Elizabeth Percer's Blog - Posts Tagged "creative-writing"
Writer's Log, August 10: The Art of Imitation
As you can probably guess from the title of this post, I'm not a believer in true originality. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that we have been telling the same twelve or so stories since that first, fateful circle around a campfire, and that all of them are essentially around what I like to think of as the big four: love, loss, longing, and fear.
So I don't toss and turn over originality when I'm writing, for this reason, and also because I believe that each storyteller has a unique voice. This is what I'm after when I read -- a story that speaks to lived experiences, micro insights that gather together to help me see through someone else's window into the big four. And because there are as many windows as there are people in the world, I know each writer has within her the ability to make hers clear.
What never ceases to amaze me, though, is how helpful the practice of imitation can be. I think it's probably because, at their core, our subject matters don't vary wildly, and if you pick up a book and absolutely love it, chances are that the writer is speaking from a window that resembles your own in some way.
I thought the first creative writing teacher to suggest that we should copy out a short story by our favorite writer was either nuts or just not so concerned about plagiarism (a subject my eighth grade teacher enforced with so much gravitas she had more than a few of us in tears (I know, how can the pitfalls of plagiarism drive middle schoolers to tears? Well, you never met Mrs. Stewart.)).
Anyway, I tried the exercise out, and was amazed by how helpful it was. Ever since, I keep trying to roll it out in front of my own students, though I get lots of crazy looks, too. But here's the thing: when you transcribe the words of someone whose writing you deeply admire, it's like peering through their window so closely you start to see the grains of sand, the tones and turns and timing and choices that he or she employed to make this fabulous work of art. And there's tremendous learning in giving yourself over to another voice like that -- it shows you the intersections, the significant diversions, and it inspires the HECK out of you. Seriously.
In fact, you'll probably wind up writing a few pages or stories in the tone of that writer afterward. And then you'll feel a little sheepish, a little shamefaced, thinking you got your story by unethical means. But there's really no way you can copy another's voice, just as there's no way to copy another person's appearance, or laugh. And what your imitation will show you is how your voice resonates with another, which will give you great comfort, and the experience of typing blithely when you're transcribing will leak into your own work, and altogether you'll have used this writer's work for exactly what she wanted you to use it: to be inspired, to love the art of language, to see how the intersections of stories both complicate and unite us.
So in these last few weeks of summer, maybe you can bring yourself or a writer you love to try this exercise. As usual, it helps to drop your high standards at the door like so many heavy backpacks full of textbooks no one wants to read. Instead, take a few pages into the room and play with them. Don't worry about how great the work will be or how imitative or how original. You'll know your own voice when you find it, and if you keep light on your feet while you're looking, you might just learn to dance to it.
So I don't toss and turn over originality when I'm writing, for this reason, and also because I believe that each storyteller has a unique voice. This is what I'm after when I read -- a story that speaks to lived experiences, micro insights that gather together to help me see through someone else's window into the big four. And because there are as many windows as there are people in the world, I know each writer has within her the ability to make hers clear.
What never ceases to amaze me, though, is how helpful the practice of imitation can be. I think it's probably because, at their core, our subject matters don't vary wildly, and if you pick up a book and absolutely love it, chances are that the writer is speaking from a window that resembles your own in some way.
I thought the first creative writing teacher to suggest that we should copy out a short story by our favorite writer was either nuts or just not so concerned about plagiarism (a subject my eighth grade teacher enforced with so much gravitas she had more than a few of us in tears (I know, how can the pitfalls of plagiarism drive middle schoolers to tears? Well, you never met Mrs. Stewart.)).
Anyway, I tried the exercise out, and was amazed by how helpful it was. Ever since, I keep trying to roll it out in front of my own students, though I get lots of crazy looks, too. But here's the thing: when you transcribe the words of someone whose writing you deeply admire, it's like peering through their window so closely you start to see the grains of sand, the tones and turns and timing and choices that he or she employed to make this fabulous work of art. And there's tremendous learning in giving yourself over to another voice like that -- it shows you the intersections, the significant diversions, and it inspires the HECK out of you. Seriously.
In fact, you'll probably wind up writing a few pages or stories in the tone of that writer afterward. And then you'll feel a little sheepish, a little shamefaced, thinking you got your story by unethical means. But there's really no way you can copy another's voice, just as there's no way to copy another person's appearance, or laugh. And what your imitation will show you is how your voice resonates with another, which will give you great comfort, and the experience of typing blithely when you're transcribing will leak into your own work, and altogether you'll have used this writer's work for exactly what she wanted you to use it: to be inspired, to love the art of language, to see how the intersections of stories both complicate and unite us.
