My thoughts at the end of Chuck Palahniuk’s summer 2022 writing workshops.
In the hundreds of writing workshops I’ve attended, I’ve learned the most from Chuck’s workshops. But I’ve also learned what doesn’t work.
1) Bringing back a piece that’s already been workshopped is probably the worst offense. Inevitably the readers are disappointed when they see the writer hasn’t incorporated their suggestions. And the writer is disappointed at the lack of appreciation for their work. A crucial part of the process of becoming a writer is to constantly produce new work to be workshopped.
In a way, this process is counterintuitive. I’ve taken years of classical piano and cello lessons. Unlike writing, in music I learn by practicing a piece over and over. But the music piece I play is not my own creation. It’s Mozart or Brahms or Beethoven. These pieces are already masterpieces, already tested. By repeating a master composer’s work, I train my body, my ears to know what good classical music is supposed to be.
Most likely, in the old days writers were trained in the same way. They must have copied a master writer’s work over and over until they memorized the order of the words in each sentence. It probably wouldn’t hurt for us to do the same on our own to really understand how a good writer writes.
So the workshop process is really an anomaly. It’s as if we tell people to compose a piece of music, sit around listening to everyone’s pieces and critique, “I like that part but this part doesn’t make sense. Those notes don’t work.” I can imagine how composing music in this way would be so cumbersome and clunky.
2) Long pieces don’t work for workshopping. I’ve learned to chop a story in half for workshopping so that the group can digest it. Usually about 10 minutes worth, about 1600 words seems to work best.
3) As Chuck noted, the pieces need to be fiction. Not essays, memoirs or nonfiction. These other genres require different techniques.
4) Is your writing style compatible with Chuck’s (or whoever is leading the workshop)? Not everyone likes every style of writing. That’s fine. But save yourself a lot of grief by not forcing the workshop to validate a different style of writing. Colton did a nice job of explaining Chuck’s writing genealogy. The Minimalism family. Gordon Lish is the grandfather. Tom Spanbauer is the father. And Chuck is one of the offspring who all write with “ …small, specific focus, usually devoid of flowery, excessively descriptive language and backstory.” But the Maximalist school also has their fans who like writing that is “… usually more digressive and generous with its metaphors, descriptions, and other figurative language.” Zadie Smith and David Foster Wallace are two popular writers in this vein. (I quote from the Masterclass articles.) I’ll bet that fantasy writers also tend to be in this school.
5) I agree with Chuck that the most efficient workshop is when each member quickly gives his/her succinct comments once. No cross-talk or jumping back in to add more comments. And the writer should remain silent. Let the piece of writing stand on its own. I know it’s tempting to defend your baby, but if the reader does not get that the bimbo is actually a deep thinker, accept that comment and don’t try to justify or explain.
So what did I learn from Chuck’s workshops? In a nutshell, here are a few gems: Use an object to tie the story together. Make the title work harder than the text. It should have multiple meanings and hint at what’s coming. The first sentence has to grab the reader’s attention. The first paragraph should contain the gist of the main character’s problem. The main character has to have some quality the reader can empathize with. Use white space to indicate the passage of time or change of scene. Be on the body and visceral. Burn the language. Don’t give it away too easily - let the reader enjoy coming to their own conclusions.
So here’s a flash fiction piece I recently wrote and dedicate to Chuck:
On the Nose
By Nanako Water
Because of my nose - the boy who finally agreed to be my Sadie Hawkins Dance date calls me Toucan Tess. In the wee hours of the morning of the dance - a huge zit. No way to hide it on my already prominent proboscis. The red pimple is a beacon on top of my mountain nose. No one to call for help. For the most part I ignore my deformity but today it will be enshrined. So I sit on the toilet in the quiet of a moonless autumn night - and sniff the air.
.
.
When I was little, I fitted myself to the chain link fence, and ironed myself into the corners of classrooms. When they pushed me and scraped my knees against the concrete, the teacher called my mother to take me home. The aluminum smell of my blood filled me as it flowed down my shins in long strands. I lay on the dormant garden for hours and slept, wrapped in Mother’s silence. That scent of drying blood mingled with the crisp scent of dead leaves like that of tonight.
Now in high school, a black sweatshirt around my waist is my signature look. I dyed my long hair red to draw gazes away from my face. With pale skin and a thin build, I carry it off. The boys in the parking lot call out to me. Hey Beak Face. Hey Jamie Farr. Their sweat glimmers sweet in the luminous breeze. My nose blows hot.
.
.
I lock the door and look at my face in the unforgiving bathroom mirror. This insult on insult will echo forever in photo albums and high school reunions. The tub invites me to take a final bath instead. I get on my knees to look for salvation. Under the sink, I find Borax and a nail file. The promise of relief washes over me.
Here is what you must do. Pour some bleach onto a mass of TP. Lean into the mirror as you stab the file into the eye of the pustule. Savor the moment it erupts. A glorious stream of pus will spew. The rancid infection must be eliminated. Press the bleach-soaked toilet paper against the nose until your nerves are on fire. No pain. No gain. Then scrub your nose with the hand towel. The more you scrub, the wider the crater and copious the blood will be. The file is handy for grinding down the cartilage. Sadie Hawks date will break down the door and find you on the white tile floor covered in scarlet fluid and call the ambulance.
My former nose will be long forgotten while I heal. When the bandages are removed the worst that will happen is that I’ll have a beef jerky scar on my face. Then I will be called just Tess.
What do you think? Did I learn anything?
PS The most important lesson comes after I read Chuck’s post - Spoiling the Nest. Writing is the way to self-awareness. I chose the Nose as the subject of this little story because it appears in medieval Japan as one of the stories Buddhist monks told the laymen. I think the nose stands for the ego of sorts. Japan’s most famous writer Akutagawa Ryunosuke’s short story about The Nose was based on this old tale of a vain priest with a huge nose. Believe it or not, the original tale from the Uji Shūi Monogatari is more graphic than my little story. :)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Nose_(Akutagawa_short_story)
These notes a great as always. Your insight is also invaluable.
Dear Nanak, I just read your price about the nose and would like to share a comment. Your story had a good lead in using strong words, but I found the solution came too easily. I might have wanted to see some vacillating on her part. Example: was there a moment she considered leaving her nose alone to see what could happen? Was it possible her date might like her anyway and what about that possibility? Instead we miss out on inward dialogue that might help us know her better beyond the blemish she made worse. Something that would bring her to the brink of her decision would make the outcome more powerful. Just a thought. Otherwise I found it entertaining!