on the wrong side of sunrise

Tag: transitions

Audience Awareness: a confession (featuring only one link to an external reference)

Here’s something you might not know about me. I’m actually a decent singer. Not outstanding—my range isn’t great, and I’m not one of those people who can instantly harmonize—but competent. I played assorted woodwind instruments for almost ten years, so I’m good at breathing (sounds easy, but often overlooked) and since I often played complementary rather than primary parts, once I find a harmony, I can stick to it.

Like I said, competent.

But there’s a reason you might not—almost certainly do not—know this about me, and it’s this: I don’t sing around other people. Occasionally, if I have a bit of liquid alcohol—I mean, liquid courage—and surroundings where it could easily pass undetected, I might let out a few lines, but don’t hold your breath for it. (Seriously—don’t. Good, deep breaths are important if you want to get more than three words in to “All the Small Things,” which—if you didn’t know—drunk girls are unable to resist singing if it comes on.)

I am, as you might well guess, somewhat self-conscious and insecure.

It isn’t just singing, though. This is a fault of mine that colors most of my pursuits, and it’s problematic. There are times when I handle it better—for instance, in my first year of college, I performed an unaccompanied bassoon solo at a recital. It was the fourth of Telemann’s twelve Fantasias, and I infer from the lack of nightmare flashbacks that the performance went all right.

Still, even though I have my moments, I don’t have many of them, and those I do are typically well-rehearsed—hours of practice in private lessons or alone, then on the stage in an empty auditorium, maybe—and fact-checked. This, I realize, might not be a good way to approach the world.

I recently began submitting applications to graduate programs, and many of them request a resume or curriculum vitae. In both cases, I list this site, and given that, I think I need to find a way to get back into updating and designing it. I have a couple ideas as to how to go about this, but one question I’m torn on is attention to audience. Do I take into consideration everyone who might possibly come across my blog—an old friend who moved away when we were eight, Googling my name out of curiosity? a second cousin I’ve never met? the director of a graduate program going through my application?—or do I post without thinking of them?

In Stephen King’s book On Writing (okay, two external references) he discusses your Ideal Reader. It’s been over ten years since I read the book, so I don’t want to go into too much detail, at the risk of misrepresenting King’s concept, but here’s the essence of it. Your Ideal Reader is who you think of when you think of your audience. The common sentiment goes, if you try to please everyone, you’ll end up pleasing no one, and I think this is the function of the Ideal Reader—to provide someone, real or imaginary, to write to.

I made a previous attempt at blogging before, with even less direction than I have now, but in those early posts, I addressed my Imaginary Readers, operating on what I thought was a similar philosophy. That misses the point, though. The Ideal Reader is a single entity, one who is well-defined in the mind of the writer; Imaginary Readers are a nondescript group of unknowns, and as a result, an attempt to appeal to them is doomed to fail.

My Ideal Reader is less defined than it once was. I suspect this is part of what has frozen me up with regard to my blog—I get flustered by considering all the potential readers.

This website will be getting redesigned over the coming weeks and months, and with that, I hope to alter my approach to blogging so that it is less self-conscious and less insecure. We are in a period of transition, my Ideal Reader and I. The times, they are a-changin’.

(Okay, three references, but none of them is a peer-reviewed study. I think that counts for something.)

Transitions: felonies, decomposing corpses, and love

This March, I had the opportunity to attend the Association of Writers and Writing Programs conference in Chicago. One session was called The Long and Short of It: Navigating the Transition between Writing Novels and Short Stories, featuring Bruce Machart, Hannah Tinti, Melanie Thon, Erin McGraw, and Kevin Wilson. While some of the panelists’ remarks were less helpful than others (as a writerly friend points out, if trusting our instincts was enough, we would be successful writers already), some had interesting perspectives. Wilson, for instance, suggested a short story is stealing a car and crashing it into a tree, whereas a novel is stealing that same car but resisting the urge to crash it.

This transition—novel and short story—has always vexed me. I remember becoming serious about writing in fifth grade, coming home from school every day and sitting down at my family’s computer, listening to the same Dar Williams CD on repeat and eating Gardetto’s and writing for some indeterminate span of time, and even then, I was writing an eleven-year-old’s version of a novel. It ended up around two hundred pages, give or take. I entered it in our local 4-H fair’s fiction category. The year after that, they instituted a ten-page limit (at which point I took the first chapter of my new novel project, single-spaced, and shrunk the font down until it fit in ten pages, thus driving them to institute further restrictions).

I have, as far back as I remember, preferred novels to short stories, as a reader and a writer. Sometimes I think I know the reasons for this, and sometimes I don’t, but it’s pretty consistent.

The problem is, short stories are a practical form. Looking ahead to MFA programs, I recognize that stories tend to be stronger samples than novel excerpts, and it’s much easier to publish in journals than it is to publish a novel, making short stories a faster way to begin building a writerly resume.

This transition, then, is one I would like to learn to navigate. I can appreciate a good short story, but I have never fallen in love with a short story the way I have with select novels. Even the best short stories don’t have the same payoff for me, which I suspect is why I have trouble getting really excited about them.

Right now, I’m between projects. I have a loose concept for a possible short story collection, but I don’t yet love it like I’d hoped I would (though this could be due to a lack of clarity about the project as much as anything else). I got coffee with a friend today to discuss my paralysis. At one point, I remarked that I had once known how much force it takes to bite off your tongue but couldn’t remember.

“That,” my friend said, “is what you should be writing about. You know all these weird things—you should have a collection called Weird Fucking Shit.”

The title might not be a winner, but it’s a fair point. We each have a unique set of interests and passions and perspectives we bring to the page (or keyboard) with us, and we do ourselves no favors when we don’t take advantage of them.

I don’t know what I’m going to write next. This friend suggests a story about a body farm, so perhaps I’ll follow that. I want to be able to love short stories to the point I honestly want to write them, as opposed to viewing them as a necessary exercise, like an audition tape or application essay; I just haven’t found out how to develop that. Maybe body farms are the way to go. After all, who doesn’t love a good body farm?

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