Conroy’s collection of essays from those associated with the Iowa’s Writer Workshop is absolutely insightful. The reason for the collection is to not only help people who are beginning to write, but to usher along those who’ve been writing for a while. Conroy advocates particularly for the latter, stating that beginner writers are able to still rely on mimesis in their work to try to find their voice/style. Additionally, he wants to focus on those who’ve been writing as he states that continuing to write is “a test of character as well as a test of talent, and talent is more common than character.” This sentiment seems to be echoed in one way or another throughout the rest of the collection.
Some of the advice given in the essays is common among craft books: write every day, assimilate the stories you’ve lived/been told to build something new, bake your passions/heart/mind into the lives/personalities of your characters. No doubt this is because of the phenomena pointed out by Canin’s essay, that writing is a field “in which nobody, not even the experts [know] anything.” This leads to the same conversation being held with different phrasing, all with the same attitude toward writing: “I don’t know, just practice a lot and try things out.” This leads to a focus on finding authorial voice, distinguishing yourself from the writers you’ve read, the writer you think you want to become. Phillips mentions that “Silence is the writer’s familiar […] the auditory equivalent of the empty page […]” and “Personality or intellect can bite the hands that feed it, so to speak.” This harks back to the same sentiment that nearly every writer in this collection concludes: “Don’t overthink, just write.” Power’s essay summarizes this phenomenon well: “I am an intuitive writer, absorbing technique through a constant diet of reading, not wanting to analyze too closely the mysteries of this process, afraid perhaps of finding the humbug of a little man behind the ferocious mask of Oz.”
Most of the essays focus on long-form narrative (books and novels), though some point out how the longer the book, the more likely it is to be acclaimed as it turns into a world the reader can “live in” for a while (Grumbach). This sentiment is echoed by short story theorists as well, like Kuttainen or the collection by Patea on the 21st century perspective of short story theory, even as far back as Poe. This idea of novels or memoir being superior due to their length is of particular interest. Poe argued that length of a short story was preferable, something you could digest in a single sitting, much more accessible to those without a surplus of spare time. However, I believe this is pointing out a greater hierarchy in narrative scholarship: due to the length of novels and memoir and the ability to “live in” them, they are more comfortable for the reader. Whereas with short form literature (short stories and essays), the reader is constantly being uprooted, starting over, and like any other time we dive into the new, it produces one of two emotions (or sometimes, both): anxiety or excitement. It is up to the writer to determine what to do with these instinctual reactions, often making short-form literature the perfect place to experiment with genre-blending or themes/topics that produce discomfort, anxiety. In other words, the short-form is the perfect place to be for a writer who does not want to rely on the comfort of knowing what happens next.