The following is a familiar scenario to most writing teachers: Each time a student brings work to the class, the poems are all similar and share the same faults. When the student is confronted with these faults, whether, say, an overuse of generalizations or sentimental language or obscurity, the student clearly balks at the criticism. He may respond, “This is my style of writing” or “This is the type of poem I want to write” or “X read this and said it was wonderful” or “If I revise this I’ll lose the original impulse for the poem, my true feelings” (or any other number of defensive remarks). An argument may ensue where the teacher tries to bring to bear his or her superior knowledge of the craft and tradition and articulate more clearly the failures of the poem.
All the while, in this dialogue, the student either grows more defiant or sinks in a morass of emotions–self-pity, embarrassment, anger and resentment, self-loathing, feelings of failure. Whatever happens, it’s clear the student does not want to revise the poem to any great extent. And the question of whether or not the student knows how to do this is moot. The desire is not there, so what good is any exposition on technique going to do?
What is the primary source of this impasse? Is it merely a lack of knowledge or learning or experience, all of which the teacher possesses to a greater extent than the student?
I would say No, the primary source of this impasse is psychological. And this impasse, I believe, stems from a faulty understanding of creativity and the writing process. One way to understand this impasse is to imagine what is going on in the head of the student: If this piece of writing is not working, then that means I may be—or am surely—a failure as a writer. I have no potential. I will not succeed.
A different approach: This poem may not work. It’s an experiment. I am one step closer to the answer. I am just starting to discover my potential as a writer. This discovering is a process, whose end neither I, nor my teacher, can predict. What I do have control of is this: I can learn to write differently and in new ways. I can experiment more. I can learn new techniques. I can continue on with the process.
The structure of the workshop model tends to encourage an approach to writing that stresses performance and product. The student often feels as if the presentation of her work to the class is a performance. She is producing a product that will be judged by her peers, and she wants that judgment always to be positive. This dynamic is increased in a writing class or MFA program where students feel especially competitive with each other.
Given this dynamic, the student will feel pressured to present only that work which she is comfortable with and which she feels will be regarded as successful. She will be less inclined to experiment, to try something new, to present work she is unsure of. She will be more afraid of failing or appearing foolish. She will stay with the tried and true.
Such a dynamic is not an atmosphere that fosters creative growth. The best businesses—especially tech businesses—understand this. But I wonder how many writing workshops are conducted with such an understanding.
While writing workshops can teach students important critical skills, what the workshops often fail to deal with is the nature of the creative process. In my teaching, I start with certain basic premises about creativity:
1) The unconscious is always more creative and complex than the conscious mind.
2) Techniques serve to occupy the conscious mind so that the unconscious mind can be left free to create and bubble up to the surface. Thus, though techniques call attention to formal elements, their ultimate purpose is to provide access to the unconscious mind. They do this in part by enabling creative “accidents”.
In this way we should not look at techniques as intimidating benchmarks or standards, but as tools to help us in the creative process.
3) Writing is like a chess game between the conscious and the unconscious mind. The conscious mind makes the first move, and the unconscious mind responds. Beginning writers are often more attached to the first move of the conscious mind. They often don’t see–or refuse to acknowledge–where the unconscious mind is leading. They want to cheat, to have the conscious mind control the whole process. The reasons for this are often psychological. In part, the beginning writer is afraid of what the unconscious mind is revealing.
4) Creative writing is the search for and creation of a language to express what the unconscious knows but does not have the language to express.
The student who does the same poem or story over and over believes he has only one voice. That, the student says, is my true voice. That is me. In this way, the student underestimates his own complexity.
Beyond this, partly as a result of the critiques they receive in the workshop model, beginning writers will focus on micro issues in their revising—changing a word or a sentence structure, line by line attention. They often avoid trying to radically rethink or re-conceive their work, to find a totally different approach or voice, to take the whole thing apart and try again.
But in our writing, breakthroughs often come less from small revisions or critical evaluations than from the discovery of a new voice; this voice is one that was previously repressed, often for various psychological reasons. At times this discovery may come through switching to a new form and even a new genre.
I’m a firm believer in Jungian psychology as useful model for the creative writer, the view that our psyches through the lens of polytheism rather than monotheism. Viewing the psyche as a multiplicity is far more useful than viewing it as a unity or even a Freudian division of superego, ego and id. Such a Jungian approach recognizes that we all contain a multiplicity of voices inside our heads, a pantheon of inner gods. Whatever religion we may profess, our creative impulses are polytheistic and poly-vocal (and thus, also multicultural). Rather doing the same thing over and over, creativity comes, in part, from unleashing these different voices, from diverse approaches.
As I’ve said before here, many gods, many voices.