Dang, just dang. I love you George Saunders. I have nothing eloquent or pithy to say. I wish every kid had a teacher who cares as much as you do. You have a way of neutralizing, normalizing, and warming up a craft that can be so bitter, cold, and distancing. Thank you.
This is such a thoughtful, supportive community. I've taken a very big risk in the last few months after being laid off. Like many awful things that happen to us, it was a blessing in disguise. It's given me the opportunity to put my art first and to take some big chances. Here's a link to my little venture in the off chance any of you might be interested: https://www.catchrelease.net/
Almost everything in life these days is fast, too fast. The distractions pile up: phone calls, emails, text messages, appointments, magazines, news programs, obligations, bills, etc.; and time for reading is fractured and distracted by what I think of as unwanted noise. I tend to try to read more quickly in these circumstances, so I can finish what I've started, get to the end before another interruption occurs. So the answer, it seems to me now that I'm thinking about it, is always to read more slowly, and to re-read, again more slowly. When I've done that in other areas of my life - looking at art, listening to music, having a conversation with a friend or family member, taking a walk - doing it slowly makes an enormous difference.
The best thing anyone has ever been able to do for me when reading something of mine is to tell me their experience of it, what they felt, where they tripped, where they got confused, where they were pleased. I've tried to do that for others, and it enhances the experience of reading. I think this is close to what George is saying. Slow down and pay attention, experience what you are reading as fully as possible, react honestly but not judgmentally. The close analysis of stories that we have all been doing is a kind of slowing down. You can read a story like Barthelme's The School quickly, and it will have an effect, but a slow and careful reading is a different experience. When I was young, I wanted to read everything. I devoured stories and novels and poems, and I read them all too quickly. Now I want to read fewer things, some of them for a second and third time, and going at a slower pace makes a world of difference. This is one of the great advantages of being older. I highly recommend being 70!
Thank you for the recommendation! Slow is better for almost everything. This is one reason I look forward to getting back on the Pacific Crest Trail sometime and shooting for five to ten miles each day instead the twenty-plus I was hellbent for at 28!
It’s funny, I have a different emphasis on this how to help others thing. I teach undergrad architecture students from time to time. We are specifically not supposed to design for them. But they want us to tell them how to do it, how to solve the puzzle, which thing to fix. They want technical advice: enter the building on a central axis, make the windows line up, your roof is too steep, or flat, or boring. But we are supposed to ‘assist them on their path of creative discovery’ rather than give them specific technical advice. Of course we do give technical advice, for the reason mentioned - it’s actionable and non-judgmental and it works. Most of us can all tell when a structure is working or being deliberately thwarted (in a building or a story) But mostly I try to see beyond the technical and talk to the students about what they are trying to evoke. I try to acknowledge the feeling tone they are after. For example, are they after heaviness, darkness and contemplation or is it lightness, motion and celebration? I try to get them to think about their physical proposals on an emotional and even spiritual level. The technical can be backfilled later. I find in general that folks who are less confident about about what they are trying to say, or what’s in their hearts, will seek protection (and avoidance) in technical efficiency. So I steer away from that for a long time in the creative process. I think when the heart of a building, or a story, is clarified, the details tend to solve themselves, or, even more wonderfully, they can be a little messy and the overall message gets through. One heart reaches out to another, successfully. (I know this sounds a little La La, especially when using something as concrete as a building for my example, but the older I get, the more I lean this way. I’m interested in intentions). ****OK I somehow deleted my whole note by "re-stacking" it to the new Notes area, then deleting it from the Notes section, thereby losing it all, without the possibility to undo. Luckily I had a couple of likes so the comment was copied in my email (thank you Cynthia and Wayne!)
And.....after pondering my comments for an hour or so, I appreciate the brilliance of George's comment and realize that I do indeed give technical notes too. After all that heart stuff I mentioned above, I get specific. For example: "If you're building is supposed to uplifting and about the strength of the human spirit, then I would believe you more if after entering that long hallway of contemplation I could see the proverbial 'light at the end of the tunnel' with a window or a shaft of sunlight piercing the roof above." That does lead to better outcomes than just telling a student their building is dark and depressing and it sucks. I don't know why, but they just don't get motivated by that....:)
But yes, Kurt - it's a great point you make about deferring to the student and letting her/him declare the mission and the intention and encouraging, in this way, big dreams. "I want to go to Mars." "Right, keep your eye on that. Now build the ship. Actually - first let's build the engine of the ship. Or, first let's design the beginnings of an engine." But always the student needs to keep "Mars!" on the brain. :)
There's also Saint-Exupery's 'If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people together, have them gather wood and set them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea'.
Thanks George! You’ve given me a new slogan: “Don’t lose sight of Mars.” I love that. As in, “Well, I think around the third page you kind of lost sight of Mars and the story drifted off course…” The Mars Principle…..
I appreciate your second thoughts (below) but I like so much what you’re saying here-- and you seem like an inspired teacher. Have you seen the early film by Mia Hansen-Love, “Goodbye First Love”? I won’t give away the plot if you haven’t seen, but Magne Brekke plays an architect who teaches and I think he’s of your school. There’s a scene (in a classroom) dedicated to the notion of glimmer that may be one of the sexiest scenes ever filmed without sex.
