In ancient times, humans transferred their sins—their misdeeds
and dark secrets—to the souls of sacrificial beasts, placing said beasts on
altars for all to see, and then slaughtering them then and there. It could be argued that the act of “casting
sins upon sacrificial animals" is still being practiced today by creative nonfiction
writers. Yet our sacrificial beasts are
not sheep or oxen, but artifacts and form.
Miller used a table of figures to reveal her sexual
history and a needlepoint and muslin to sort out her thoughts on pregnancy and
miscarriage. Christman used a sloth to
express her grief, Simpson’s bear was a catalyst for addressing marital fidelity, and Jamson
used medical acting and case studies to study herself. This week’s essay by Monson not only used an
experimental form (outline essay) but also used the copper mine as an outer,
concrete image to lead to the idea of mining
the past for experiences. (The outline form itself has this mining feel to it, as though the reader
is digging deeper and deeper, zigzagging left and right, yes, but always chipping
away, digging deeper into the material.)
Miller wrote, “I know it can seem a paradox: that
writings imbued with qualities of what we recognize as ‘honest’ or ‘brave’ may
actually be so strong because they focus away from that material directly. […]
Instead of facing your ‘stuff’ head on, you turn away from it, zero in on
something that has fluttered up on the side, and see what angle it gives you.”
I’ve been thinking about the final essay I’ll be
submitting for this class—the experience I’ll write about and also the form and
the artifact I’ll use—the sacrificial beasts of the essay. It got me wondering how you all go about
crafting your essays. Do you begin with
an experience in mind and then mine for an artifact: a concrete image, entity,
or sensory input—a catalyst for some greater purpose? Or does an artifact strike you first—something
interesting, unique or even mundane—and then do you find an experience and/or
meaning to pull from that artifact? Furthermore, are personal experiences always necessary in an essay? Are artifacts?
And must we write only about provocative
topics or harrowing experiences for us to be considered brave or courageous
essayists? Or is our bravery determined
by, as Miller asserts, our attention to the words, sentences, and significant details
we provide?
I can see the sentiments in the Miller piece, the idea that being brave or courageous is not the point, or even more so kind of a let down in terms of what people recognize. I think it's hard for me now to reconcile that because this is so new to me, so any kind of success or way to engage with an audience would feel like a positive thing to me. But I can understand this. I like that they keep on calling the writing, or the remembering, or something "the artifact". I guess I cannot entirely put my finger on what this is. The creating of the past into something tangible outside of memory, that itself is the artifact. This reminds me of when earlier this semester we talked about the act of remembering as a way of shaping the memory itself. This seems now one step further that the act of writing the remembered memory is again changing and shaping it into something else, something more, something other.
ReplyDeleteI am interested in these other more specific forms. I think they kind of seem gimmickie to me. Like, hey look over here, look at how weird this essay looks. I think it's distracting from what is being said. But I have so little experience to base this upon it seems unfair to even say. This is not to say I don't believe there would be a right time and a right essay for these things, and that they would in fact (as Miller says) serve the content itself. I think that's the whole point. But how do you know? When do you know that the material you have is the kind of material for such interesting structures? I'm not sure yet.
A lot of interesting things in this week’s readings: I like Miller’s ideas for focusing on something other than the topic at hand. That is, something that can develop into a thematic thrust or extended metaphor or even a more interesting/different way to handle a common experience or topic. Further, using a borrowed (and/or imposed) structure, that can explore/push/bend the subject and the personal experience in new and interesting ways. Using the “hermit crab” approach, as we see in Ander’s piece, may seem gimmicky—as Erin (go roseblaque.com!) takes issue with. For me, it seems, that the traditional de facto form of the essay was once a gimmick, something new with which to explore/consider a part of the world. Tricks, as Ray Carver, used to call them are the “other” against which literary realism is the dominant form. We often are reading a standardized realism of nonfiction. We could take issue with this paradigm, that the common form of the essay has any relation to “reality,” however you want to interpret that. Using borrowed structures, especially in fiction, is centuries old. For other interesting takes on these debates, there’s David Shields’ “Reality Hunger” and the anthology “Fakes: An Anthology of Pseudo-Interviews, Faux-Lectures, Quasi-Letters, ‘Found’ Texts, and Other Fraudulent Artifacts.”
ReplyDeleteI've grappled a lot with the idea of "bravery" in writing, because so often when I share something I've written, readers say I'm brave. I wrote a blog post about racism and several about mental illness and was called brave; CNF pieces I've shared have prompted others to remark on my bravery or courage. And it bothers me. Mostly it bothers me because it makes me feel like the topics are off-limits, like things like racism or mental illness are so taboo that it takes a remarkable act of bravery to talk about it. And I hate that, I hate the stigma that remains, and I think maybe I continue to write about the off-limits or the things we censor as an act of rebellion. Plus, I don't know how to write about anything else.
