In the same manner that the camera/ photography changed art and moved us beyond realism into Impressionism and abstract art. AI will influence writing. But just as I can appreciate a Picasso or a Jackson Pollock I can still marvel at a DaVinci or Michelangelo.
I've tried to get workshops going here... Have you posted anything to the workshops? If you click on "The Unschool for Writers" at the top of the page, you'll be taken to the Substack page. (You must go there in order to be able to write these comments!) But also click on your icon on upper righthand corner and allow notifications for "The Workshop Space."
THEN email me a piece to be workshopped--short fiction, nonfiction, poetry, or picturebooks, we've been looking at. I'll post the emailed piece, and people can comment...
It's amazing how few people we need... even three works! IF everyone is dedicated enough to offer feedback and post their work. Some of the picturebook feedback has been amazing... even though we are frequently just three of us!
Questions?? Please let me know. Amy's up for it, I know... and others... ??
I have not. But I will. Honestly I don’t think I have explored your Substack enough. I’ve just been passively letting it spoon feed me. I guess it’s time for me to get off the pablum and learn how to use utensils.
Ha! This made me laugh. Yes, please use the utensils.
Workshopping--sharing work and giving and receiving feedback is THE way to learn to write...after you've done the writing itself! Reading about it only goes so far. It's much like learning a language: you need to get out and speak...
Some days I see the Unschool emails come in and I think, they are like candy! Something to savour when I have a special moment. And I can’t wait to unwrap it! And then something sidetracks me…I’m so sad about that because really it’s so important to me (writing and candy) . I feel like I am going to have to book the time in my calendar. (Sometime around my work schedule .)
Umbrellas- protection and attempted preparation against sun, rain, hail and some people assume, even against snow.
This photo reminded me of growing up in Montreal and how unprepared I always was for the first snowfall. I remember heading to university or work on the train in my nylon stockings and high heels with a light jacket , oblivious of weather forecasts. Sometime during the day a blizzard would descend on the city and by the time I took the train home that evening blowing snow accumulating in drifts would be everywhere. As I slipped and tripped on my suddenly lethal shoes, tearing my nylons, and freezing hands and feet I'd vow to be better prepared the following year. As I'd walk through the door freezing and disheveled my mother would greet me , ask me about my day and turn back to meal preparations without a word of sympathy as to my forlorn condition. It was the time before cellphones and second cars and it was just the way it was.
"Before cell phones and SECOND CARS."
True. A good observation.
(Feb prompt-was there a limit on words😱)
A SNOWFALL
On January 11th, there was a snowfall…on January 11th, you had been with me for 11 days.
In many ways we were snowed in.
Over Christmas you fell at my sister’s house and broke your hip, ended up in the hospital. It was decided, as I had no stairs and no dogs, that you would stay with me when you came out. For healing and rehab. It was a decision that weighed as heavy and damp as a winter cloud because ever since my Dad passed we had not been on the same page, of the same mind, or barely in the same room. To say things had become difficult was an understatement. I was wounded myself.
When asked to care for someone, in this case, a step-mom, have you ever thought… do I have to? And what if they were just recently horrible to you, crushing your heart under their heel and upsetting ‘the way things have always been’. Well then, do you have to? Out of duty? Obligation? Do you really have a decision or is it just one of those things you must do? Of course, I could have said no, but the drift of cold between us would’ve been buried deeper and icier.
So I said, yes…and then searched my heart and soul for how I would cope with my broken heart and your broken hip. I had no doubt I could be a caregiver. I’d raised 3 children. But what about the hurt? I spent time alone, thinking of all the books and quotes I’d read. How to separate feelings from action and response. How to ‘see’ a feeling outside of yourself then let it fall to the ground and roll away like a snowball.
I knew I would have to dig deep to do this. It would be like burrowing in a snow bank to a place where it’s quiet, still and numbing. From there I’d keep a fort around my heart. To care for someone who needed care but not do too much. To do this for my Dad maybe, as an ode to him, even though that brought up difficult feelings about what he actually owed to me as a father. I would carry a shield but be open to a change in temperature. I would be kind and giving as that is my fucking nature…but not foolish, not over kind or over giving.