I like that, Kurt, seeing what they are trying to evoke, thinking about their building (or story) on an emotional or even spiritual level, what's in their heart. that sounds a lot like what George was saying, "To learn who you are (or what kind of story you want to write) learn what you love." I think my responses to stories I read are based on that, how much they touch the things I love, touch me on an emotional or spiritual level, or awake in me a new understanding of those kinds of things. Sometimes I realize (quite often, actually) that I not their intended audience, and that's okay. No matter how brilliant, technically, their story may be (or their building) if it doesn't speak to me, touch upon the kinds of things that hold my interest, then whatever they do is lost on me. Although it might, and quite often does, work for others.
Wow, a doozy of an answer for a doozy of a question! Thank you, as always, George, for such a detailed and thoughtful response. What I really appreciated the most about this answer is the way you have put the responsibility, the onus, on the reader, and in so doing, you demonstrate your absolute respect for each of us who come to a story from our own backgrounds, educations, experiences, etc. It doesn't matter who or what we are, you seem to be saying. We count, our opinions matter, and what's more, our opinions are valid.
The sort of stopping, thinking, feeling, and determining specifically what is going on in our hearts/minds that you write of here will be very beneficial in the future when you post a story here in SC and then give us a week "off" to read and ponder it. If you had posted the answer to this query a week ago, I may have responded differently (here online) to the story we are currently discussing. It's too late for me to go back in and read that story as if it were the first time, but I will definitely use your tools on upcoming stories (and when I read stories on my own).
I want to say that your reply here, too, is a kind of a challenge. A gauntlet you have thrown down. Because you are saying, reader, you have it in you. But first, you must do the work. What a beautiful notion that the "work" can only happen when we trust ourselves! How many times have i brought up the wizard of oz in these threads??? Too many, I know. But it seems it is just always apt! Everything we need was always right here in our own backyards, if only we'd known enough to look there. Or trusted ourselves enough.
I haven't yet seen Lucky Hank, but i'd say from the photo that the mediocre writer may be a mediocre writer, but he's awfully good looking in that disheveled young writer way, so I'm guessing he's doing okay on campus in other non-writing capacities.
Lastly, I'll have to think about your comments on using specificity to comment on the work of others in a writing group situation. I have a feeling that any such comments may still come off as judgmental, but I'm not sure. I suppose it depends on the language used. I was once in a workshop where we were asked to say only what we "noticed," as it was thought that this would help our comment to not be construed as judgmental. Maybe this is the same thing as being specific. I've found that no matter what you say about someone's story, it can be construed as judgmental. So I just don't do it anymore.
I was thinking of how difficult it can be to receive feedback of any kind, whether it’s positive, negative, perceptive, or missing the point completely.
And, for you David, a passing piece of positive feedback: that exchange of correspondence we had, involving your suggestion of a penny being dropped in one world turning up in another, has morphed into a piece of writing that I've recently delivered - to applause verging on acclaim - aloud at couple of Open Mic 'Spokes' not so far from where I live.
Well, that’s my personal MFA in one Substack post.
I live in the U.K. where we’re less invested in the short story as a literary form. Don’t know why. We’re just not. And as I live in a remote -- as in ‘Europe’s last great wilderness’ remote -- part of the Scottish Highlands I don’t have easy access to a reading group. So I’ve always struggled to know what to make of the short stories I read. Am I just thick, or what? Why don’t I feel confident I’ve properly understood this one? Are there depths I’ve just not seen? Why don’t I have the least idea what that one was about? What right have I to call myself a writer if I can’t understand it?
And so on.
But now I have a tool kit with which to approach every story I read. Not a prescription, not a rule book, but a simple, straightforward set of tools that neither negate my own immediate responses nor let me get away with going no further. Thank you. A most profound thank you.
As a former school teacher, college lecturer, university tutor and manage development consultant I’ve taught every age group from pre-school to pre-retirement, and every ability range from severely mentally handicapped to post-graduate (yes, I’m pretty ancient) and having been generally rated pretty good at all of these I reckon I can spot good teaching when I see it, in any context.
So I take my hat off to you, George. Not only are you an amazing writer but wow! You’re one helluva teacher.
Thank you, Aileen - coming from such an experienced teacher, that means a lot. I've come to feel that this "See what you think, describe that specifically" is not true just for writing, but for just about everything. A party you've gone to, an interaction with another person, etc. I think it might be somewhat akin to meditation, where you sit there and watch (and accept) whatever the mind is doing (?)
Aileen, We're not that big on short stories here in the States, either. Story Club just, and happily!, makes it seem as if we are--and as we should be. I don't know why this is when stories, and novellas too, are often so much more efficient & elegant than novels, in my opinion.
In some sort of cosmic messaging, I had read the Messina short story last weekend and refrained from engaging with StoryClub because I found myself irritated by it. I felt somehow deficient - if George had put it up here and all these wonderful StoryClubbers had such interesting comments on it, there must be something wrong with me. Instead, George challenges me to ask myself why, a gift of introspection instead of trying to fake enthusiasm. Maybe that is the lesson here -- the necessity of always speaking your own truth, certainly to yourself and if you are courageous enough to others as well
Yes - and we honor a story by taking it seriously in that way, using it as a springboard for more general thoughts about the form, and/or using it as a mirror, to show us what we like.
Thank you “A” for such a thoughtful question -- I love reading George’s answer. I especially love this: “We have to develop the ability to reconstruct our reading experience in sufficient detail to be able to give a precise answer to the question of where we and the story first parted ways.”
George, I hope you’ll share with us at some point how your response to writing that you love impacts your own fiction -- some of this we have gleaned through the work we’ve done together here in the Story Club -- and also it lives at the periphery of “A Swim on the Pond..” but I’d love to know how you metabolize the writing of others you find remarkable so that it informs your own work. Does this happen through osmosis? You seem to get so many of your “cues” from the story itself, but are there strategies, techniques, etc you’ve found in fiction you love which inspire you to say, “Oh, I’m gonna try that!”