ReplyDeleteBut anyway, what I love about the things you bring up and the ways Miller describes courage in her final paragraph is the potential shift in the way we think about and talk about courage and bravery in writing. I find that I think a writer is brave when he or she uses a compelling voice or form, or when an everyday occurrence is dissected and given new meaning. It's that exploration that is brave, I think. The willingness to pick apart ourselves and our experiences, find a universality in them, and to incessantly question everything, that is brave, I think. I think of Annie Dillard's essays, which focus on a particular and then blow up everything we would naturally think about the particular -- I think her writing is brave, because she's not afraid to explore things deeper. Or Jamison's use of form to explore sensitive topics. Or the attention to language my favorite essayists show. Those are courageous acts, whether the topics are provocative or not. And that's the sort of courage and bravery I'd like to aspire to.
Some great comments on this material so far. We all seem to agree that self-disclosure is less an act of courage than most people think. Miller suggests that the work itself redirects writers' attention away from courage, focusing us instead on the literary"devices" or borrowed forms. In essence, the writing becomes an "artifact" that speaks for us (much like "this paper will argue?"). In the end, she writes, "the writer doesn't need courage; the essay does." I can see this to some extent, especially when we find a figurative vehicle for expressing our deep feelings--a bear, a needlepoint, a sloth. The "I" passes meanings along to some other concrete thing, which shifts the readers' gaze from the writer to the thing that now carries our meanings for us. I like this idea, and it seems true. Yet the personal essay asks for some self-disclosure, and anyone who takes up the genre will always have feelings about that. The thing is, I'm not sure that bravery is what I feel very often, even when writing about intensely personal experiences like my sexual abuse as a child. When I write something personal like that, I strike a bargain with myself: Do I have sufficient faith that some new meaning might emerge from writing about an experience that makes me willing to risk exposing others? Self-exposure concerns me less, for some reason. Maybe I'm just used to it. What about you?
ReplyDeleteI am enjoying wrestling with Miller’s suggestion that no matter how personal the subject matter of an essay, with good authors, it’s all about the craft. She claims that writers “shift their allegiance from experience…to the artifact they’re making of that experience,” and that they are more concerned with the artful use of devices in presentation, such as metaphor and structure, than the vulnerable subject matter being presented.
ReplyDeleteWhile I appreciate that this focus on craft makes for the most effective sensitive essay, I’m not sure I wholly buy into the claim of disconnected objectivity.
When it comes to writing accounts of the heart-wrenching or shocking, we’ve already had some great discussions in class that textually purging all grief, pain, and anguish onto the page does little to evoke empathy in the audience. The essays that, for me at least, engender the strongest emotional response are those where the author has stepped back and focused on the craftful use of imagery and structure. Those are the essays that earn my admiration for the courage of the author because I am allowed to respond emotionally rather than being told how I should respond emotionally.
And yes, I do mean “courage” of the author. I do not believe that just because an author has purposefully chiseled and crafted a private and vulnerable truth, that the demonstration of craft is the initial motivation or the proposed end. I am reminded of Kristeva’s idea of “abjection:” the idea that we—as fragile and feeling humans—deal with sensitive, threatening, and traumatic experiences by “throwing them off.” We disconnect from our pains and sadness in order to safely interact and deal with them, but we do not harden to them. In stepping back from a traumatic experience, a painful memory, or an insecurity and molding it within metaphor, imagery, syntax, and structure the author is able to take ownership and control of it, and deal with it as they like; but the essay remains their story, not some lifeless artifact. And, sharing it takes courage.
Now, whether this is an entirely conscious act is another question.
Stephen you bring up some excellent points in your post I am particularly interested in this idea of bravery you discuss (as did the rest of us as I scan the other posts) but I'm also intrigued by this notion of artifacts and sacrifices. I believe they all tie into the "why" of our writing, or our purpose. Often I will begin to write to explore some notion, whether personal or not, but in the end I meander back to the self because that's how I interject meaning. If this with an "I" or a "we" or "they" it’s all the same because the synthesis of experience and meaning is a reflection of the author. What is left, the artifact, is what is offered up to the reader—once they get it my part of the bargain is done. Bravery, I think, is the willingness to write and explore the disruptions in life and allow them to stay open, paving a path for new conversations. Often writers will take up important topics but leave little room for the reader to find a path into the conversation. A good writer leaves enough space for the reader to be brave join in the exchange of ideas.
ReplyDelete