You moved into my condo and we sorted out equipment for you: indoor walker, outdoor walker, shower stool. We went through papers and got things in order. I cleared pathways in my rooms and put tennis balls on the bottom stalks of the indoor walker so the click click click of the legs would glide more smoothly. I kept the fireplace on because you felt chilly. I helped you in the shower, putting on my bathing suit and gently holding a towel over the bandage that covered your bruised and jagged incision. I held your arm gently when you walked, I helped you dress. I washed your clothes, your bedding, our dishes. Monitored your exercises. Fed you nutritious meals and shopped for things you liked but only when you were resting and I could leave you for a short amount of time.
I stole an enema. That was your third or fourth night with me. Things were not moving and you asked me to run to the store. With my snow boots on, I walked through the quiet streets to the grocery store and straight to the pharmacy. It was closed and I noticed certain shelves had been locked up. Sure enough, I could see a Fleet Enema in the dark behind the lock. With the fear of a cold and constipated step mom on my mind, I reached behind the locked board, stretching my arm, praying there was no alarm and grabbed the box. No alarm went off - or if it did it was silent and the checkout person didn’t seem to care that they were scanning a secured product. It saved the night, and you still laugh at imagining me caught, arrested in handcuffs with an enema as the illegally obtained property.
//
Over time as you healed, we fell into a calm routine. You helped out by folding towels and cloths in neat and tidy squares. You loaded the dishwasher and rinsed the French press coffee pot, scraping soggy grounds into a container. On Saturdays I picked up lattes from the local coffee shop and you paid for them, the almond croissants and the morning glory muffins. I bought you an eyebrow liner and while you sat, smiling, almost childlike, I traced your thin brows with the light brown gel. We made sure you didn’t stand too long as that caused your feet to swell, the delicate skin stretching taut and shiny.
There were many of these quiet, ordinary and sometimes tender moments and then there were other moments when you were in pain and we spent time adjusting medications. Then times when you cried, for your aching body and for my Dad. I sat beside you, pillows behind us, my arm around you and we talked in soft voices about the sadness of how my Dad had suffered. But how we’d all had the privilege of caring for him. Not everyone gets to. Our tears fell like melting snow.
More days passed and tears still came but they came from a deeper well. Not so much physical pain but more centred around grief and loss and the unsaid words between us. You mentioned how crazy the summer had been and how you weren’t in your right mind. Somehow that prompted a softening, a release of something suspended. It cracked and loosened. With my own sorrow still closely held, I told you how I was truly grateful we had this time together.
//
Lying in bed one night toward the end of your stay, more snow fell and swirled outside. Large crystal flakes sparkled under the globe-like garden lights while a lighter dusting fell like frosting on the hedges, turning them into soft slices of Christmas cake. Outside the air was hushed with minimal traffic and no one about. Inside was quiet too as we both rested in separate rooms, the fireplace not yet ash. And it was then, in that peace, that I felt a searing heat in my chest. A radiating burn between my ribs. I knew it was not there to bring fear or a medical emergency but a cauterizing. A cauterizing of an ancient glacial pathway where a suffering had once travelled and become wedged. As the burning faded, it left a small candle of heat and a soft pulsing bruise, like when your fingertips first thaw from frost. And I fell asleep. After months of no dreams, I began to dream again.
//
It took your fall and this snowfall. It took your injury and my injury. It took your healing and rehab to become my healing and rehab. And the snow fell all around, all around. And the snow fell all around. In a wintry storm we were held, suspended, until the time would come to step out on the new ground that lay ahead.
Oh my, Shirley. I'll have more to say about this. But just read through a first time, and it's so moving.
Cauterizing. Yes. And fall and fall. More tomorrow.
Love how you kept the snow, cold, winter, glacier metaphors going through the whole piece. Very moving - kinda felt a tear or two push at back of eyeball.
All right... another day has passed, filled with the horrors of assembling tax materials! And I return for a second read.
Amy is so right about the tears that push.
The winding progression here is like the turns of a can opener--a stiff old can opener, that one has to work at. And just as should be. Beginning with broken parts in both and the snow, always the snow. The movement from resentment/anger/hurt/frustration... to opening, peeling back, acceptance...healing...