Maybe the answer is obvious and I’m obtuse (not the first time). But I’d be so interested in knowing how this works for you.
Wow! That is a serious set of questions. If only we writers were asked serious questions like that on a regular basis. This did remind me of an interview long ago with Toni Morrison and Gayle King. King said that, while reading Beloved, she found it so dense and complicated that she had to keep going back to re-read sentences and paragraphs and pages. And Morrison responded with, "That's called reading." And I remember that I viscerally disagreed with Morrison's take on reading. Yeah, look at me, the arrogant ass disagreeing with Morrison. But all these years later, I still disagree with her take on reading. The sentence—my theory—that comes coming to mind is "Stories need to have immediate meaning." Do I believe my theory? I think I do.
Nah. Stories with immediate resonance are the kinds of stories i love to read. But immediate meaning? Nope. Some stories may take a lifetime to understand.
I think I do believe your theory too... my favourite experiences of reading, I'd list them among the most spiritual moments of my life, are where analysis has dropped away and my soul has taken the reins. Is this called a flow state in modern parlance?
Not that I can't go back and enjoy some analytical, technical or rational musings, but that they are informed by that initial and immediate moment of spiritual reckoning.
I think Proust said something like 'when we read, we are really reading ourselves'.
So, we grow, we learn, we read anew. And, I think and hope and believe that through reading the growth is a growth in part toward more tolerance, open-ness and kindness.
But do you? I don't think so, or at least hope not. I found the movie "Smoke Signals", based on your story, so incredibly meaningful in complicated, involved, ever-revealing, long-lasting ways, that, I kid you not(!), I wrote a sonnet about it! An actual sonnet about a movie based on a story. I thought it was the most moving and subtly beautiful way to express how to show love to a grieving person and suffer for it. And it took a lot of going back and thinking hard about why I loved it so much (which others didn't get about me and my interpretation). So I can't exactly say that the meaning was "immediate" at all, and it is still evolving for me. To me, the character of Thomas is one of the most loving characters I have ever seen depicted but it does not necessarily come across as obviously so right away.
And maybe that's just how G.King reads. I often do the same thing. Stop. back up, reread. Ponder what I've just read. Some writings are savory & meant to be savored. Often I fall in love with passages of stories. I'm thinking of Absolution by F.S. Fitzgerald. "But there was no escape from the hot madness of four o'clock. From his window, as far as he could see, the Dakota wheat thronged the valley of the Red River. The wheat was terrible to look upon and the carpet pattern to which in agony he bent his eyes sent his thought brooding through grotesque labyrinths, open always to the unavoidable sun." Para 2. I can't tell you how many times I have reread this para & it still spellbinds me. It encapsulates what's to come in this mind blowing story of a priest falling in love with a beautiful boy. I can't imagine any story/novel having immediate meaning. You have to absorb what you've just read over pages and pages. Great literature is like the ripples from the stone thrown into the pond, yes? I know what you mean on the sentence level. Yes, meaning must be clear. But it's the meaning that echoes that we strive for I believe.
I'm reminded of two interesting exercises: one from a drawing teacher and another in a psychology book.
The drawing teacher gave us homework one week, which was to fill up the tank at a gas station, but make it into a game (back when everyone had a gasoline-powered car and everyone had an empty tank fairly often). The game was to try to fill it to a predetermined dollar amount (say $15), but without looking at the pump. And then: listen to your inner thoughts and attend to the tensions that rise and fall inside you as you try to hit a mark "blindfolded" in this way.
In the psychology book, I think it was called the Breakfast Interview. The shrink interviews the subject on what they had for breakfast, focused in increasingly specific detail, eliciting the subject's inner thoughts, nanosecond by nanosecond--perhaps the fridge makes a squeak when opened to a certain point and the subject makes a point to push past that part quickly, etc. The Breakfast Interview even led to a special graph of the tensions experienced by the subject (as remembered, that is).
The idea I think was to become sensitive to one's experience at this minute and inner level, and in the case of the Breakfast Interview, to notice that the pattern of, say, pushing quickly past the loud squeak was also happening on the macro scale of one's life experiences and in relationships.
The other thing that struck me as I read the post is how, once again, George has slipped us into a lofty plane (spiritual, even, I would say) via the method. I mean, we can see the heart of things, the intersection of Truth, Love, and Beauty here, can't we? That art (Beauty) is entwined with the sensitivity of noticing (attention to, aka Love for) what, specifically and honestly (Truth), we experience. It delights me too that it is experiential (not conceptual, not imposed onto experience) and the more exquisite the sensitivity, the more it is Intelligent (capitalized because I don't mean IQ score but wisdom and insight). With the specificity, we also get nonjudging and real compassion for our fellow beings too.
This is so interesting to me, AJ, about filling the gas tank. I hate having to pump gas, which I usually end up having to do since I do most of the driving. So to overcome my dislike I've been doing what you suggest but trick myself into guessing how many gallons I'll need rather than going by price, since it's impossible these days to guess what that might be anyway. I still can't say I enjoy pumping gas but it's amazing to me how attuned I have become to the sound & feel of gasoline gushing through the hose & even of that distinctive smell & how much more acutely aware of my surroundings I've become while in the station. I had no idea "gasoline awareness" was a thing.
