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The nineteen-page short story I wrote for my creative writing workshop went over pretty well. A lot of the criticisms I was already aware of, as they were fairly structural things which resulted from squashing a novel-length idea into nineteen pages. It's a sort-of mystery and it was fun watching the people who caught the clues argue with the people who didn't catch the clues. I was enthralled to witness people discussing the themes, trying to decide what I was trying to say, which side of which arguments in the story I was taking, which themes won out. There were some secrets in the story that no one caught, which makes me wonder if I should keep that little secret a secret or make it a little more obvious. Part of me likes that there was one thing that no one caught.
There was, however, a universal consensus that the following was an amazing scene. It's a woman responding when an old detective asks her about her husband who has gone missing:
She sighed like she was remembering the taste of a great steak, but it was more immediate, more palpable. There was a nostalgia in that sigh that I’ve only ever heard in women from my own generation when asked about their husbands––young men who went off to wars and died undiminished, men who never aged, never developed faults, never got fat and fathered children, who never got angry and never worked too hard, or had to be nagged to mow the lawn, but lived forever as handsome paramours who never sinned and were always faithful. An archetypal phantom no mortal could live up to.
I actually enjoyed having my work critiqued. This is the first time I've been in a class where I wasn't––by far––the best writer in the group. (I know, modest much?) I liked hearing ideas and critiques from smart and sophisticated readers. It was badass. Or I am a masochist.
There was, however, a universal consensus that the following was an amazing scene. It's a woman responding when an old detective asks her about her husband who has gone missing:
She sighed like she was remembering the taste of a great steak, but it was more immediate, more palpable. There was a nostalgia in that sigh that I’ve only ever heard in women from my own generation when asked about their husbands––young men who went off to wars and died undiminished, men who never aged, never developed faults, never got fat and fathered children, who never got angry and never worked too hard, or had to be nagged to mow the lawn, but lived forever as handsome paramours who never sinned and were always faithful. An archetypal phantom no mortal could live up to.
I actually enjoyed having my work critiqued. This is the first time I've been in a class where I wasn't––by far––the best writer in the group. (I know, modest much?) I liked hearing ideas and critiques from smart and sophisticated readers. It was badass. Or I am a masochist.
