Why was I nervous before meeting my graduate class for “Creative Nonfiction”?
For 21 years, the usual scene is this: Give me a bunch of students who’ve read a book, and I’m yours. No dry mouth, sweaty palms, or short breaths. With a Diet Coke in hand, a couple of pages of notes, and last week’s assignments already graded, there’s no place I’m more comfortable than in the classroom.
But this course, I figured, would be different. This was a “creative” writing course for seasoned students. And while I wouldn’t automatically expect undergraduates already to be good writers, I expect graduate students not only to be good writers, but also (some have argued) to be preternaturally good.
After all, isn’t writing nonfiction — and doing it well — what got them into graduate school in the first place?
It was the word in quotation marks that was giving me the shivers: “creative.”
Scary term.
It got me wondering: What’s the difference between creative nonfiction and noncreative nonfiction? Should what scholars write on most occasions be identified as “stale, uninspired nonfiction”? In other words, is “stale, uninspired nonfiction” just another name for “academic prose?”
I decided that the students would have to write as if they were real writers. Real writers have to make their deadlines. That’s the first and most inflexible rule. “No possibility of extensions or incompletes in this class,” I told them. “Miss a deadline and withdraw from the course.”
They write on assigned topics, and they are expected to write short, smart, accessible, witty, interesting pieces that they then send to me and their colleagues three days before the class meets so that each member of the class has a chance to comment specifically on how the piece could be revised; this is also one of the course requirements.
Learning how to read closely and carefully the work of others will help them to get a sense of their own rhythm, their own strengths and weaknesses, and to discover when their funny lines either hit or miss the mark. Their editorial comments are sent to the rest of the class at noon on the day we meet.
And they have to provide at least five examples of “found lines” every week. Found lines are those random phrases, blurted out by those poor souls who aren’t aware that you’re eavesdropping. For a writer, found lines are like finding wads of money in your mailbox. Found lines make you realize how compelling, how remarkable, and how bizarre other people’s lives actually are.
Examples from an earlier class include:
“A very serious poetry professor discussing an angel in Paradise Lost: ‘No one approves of his zeal so he stands alone.’ Thoughtful, somber pause until a student yells out, ‘Like the cheese?’”
“Person one: ‘What’s this?’
“Person two: ‘A rape whistle.’
“Person one: ‘How does it work?’”
“On Sci-Fi romances: Boy meets girl. Boy and girl sort of hit it off. Then — nuclear apocalypse. War heads! War heads! War heads!”
OK. So their first assignment was the assignment you were given, darling blog (I still hate the word) readers. I’ll post excerpts from their essays tomorrow.
Let’s see more of yours.