It is interesting and sometimes surprising what a difference awareness/focus/attention makes (or lack thereof!), and how finely tuned it can get. Lately, I've been thinking about that well-known Ira Glass talk on artists and their taste. For a long time I didn't really "get" his point beyond an intellectual understanding. But recently, and no doubt partly due to Story Club and A Swim, I've felt that sense of taste at work in me--how what I like can guide me through writing fiction, particularly the first drafts with their murkiness, but even in revising.
Such an interesting question. It reminded me of the first chapter of your book 'A Swim in a pond in the rain' - the Chekhov story 'In the Cart'. I read the story completely differently than you did, George. Probably because I have a strong background in Russian philosophy. For me, that story is a metaphor for Russia. Marya is Russia- overburdened with bureaucracy, the land and her people have become insignificant, resigned to their fate, barred from love. The romance at the core of Russia's Mother earth has withered. So I read your chapter (and wrote in the margins) and I thought, 'huh'; and went back and read it again trying to ignore the academic side of my brain and just see the story for itself - the sad, dusty, creaking tale...it still worked kind of in the way a foreign art film might work. On the senses. But left the question, what would Chekhov say?
Love your take on that story, Galer. As to your question: What would Chekhov say?--of course, it would be fantastic to have the writer here to tell us what his story meant. But once a story is set loose into the world, it's out of the writer's hands. Even if Chekhov absolutely meant his story to mean something in particular, he's out of the picture! That's what i love about George's response here. Even if we are dead wrong about the writer's intentions....we're still right!
Of course, you're right...and still, as a poet, I'm sometimes a little dismayed at how 'wrong' my work my be interpreted. Is that my fault as the writer, or is that the way of the world? We're all subjective beings and what we bring to the words will always be different, as writers and as readers. Maybe we writers all work too hard at being precise!
I was one of them until I just looked it up now! How interesting what it’s come to mean in culture vs what it actually says. And the background to it is delightful in it’s simplicity. Reminds me how all stories/poems come from some seed of reality in the author’s life. And yet become so much more.
exactly! Though I think Frost had a sense of humor about it. I actually think that precision is more likely to lead to a better response from the reader, though. Perhaps also easier for the reader to pinpoint what it is they don't like, or even understand.
Mmm... "how 'wrong' my work may be interpreted"... do you Galley, as writer, actually have any 'right' to conceive and project what readers should or could, will or won't, make of you written work, whether poetic or prosaic?
Hi Galer. Art, I imagine, takes its identity from how it is perceived (by others and by our selves). Rather than being dismayed at how your work is interpreted, perhaps be proud at how all encompassing it is! What use if art if it doesn’t speak to other peoples’ lived experiences?
This post resonates with me so much, thank you for writing it. I'm going to go on a brief tangent here, but stay with me. In my day job (aka the one that pays me so I can write), I do qualitative research on technology in government - on how we can better design user interfaces and systems to make it easier for people to get things done. One of my top mottos and teachings is "why" - why can't someone film out that form? What specifically makes it hard to use? Why exactly are they struggling? By asking the "why" and then pulling apart the subcomponents of that question, we create research that is specific and even more importantly actionable. If you know specifically what is wrong with something than it's very easy to fix it. And to come up with solutions that take different aspects of the problem into consideration.
The reason I bring this up is: there are so many good analogies between this post and the best practices for qualitative research. It warms my heart to see it. I try to bring all of this into my own writing and critiques, because I truly believe it helps me and others be better.
One other thing to add: your approach also helps avoid one of my least favorite things in critiques - when someone leads with things a writer could do differently, without helping them see the origin of the problem that the suggestion is trying to solve. I find this terribly unhelpful in critiques, because it assumes my solution is the same as the critiquers, which it never is. In my work, we call this solution-forward... Asking the "why" and being specific about problems also shifts the writing mindset away from this!
Thank you for responding to Lucky Hank. I’ve been dying to hear the back story on that episode. I subscribed to AMC+ just so I could see George Saunders and then ... was a little disappointed when it was an actor. Not that he was terrible. I mostly missed the voice.
I do this every time I critique because I am not always very confident in my abilities as a writer but reading is my love and my joy and my solace and all the things in between so I can give an honest response to how I felt upon reading and it will always be valid.
Dang, just dang. I love you George Saunders. I have nothing eloquent or pithy to say. I wish every kid had a teacher who cares as much as you do. You have a way of neutralizing, normalizing, and warming up a craft that can be so bitter, cold, and distancing. Thank you.
Actually, i think your entire post here is eloquent. (I love him, too.)
This is such a thoughtful, supportive community. I've taken a very big risk in the last few months after being laid off. Like many awful things that happen to us, it was a blessing in disguise. It's given me the opportunity to put my art first and to take some big chances. Here's a link to my little venture in the off chance any of you might be interested: https://www.catchrelease.net/
Ben, this gave me chills💫☺️
Almost everything in life these days is fast, too fast. The distractions pile up: phone calls, emails, text messages, appointments, magazines, news programs, obligations, bills, etc.; and time for reading is fractured and distracted by what I think of as unwanted noise. I tend to try to read more quickly in these circumstances, so I can finish what I've started, get to the end before another interruption occurs. So the answer, it seems to me now that I'm thinking about it, is always to read more slowly, and to re-read, again more slowly. When I've done that in other areas of my life - looking at art, listening to music, having a conversation with a friend or family member, taking a walk - doing it slowly makes an enormous difference.