So in these last few weeks of summer, maybe you can bring yourself or a writer you love to try this exercise. As usual, it helps to drop your high standards at the door like so many heavy backpacks full of textbooks no one wants to read. Instead, take a few pages into the room and play with them. Don't worry about how great the work will be or how imitative or how original. You'll know your own voice when you find it, and if you keep light on your feet while you're looking, you might just learn to dance to it.
Writer’s Log, March 28th: Distractions
As I sit here writing this, my husband is on the phone talking to his dad about retirement, my fourteen-year-old is cursing his math teacher under his breath while loudly sniffling from the cold he insists he doesn’t have, and my twelve-year-old daughter is making motions I don’t think she should know yet to film music videos on Musically. Meanwhile, my cat, who came in from outside this afternoon with a mysterious bloody scratch across his nose, has been trying to perform a Vulcan Mind Meld on me for the past fifteen minutes so I’ll change his food. Oh wait. He just jumped up and settled his chin across the upper right quadrant of my keyboard, his latest trick. Which is now making my fourteen-year-old stop cursing his math teacher long enough to look up and laugh, and my daughter to gently remind me for the fifteenth time that I promised to play a game with her. But at least my nine-year-old is in the shower! He’s just finishing the fourth Harry Potter book, and likes to give me a blow-by-blow of every development the moment after he reads it.
Let me be clear: I have never been happier, and my family is 95% of the reason behind that. But also, the life I’ve gladly created for myself makes a writing practice just a tiny bit challenging to create.
Usually, I avoid doing what I’ve just done: namely, taking stock of all the distractions in my life that, when added together, clearly point toward my having no chance of having a complete thought until at least 2031. Indeed, when I think of all these distractions, when I let them Mean something, it feels like my writing is going to have to go under for good.
As a species, we have never been more distracted. And of course distractions can sabotage all the best creative intentions. But there’s a big difference between letting them build into a larger sign that your writing practice will never get off the ground, and just navigating them as they come. It’s a subtle difference, but enormously helpful. There are certainly days when no act of God or man will help you protect the writing time you set aside, but on most days, if you don’t let what’s already distracted you affect how you feel when you do get time aside, even five minutes alone can keep you connected to your practice. And you’d be surprised what even five minutes a day devoted to tuning everything else out and visiting your creative mind space can do toward keeping your writing practice – and your writing itself – alive. It might only happen at 11:30 when you’re doing the dishes and thinking through that latest plot twist, but that counts, too. One minute of quality time devoted to a work when that’s all you have is no less significant than one minute of quality time devoted to a work when you have a hundred minutes to spare.
Like any lifelong activity, your practice must be resilient. It must be built up to flourish not only during those mythical weeks of time we all dream of having one day in the unspecified future to write, but in the moments between parenting or teaching or earning the money you need to keep a roof over your head. And believing in its resiliency – not deciding that you can’t write because you have children or a job to hold down or are otherwise occupied in the service of staying afloat and earning your keep – can do wonders to actually make it resilient. So don’t let the distractions or discouragements or roadblocks infect you; just see them for what they are, and get creative about sidestepping them – or using them for the inspiration and humor and life experience that are essential to all great works of art.
Let me be clear: I have never been happier, and my family is 95% of the reason behind that. But also, the life I’ve gladly created for myself makes a writing practice just a tiny bit challenging to create.
Usually, I avoid doing what I’ve just done: namely, taking stock of all the distractions in my life that, when added together, clearly point toward my having no chance of having a complete thought until at least 2031. Indeed, when I think of all these distractions, when I let them Mean something, it feels like my writing is going to have to go under for good.
As a species, we have never been more distracted. And of course distractions can sabotage all the best creative intentions. But there’s a big difference between letting them build into a larger sign that your writing practice will never get off the ground, and just navigating them as they come. It’s a subtle difference, but enormously helpful. There are certainly days when no act of God or man will help you protect the writing time you set aside, but on most days, if you don’t let what’s already distracted you affect how you feel when you do get time aside, even five minutes alone can keep you connected to your practice. And you’d be surprised what even five minutes a day devoted to tuning everything else out and visiting your creative mind space can do toward keeping your writing practice – and your writing itself – alive. It might only happen at 11:30 when you’re doing the dishes and thinking through that latest plot twist, but that counts, too. One minute of quality time devoted to a work when that’s all you have is no less significant than one minute of quality time devoted to a work when you have a hundred minutes to spare.
Like any lifelong activity, your practice must be resilient. It must be built up to flourish not only during those mythical weeks of time we all dream of having one day in the unspecified future to write, but in the moments between parenting or teaching or earning the money you need to keep a roof over your head. And believing in its resiliency – not deciding that you can’t write because you have children or a job to hold down or are otherwise occupied in the service of staying afloat and earning your keep – can do wonders to actually make it resilient. So don’t let the distractions or discouragements or roadblocks infect you; just see them for what they are, and get creative about sidestepping them – or using them for the inspiration and humor and life experience that are essential to all great works of art.