From the mentions of books and quotes, those things we've come to rely on (if social media is to be believed... but we need to press on. And you do. Far beyond). Digging. from practical, the details of routine, setting up. Then to emotions.
That night of more snow and silencing and being still and emotions and awareness of change that has occurred. The fire and cold of cauterization and snow. That point just tops me. So well done. The wondrous humour of the "stolen" enema--perfect timing. The reader needs that levity. It gives us insight into the lightening that happens through caregiving without taking away from the grounding (and pounding) of the rest.
Healing. It's such an incremental path. And you've captured it here. Made it seem possible, without minimizing any one precious and terrifying step.
Yes. Very good.
Thank you for such positive feedback-it means the world as this was a challenging piece for me- (and I already see places I need to fix!!).
Grateful for your time and professional feedback Alison.
So interesting how a ‘snow’ prompt seemed to align so quickly for this story. Grateful!
This comment relates to the February poll. When I revise the nuts and bolts of a scene (for specific details): I write what I know and research for exact names and add them in. Once the scene flows, I ask questions of my fact-checker. This can be people in my writers group, my husband, or others I know in the industry. The description has to reflect the way the characters interact in their environment or it falls apart. To me "finding your writer's voice" is more about how to harness observation so that it amplifies each character's rhythm of being. A good story can be turned into music because each element is part of the score.
"harness observation"--a good phrase! It's interesting to see how that poll is shaping.
One thought on the seeming absence of writer friends: was this the last option listed in the poll? The poll only let me choose one answer before jumping to show me the results, though I would have liked to select two. Perhaps those with writer friends simply also learn from a different source as well?
Good to note--thank you! I'll send a note to the Substack folks. It would be good to have the option for multiple choices.
This may be the truth...
I'm way late to the game here! Both this post and the writing life. While I've learned a lot about writing from books on writing, I think I have learned the most from actually writing. And from reading and analyzing what I love and what did not work for me. But I've had some wonderful conversations with writer friends over the years that have taught me a lot. Not enough of those conversations, though. I'd like more of that. More walking and talking and sharing work and thoughts. I find this gets me out of my head in a way that reading and thinking of writing do not. Different realizations and understandings come this way.
So much comes and grows from this kind of sharing.
As a result of certain editorial requests, I've been pondering dashes and ellipses, and discussing. It's brought about some real thinking about the nature of...
Aeneas and Dido and Iphogeneia and Agemenon and Clytemenstra, hot human blood and grief and hard revenge wild in wind-driven obscuring snowflakes, humanity clear and true. Family killing family. Loved ones killing loved ones. Cold cold snowflakes piling into cold hot calculated grieved killings. Ambition. Revenge. Vengeance.
Iphogeneia, "strong-born," sacrificed by her loving/driven by the cold harsh winds of vengeance father Agememnon. Clytemnestra, hot/cold avenger, wife of Agememnon, mother of blood-sacrificed Iphogeneia, sister of abucted or not Helen of Troy for whom Agememnon goes to war. Agememnon sacrifices, grief-stricken, his daughter for the sister of his wife. He needs those ships to sail.
But at some point he had frozen out the more powerful Artemis and her snow-packed heart demanded Iphogeneia's blood to release his stranded frozen ships.
They all loved, but they all coldly demanded blood.
Clytemnestra, sister to Helen of Troy for whom her husband went to war, mother of Iphogeneia sacrificed by her husband for the sake of her sister, in hot grief coldly killed, upon his return from the too-stupidly-human war, her husband, father of Iphogeneia, Agememnon.
Hundreds and hundreds of years later, snow-misted in the swirls of time and conviction that humanity has evolved, we clearly and coldly feel the cruel reality of who we are.
All wrought with snow and cold and ice and repetition. The repetition builds with a sense of freezing madness. "cold hot calculated." Wow. I still remember sitting in MFA workshops, with people pouncing on repeated words, like cats with moths. But there is such value in--here in both words and ideas, pounding.
Thank you, but in the cold light of a snowy day there maybe is too much repetition.
Cold light does that.
It could be longer--it is on the elliptical side! But the repetition is working, I think.