The best thing anyone has ever been able to do for me when reading something of mine is to tell me their experience of it, what they felt, where they tripped, where they got confused, where they were pleased. I've tried to do that for others, and it enhances the experience of reading. I think this is close to what George is saying. Slow down and pay attention, experience what you are reading as fully as possible, react honestly but not judgmentally. The close analysis of stories that we have all been doing is a kind of slowing down. You can read a story like Barthelme's The School quickly, and it will have an effect, but a slow and careful reading is a different experience. When I was young, I wanted to read everything. I devoured stories and novels and poems, and I read them all too quickly. Now I want to read fewer things, some of them for a second and third time, and going at a slower pace makes a world of difference. This is one of the great advantages of being older. I highly recommend being 70!
Thank you for the recommendation! Slow is better for almost everything. This is one reason I look forward to getting back on the Pacific Crest Trail sometime and shooting for five to ten miles each day instead the twenty-plus I was hellbent for at 28!
👍👍
“If you want to learn who you are, learn what you love.” This entire essay is delightful, but I am stuck firmly on this sentence.
Yes! That line is gold.
me too
It’s funny, I have a different emphasis on this how to help others thing. I teach undergrad architecture students from time to time. We are specifically not supposed to design for them. But they want us to tell them how to do it, how to solve the puzzle, which thing to fix. They want technical advice: enter the building on a central axis, make the windows line up, your roof is too steep, or flat, or boring. But we are supposed to ‘assist them on their path of creative discovery’ rather than give them specific technical advice. Of course we do give technical advice, for the reason mentioned - it’s actionable and non-judgmental and it works. Most of us can all tell when a structure is working or being deliberately thwarted (in a building or a story) But mostly I try to see beyond the technical and talk to the students about what they are trying to evoke. I try to acknowledge the feeling tone they are after. For example, are they after heaviness, darkness and contemplation or is it lightness, motion and celebration? I try to get them to think about their physical proposals on an emotional and even spiritual level. The technical can be backfilled later. I find in general that folks who are less confident about about what they are trying to say, or what’s in their hearts, will seek protection (and avoidance) in technical efficiency. So I steer away from that for a long time in the creative process. I think when the heart of a building, or a story, is clarified, the details tend to solve themselves, or, even more wonderfully, they can be a little messy and the overall message gets through. One heart reaches out to another, successfully. (I know this sounds a little La La, especially when using something as concrete as a building for my example, but the older I get, the more I lean this way. I’m interested in intentions). ****OK I somehow deleted my whole note by "re-stacking" it to the new Notes area, then deleting it from the Notes section, thereby losing it all, without the possibility to undo. Luckily I had a couple of likes so the comment was copied in my email (thank you Cynthia and Wayne!)
And.....after pondering my comments for an hour or so, I appreciate the brilliance of George's comment and realize that I do indeed give technical notes too. After all that heart stuff I mentioned above, I get specific. For example: "If you're building is supposed to uplifting and about the strength of the human spirit, then I would believe you more if after entering that long hallway of contemplation I could see the proverbial 'light at the end of the tunnel' with a window or a shaft of sunlight piercing the roof above." That does lead to better outcomes than just telling a student their building is dark and depressing and it sucks. I don't know why, but they just don't get motivated by that....:)
But yes, Kurt - it's a great point you make about deferring to the student and letting her/him declare the mission and the intention and encouraging, in this way, big dreams. "I want to go to Mars." "Right, keep your eye on that. Now build the ship. Actually - first let's build the engine of the ship. Or, first let's design the beginnings of an engine." But always the student needs to keep "Mars!" on the brain. :)
There's also Saint-Exupery's 'If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people together, have them gather wood and set them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea'.
Nice one, Niall! I will keep that for the rest of my time on the planet. Much appreciated!
Thanks George! You’ve given me a new slogan: “Don’t lose sight of Mars.” I love that. As in, “Well, I think around the third page you kind of lost sight of Mars and the story drifted off course…” The Mars Principle…..
I see you second thoughts are above-- and it’s Mia Hansen-Løve. Auto correct keeps deleting the slashed “O.”
I appreciate your second thoughts (below) but I like so much what you’re saying here-- and you seem like an inspired teacher. Have you seen the early film by Mia Hansen-Love, “Goodbye First Love”? I won’t give away the plot if you haven’t seen, but Magne Brekke plays an architect who teaches and I think he’s of your school. There’s a scene (in a classroom) dedicated to the notion of glimmer that may be one of the sexiest scenes ever filmed without sex.
Thanks Gail. I tracked down the movie and started to watch it…
You’ll need to weather Camille’s particular version of pining, but the glimmer is coming.
Well, now, Gail, I'm not even an architect, but you've intrigued me enough to want to track down and watch that film as well.
I'd love to know what you think!
I like that, Kurt, seeing what they are trying to evoke, thinking about their building (or story) on an emotional or even spiritual level, what's in their heart. that sounds a lot like what George was saying, "To learn who you are (or what kind of story you want to write) learn what you love." I think my responses to stories I read are based on that, how much they touch the things I love, touch me on an emotional or spiritual level, or awake in me a new understanding of those kinds of things. Sometimes I realize (quite often, actually) that I not their intended audience, and that's okay. No matter how brilliant, technically, their story may be (or their building) if it doesn't speak to me, touch upon the kinds of things that hold my interest, then whatever they do is lost on me. Although it might, and quite often does, work for others.
Nicely put Deborah. It's about the heart connection I think, rather than just the cerebral.
Wow, a doozy of an answer for a doozy of a question! Thank you, as always, George, for such a detailed and thoughtful response. What I really appreciated the most about this answer is the way you have put the responsibility, the onus, on the reader, and in so doing, you demonstrate your absolute respect for each of us who come to a story from our own backgrounds, educations, experiences, etc. It doesn't matter who or what we are, you seem to be saying. We count, our opinions matter, and what's more, our opinions are valid.
