An update from our fiftieth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday, November 19, plus some of the output published below This week, Conner focused on the art of flash fiction. To begin, he talked about how influential Ernest Hemingway was during the 20th century, which led to a discussion of Hemingway’s “Iceberg Theory”: the deeper meaning of the story should not be evident on the surface. If a writer knows what they’re doing, they should omit certain details and the reader will understand it just as well if they were there. This invites a reader to be involved in the creative act of interpretation. Conner then defined flash fiction as a fictional work of extreme brevity that (usually) mimics the conventions of short stories. With this definition in hand, we read the following works of flash fiction: “A Little Fable” by Franz Kafka. “Dog and Me” by Lydia Davis. “Unhappy People” by Lydia Davis. “The Old Woman” by Daniil Kharms “The Dinosaur” by Augusto Monterroso The Hemingway baby shoes story The Challenge: Write 10 one-sentence stories or write a one-paragraph story. The Participants: Emma, Anushka, Penelope, Anna, Allie, Savi, Zar, Alice, Samantha, Madeline, Tate, Josh, Ella, Arjun, Russell Five Works of Flash Emma Hoff, 10 Lamp An eye, glaring at the wall with tears welling up in its eyes and spilling over, extinguishing what could have been and creeping inside every corner, until a hand reaches out and undoes all the hard work. At the Table On top of the tablecloth sits the untouched chicken, as, out of politeness, the people have been waiting for their guest — he is hidden in the closet. For Sale The grass holds the sign in place, the dirt protects it, so, no matter how hard they try, their words and their colors and their smiles will always be for sale. Diagram He stood up and got dressed and looked at the poster on the wall and mumbled some nonsensical things to himself before looking in the mirror to give his hair a name and label his fingers. Cactus So many eyes and toes – all kinds of spikes and all flavors of needles — like an ad for toothpaste.
how stories work
How Stories Work—Writing Workshop #49: Sound & the Sonnet
An update from our forty-ninth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday, November 12, plus some of the output published below “A poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.” -Jean Cocteau “I pulled a chicken’s foot from behind the moon.” Federico García Lorca For this week’s workshop, Conner taught us the form of the sonnet, focusing on the importance of sound. To begin, he provided us with a vocabulary for literary sound: Exact rhyme: a classical rhyme in which the endings of words sound exactly the same. Slant (off/half) rhyme: a rhyme in which the ending consonants match, however the preceding vowel sounds do not match. Could also just be words that sound similar. Assonance: when you have a repeating vowel sound in two words. “summer” and “fun.” Consonance: when you have similar consonant sounds anywhere in the word. Alliteration: the same letter or sounds at the beginning of words that appear close together Once we had a vocabulary of sound to work with, we discussed the rules of the sonnet: 14 lines Close attention to sounds, especially the end-words of each line has a volta, or a turn, often in the 8th, 10th, or 14th line We then read four sonnets: “American Sonnet for My Past and Future Assassin” by Terrance Hayes. “God’s Grandeur” by Gerard Manley Hopkins “Fairy-tale Logic” by A.E. Stallings “Sonnets to Morpheus [“I know kung fu”]” by John Beer The Challenge: Write your own sonnet! It should be titled “Self Portrait.” It should be 14 lines, have a volta in either the 8th, 1oth, or 14th line, and follow some sort of rhyming pattern. The Participants: Emma, Savi, Aditi, Arjun, Robert, Anna, Zar, Tate, Josh, Ella, Alice, Benedetta, Allie Self Portrait Zar Pavri, 12 With a new day comes new tasks,Challenges all greater than the last,Times when you must put on a mask,Times when you must sit back and relax,Times when you must watch your back,Times when you must let them attack,Times when you must win them back,Times when you must take a step back. And in all these there comes a time too,To return to your home and start anew.It has been a long day and you are through,Let the remaining hours wash over you.Tomorrow has things for you to do,Today you must prepare for your debut.
How Stories Work—Writing Workshop #48: Prose Poetry
An update from our forty-eighth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday, November 5, plus some of the output published below For this week’s workshop, we focused on prose poetry, which we defined as a prose composition that demonstrates the logic and characteristics common to poetry. The first thing we did was a favorite exercise of Conner’s: he asked that we try and write a “bad” poem. After the exercise, we read “On the Train” by Lydia Davis, “The Mysterious Arrival of an Unusual Letter” by Mark Strand, “I Am the Last” by Charles Simic, “Man with Red Hair” by Daniil Kharms, and “Information” by David Ignatow. All of these prose poems we characterized as feeling like excerpts from larger stories, or the beginning of a short story—they felt like they should keep going. The Challenge: Write a prose poem. If you feel stuck, write a story that feels like its an excerpt from a larger story but isn’t. Or you could write the beginning of a short story but cut it off before it really starts going. Or, take the “bad” poem from the beginning of workshop and turn it into a longer prose poem. The Participants: Allie, Emma, Anushka, Benedetta, Arjun, Tate, Robert, Aditi, Russell, Ella, Samantha, Alice, Josh, Anna, Savi Open House & Untitled Emma Hoff, 10 Open House An old photo, containing a memory. Aww, they say, beholding it. One day, it’s gone. They move on to another photo. Aww, they say again. It goes on like this, and, eventually, only the abstract painting is left. They study it. There’s silence. They hesitate. And then they say, aww. You dump salt on their heads as they walk into the kitchen and pet the frying pan. Everything is gone. The house is just a hollow box that you sit in. There are no walls, but you are enclosed by something. More and more of them come in. Aww, they say, patting your head. Untitled I’m watching the man in the corner, sipping tea that I made for him. He doesn’t remember. He’s too busy watching it, and I don’t want to tell him who he really is – I’m also afraid. Every noise startles me, and I feel like I want to go back inside. It’s cold. The door is locked. I know he won’t hear me knock. I sit down on the steps, and suddenly, in front of me, there’s a pineapple. On one side of my head is a star, and on the other side is a bird. The Thing is gone. It didn’t really mean anything anyway. It was just a plot twist.