The sort of stopping, thinking, feeling, and determining specifically what is going on in our hearts/minds that you write of here will be very beneficial in the future when you post a story here in SC and then give us a week "off" to read and ponder it. If you had posted the answer to this query a week ago, I may have responded differently (here online) to the story we are currently discussing. It's too late for me to go back in and read that story as if it were the first time, but I will definitely use your tools on upcoming stories (and when I read stories on my own).
I want to say that your reply here, too, is a kind of a challenge. A gauntlet you have thrown down. Because you are saying, reader, you have it in you. But first, you must do the work. What a beautiful notion that the "work" can only happen when we trust ourselves! How many times have i brought up the wizard of oz in these threads??? Too many, I know. But it seems it is just always apt! Everything we need was always right here in our own backyards, if only we'd known enough to look there. Or trusted ourselves enough.
I haven't yet seen Lucky Hank, but i'd say from the photo that the mediocre writer may be a mediocre writer, but he's awfully good looking in that disheveled young writer way, so I'm guessing he's doing okay on campus in other non-writing capacities.
Lastly, I'll have to think about your comments on using specificity to comment on the work of others in a writing group situation. I have a feeling that any such comments may still come off as judgmental, but I'm not sure. I suppose it depends on the language used. I was once in a workshop where we were asked to say only what we "noticed," as it was thought that this would help our comment to not be construed as judgmental. Maybe this is the same thing as being specific. I've found that no matter what you say about someone's story, it can be construed as judgmental. So I just don't do it anymore.
Thank you, as always, for a great post!
I wonder if feedback seems judgmental when it is perceived as unhelpful but brilliant when it inspires revision?
It's also perceived as brilliant when you say, oh wow, this is brilliant
That is so judgmental!
ha!
And can be when you - gamed by the predictive text - mistype and, inadvertently not to mention most unhelpfully, send "this is bullshit" 😲
"Feedback brilliant when it inspires revision until it is perceived as unhelpful and seems judgemental?"
I wonder if... the root cause is fading brilliance (of feedback) or insipid written response (in revision)?
And, either way, does whoever knows care?
No one knows, or cares!
I was thinking of how difficult it can be to receive feedback of any kind, whether it’s positive, negative, perceptive, or missing the point completely.
And, for you David, a passing piece of positive feedback: that exchange of correspondence we had, involving your suggestion of a penny being dropped in one world turning up in another, has morphed into a piece of writing that I've recently delivered - to applause verging on acclaim - aloud at couple of Open Mic 'Spokes' not so far from where I live.
Thanks.
Wow! That’s great, Rob!! Please post, or send: canyonwrenvibes@gmail.com
I find this approach works for self-editing, too. Thank you!
I was thinking the same thing! Such useful tips.
Well, that’s my personal MFA in one Substack post.
I live in the U.K. where we’re less invested in the short story as a literary form. Don’t know why. We’re just not. And as I live in a remote -- as in ‘Europe’s last great wilderness’ remote -- part of the Scottish Highlands I don’t have easy access to a reading group. So I’ve always struggled to know what to make of the short stories I read. Am I just thick, or what? Why don’t I feel confident I’ve properly understood this one? Are there depths I’ve just not seen? Why don’t I have the least idea what that one was about? What right have I to call myself a writer if I can’t understand it?
And so on.
But now I have a tool kit with which to approach every story I read. Not a prescription, not a rule book, but a simple, straightforward set of tools that neither negate my own immediate responses nor let me get away with going no further. Thank you. A most profound thank you.
As a former school teacher, college lecturer, university tutor and manage development consultant I’ve taught every age group from pre-school to pre-retirement, and every ability range from severely mentally handicapped to post-graduate (yes, I’m pretty ancient) and having been generally rated pretty good at all of these I reckon I can spot good teaching when I see it, in any context.
So I take my hat off to you, George. Not only are you an amazing writer but wow! You’re one helluva teacher.
Thank you, again.
Thank you, Aileen - coming from such an experienced teacher, that means a lot. I've come to feel that this "See what you think, describe that specifically" is not true just for writing, but for just about everything. A party you've gone to, an interaction with another person, etc. I think it might be somewhat akin to meditation, where you sit there and watch (and accept) whatever the mind is doing (?)
Akin to meditation, yes. But akin, as well, to therapy. And sometimes painful therapy.
Therapy Club. (Again..!)
Aileen, We're not that big on short stories here in the States, either. Story Club just, and happily!, makes it seem as if we are--and as we should be. I don't know why this is when stories, and novellas too, are often so much more efficient & elegant than novels, in my opinion.
In some sort of cosmic messaging, I had read the Messina short story last weekend and refrained from engaging with StoryClub because I found myself irritated by it. I felt somehow deficient - if George had put it up here and all these wonderful StoryClubbers had such interesting comments on it, there must be something wrong with me. Instead, George challenges me to ask myself why, a gift of introspection instead of trying to fake enthusiasm. Maybe that is the lesson here -- the necessity of always speaking your own truth, certainly to yourself and if you are courageous enough to others as well
Yes - and we honor a story by taking it seriously in that way, using it as a springboard for more general thoughts about the form, and/or using it as a mirror, to show us what we like.
Thank you “A” for such a thoughtful question -- I love reading George’s answer. I especially love this: “We have to develop the ability to reconstruct our reading experience in sufficient detail to be able to give a precise answer to the question of where we and the story first parted ways.”
George, I hope you’ll share with us at some point how your response to writing that you love impacts your own fiction -- some of this we have gleaned through the work we’ve done together here in the Story Club -- and also it lives at the periphery of “A Swim on the Pond..” but I’d love to know how you metabolize the writing of others you find remarkable so that it informs your own work. Does this happen through osmosis? You seem to get so many of your “cues” from the story itself, but are there strategies, techniques, etc you’ve found in fiction you love which inspire you to say, “Oh, I’m gonna try that!”
Maybe the answer is obvious and I’m obtuse (not the first time). But I’d be so interested in knowing how this works for you.
Wow! That is a serious set of questions. If only we writers were asked serious questions like that on a regular basis. This did remind me of an interview long ago with Toni Morrison and Gayle King. King said that, while reading Beloved, she found it so dense and complicated that she had to keep going back to re-read sentences and paragraphs and pages. And Morrison responded with, "That's called reading." And I remember that I viscerally disagreed with Morrison's take on reading. Yeah, look at me, the arrogant ass disagreeing with Morrison. But all these years later, I still disagree with her take on reading. The sentence—my theory—that comes coming to mind is "Stories need to have immediate meaning." Do I believe my theory? I think I do.
Nah. Stories with immediate resonance are the kinds of stories i love to read. But immediate meaning? Nope. Some stories may take a lifetime to understand.
I think perhaps we mean the same thing with "resonance" and "meaning." And, yes, the great stories can be endlessly explored.
Such an interesting thing to ponder.
I think I do believe your theory too... my favourite experiences of reading, I'd list them among the most spiritual moments of my life, are where analysis has dropped away and my soul has taken the reins. Is this called a flow state in modern parlance?
Not that I can't go back and enjoy some analytical, technical or rational musings, but that they are informed by that initial and immediate moment of spiritual reckoning.
Yes, absolutely. Certainly for me.
which is wonderful! Every 5 or 6 years I reread Jane's Austen's works. It seems I always come away with something new.
I think Proust said something like 'when we read, we are really reading ourselves'.
So, we grow, we learn, we read anew. And, I think and hope and believe that through reading the growth is a growth in part toward more tolerance, open-ness and kindness.
So when we read anew, we can grow even more.
But do you? I don't think so, or at least hope not. I found the movie "Smoke Signals", based on your story, so incredibly meaningful in complicated, involved, ever-revealing, long-lasting ways, that, I kid you not(!), I wrote a sonnet about it! An actual sonnet about a movie based on a story. I thought it was the most moving and subtly beautiful way to express how to show love to a grieving person and suffer for it. And it took a lot of going back and thinking hard about why I loved it so much (which others didn't get about me and my interpretation). So I can't exactly say that the meaning was "immediate" at all, and it is still evolving for me. To me, the character of Thomas is one of the most loving characters I have ever seen depicted but it does not necessarily come across as obviously so right away.
Hahahaha! Using my own work to teach me a valuable lesson. You got me! Awesome!
And maybe that's just how G.King reads. I often do the same thing. Stop. back up, reread. Ponder what I've just read. Some writings are savory & meant to be savored. Often I fall in love with passages of stories. I'm thinking of Absolution by F.S. Fitzgerald. "But there was no escape from the hot madness of four o'clock. From his window, as far as he could see, the Dakota wheat thronged the valley of the Red River. The wheat was terrible to look upon and the carpet pattern to which in agony he bent his eyes sent his thought brooding through grotesque labyrinths, open always to the unavoidable sun." Para 2. I can't tell you how many times I have reread this para & it still spellbinds me. It encapsulates what's to come in this mind blowing story of a priest falling in love with a beautiful boy. I can't imagine any story/novel having immediate meaning. You have to absorb what you've just read over pages and pages. Great literature is like the ripples from the stone thrown into the pond, yes? I know what you mean on the sentence level. Yes, meaning must be clear. But it's the meaning that echoes that we strive for I believe.
Well, I read Beloved practically in a single sitting, finding it had plenty of meaning. I think there are layers of meaning in all good stories.
I'm reminded of two interesting exercises: one from a drawing teacher and another in a psychology book.
The drawing teacher gave us homework one week, which was to fill up the tank at a gas station, but make it into a game (back when everyone had a gasoline-powered car and everyone had an empty tank fairly often). The game was to try to fill it to a predetermined dollar amount (say $15), but without looking at the pump. And then: listen to your inner thoughts and attend to the tensions that rise and fall inside you as you try to hit a mark "blindfolded" in this way.
In the psychology book, I think it was called the Breakfast Interview. The shrink interviews the subject on what they had for breakfast, focused in increasingly specific detail, eliciting the subject's inner thoughts, nanosecond by nanosecond--perhaps the fridge makes a squeak when opened to a certain point and the subject makes a point to push past that part quickly, etc. The Breakfast Interview even led to a special graph of the tensions experienced by the subject (as remembered, that is).
The idea I think was to become sensitive to one's experience at this minute and inner level, and in the case of the Breakfast Interview, to notice that the pattern of, say, pushing quickly past the loud squeak was also happening on the macro scale of one's life experiences and in relationships.
The other thing that struck me as I read the post is how, once again, George has slipped us into a lofty plane (spiritual, even, I would say) via the method. I mean, we can see the heart of things, the intersection of Truth, Love, and Beauty here, can't we? That art (Beauty) is entwined with the sensitivity of noticing (attention to, aka Love for) what, specifically and honestly (Truth), we experience. It delights me too that it is experiential (not conceptual, not imposed onto experience) and the more exquisite the sensitivity, the more it is Intelligent (capitalized because I don't mean IQ score but wisdom and insight). With the specificity, we also get nonjudging and real compassion for our fellow beings too.
Amazing.
This is so interesting to me, AJ, about filling the gas tank. I hate having to pump gas, which I usually end up having to do since I do most of the driving. So to overcome my dislike I've been doing what you suggest but trick myself into guessing how many gallons I'll need rather than going by price, since it's impossible these days to guess what that might be anyway. I still can't say I enjoy pumping gas but it's amazing to me how attuned I have become to the sound & feel of gasoline gushing through the hose & even of that distinctive smell & how much more acutely aware of my surroundings I've become while in the station. I had no idea "gasoline awareness" was a thing.
It is interesting and sometimes surprising what a difference awareness/focus/attention makes (or lack thereof!), and how finely tuned it can get. Lately, I've been thinking about that well-known Ira Glass talk on artists and their taste. For a long time I didn't really "get" his point beyond an intellectual understanding. But recently, and no doubt partly due to Story Club and A Swim, I've felt that sense of taste at work in me--how what I like can guide me through writing fiction, particularly the first drafts with their murkiness, but even in revising.
The breakfast interview brought to mind The Mezzanine by Nicholson Baker.
That book looks quite interesting. Thanks!
Such an interesting question. It reminded me of the first chapter of your book 'A Swim in a pond in the rain' - the Chekhov story 'In the Cart'. I read the story completely differently than you did, George. Probably because I have a strong background in Russian philosophy. For me, that story is a metaphor for Russia. Marya is Russia- overburdened with bureaucracy, the land and her people have become insignificant, resigned to their fate, barred from love. The romance at the core of Russia's Mother earth has withered. So I read your chapter (and wrote in the margins) and I thought, 'huh'; and went back and read it again trying to ignore the academic side of my brain and just see the story for itself - the sad, dusty, creaking tale...it still worked kind of in the way a foreign art film might work. On the senses. But left the question, what would Chekhov say?
Love your take on that story, Galer. As to your question: What would Chekhov say?--of course, it would be fantastic to have the writer here to tell us what his story meant. But once a story is set loose into the world, it's out of the writer's hands. Even if Chekhov absolutely meant his story to mean something in particular, he's out of the picture! That's what i love about George's response here. Even if we are dead wrong about the writer's intentions....we're still right!
Of course, you're right...and still, as a poet, I'm sometimes a little dismayed at how 'wrong' my work my be interpreted. Is that my fault as the writer, or is that the way of the world? We're all subjective beings and what we bring to the words will always be different, as writers and as readers. Maybe we writers all work too hard at being precise!
People have been wrongly interpreting The Road Not Taken for decades. You're in good company!
“Wrongly” interpreting, Mary? Tsk tsk! ;-)
Ha!
I was one of them until I just looked it up now! How interesting what it’s come to mean in culture vs what it actually says. And the background to it is delightful in it’s simplicity. Reminds me how all stories/poems come from some seed of reality in the author’s life. And yet become so much more.
exactly! Though I think Frost had a sense of humor about it. I actually think that precision is more likely to lead to a better response from the reader, though. Perhaps also easier for the reader to pinpoint what it is they don't like, or even understand.
Mmm... "how 'wrong' my work may be interpreted"... do you Galley, as writer, actually have any 'right' to conceive and project what readers should or could, will or won't, make of you written work, whether poetic or prosaic?
Hi Galer. Art, I imagine, takes its identity from how it is perceived (by others and by our selves). Rather than being dismayed at how your work is interpreted, perhaps be proud at how all encompassing it is! What use if art if it doesn’t speak to other peoples’ lived experiences?
Training the mind to go from vague to specific is a good practice, something I need to keep working on. Another great question and post.
Also... I agree with Mary, saying what you notice can help a writer the most.
This post resonates with me so much, thank you for writing it. I'm going to go on a brief tangent here, but stay with me. In my day job (aka the one that pays me so I can write), I do qualitative research on technology in government - on how we can better design user interfaces and systems to make it easier for people to get things done. One of my top mottos and teachings is "why" - why can't someone film out that form? What specifically makes it hard to use? Why exactly are they struggling? By asking the "why" and then pulling apart the subcomponents of that question, we create research that is specific and even more importantly actionable. If you know specifically what is wrong with something than it's very easy to fix it. And to come up with solutions that take different aspects of the problem into consideration.
The reason I bring this up is: there are so many good analogies between this post and the best practices for qualitative research. It warms my heart to see it. I try to bring all of this into my own writing and critiques, because I truly believe it helps me and others be better.
One other thing to add: your approach also helps avoid one of my least favorite things in critiques - when someone leads with things a writer could do differently, without helping them see the origin of the problem that the suggestion is trying to solve. I find this terribly unhelpful in critiques, because it assumes my solution is the same as the critiquers, which it never is. In my work, we call this solution-forward... Asking the "why" and being specific about problems also shifts the writing mindset away from this!
Thank you for responding to Lucky Hank. I’ve been dying to hear the back story on that episode. I subscribed to AMC+ just so I could see George Saunders and then ... was a little disappointed when it was an actor. Not that he was terrible. I mostly missed the voice.
And this leads directly to Straight Man, by Richard Russo, which I had not heard of until today, but now must read!
I just finished the book yesterday and must confess that I could not find the George Saunders character.
I do this every time I critique because I am not always very confident in my abilities as a writer but reading is my love and my joy and my solace and all the things in between so I can give an honest response to how I felt upon reading and it will always be valid.
👌