on the wrong side of sunrise

Author: Alice Thomsen (Page 9 of 10)

Audience Awareness: a confession (featuring only one link to an external reference)

Here’s something you might not know about me. I’m actually a decent singer. Not outstanding—my range isn’t great, and I’m not one of those people who can instantly harmonize—but competent. I played assorted woodwind instruments for almost ten years, so I’m good at breathing (sounds easy, but often overlooked) and since I often played complementary rather than primary parts, once I find a harmony, I can stick to it.

Like I said, competent.

But there’s a reason you might not—almost certainly do not—know this about me, and it’s this: I don’t sing around other people. Occasionally, if I have a bit of liquid alcohol—I mean, liquid courage—and surroundings where it could easily pass undetected, I might let out a few lines, but don’t hold your breath for it. (Seriously—don’t. Good, deep breaths are important if you want to get more than three words in to “All the Small Things,” which—if you didn’t know—drunk girls are unable to resist singing if it comes on.)

I am, as you might well guess, somewhat self-conscious and insecure.

It isn’t just singing, though. This is a fault of mine that colors most of my pursuits, and it’s problematic. There are times when I handle it better—for instance, in my first year of college, I performed an unaccompanied bassoon solo at a recital. It was the fourth of Telemann’s twelve Fantasias, and I infer from the lack of nightmare flashbacks that the performance went all right.

Still, even though I have my moments, I don’t have many of them, and those I do are typically well-rehearsed—hours of practice in private lessons or alone, then on the stage in an empty auditorium, maybe—and fact-checked. This, I realize, might not be a good way to approach the world.

I recently began submitting applications to graduate programs, and many of them request a resume or curriculum vitae. In both cases, I list this site, and given that, I think I need to find a way to get back into updating and designing it. I have a couple ideas as to how to go about this, but one question I’m torn on is attention to audience. Do I take into consideration everyone who might possibly come across my blog—an old friend who moved away when we were eight, Googling my name out of curiosity? a second cousin I’ve never met? the director of a graduate program going through my application?—or do I post without thinking of them?

In Stephen King’s book On Writing (okay, two external references) he discusses your Ideal Reader. It’s been over ten years since I read the book, so I don’t want to go into too much detail, at the risk of misrepresenting King’s concept, but here’s the essence of it. Your Ideal Reader is who you think of when you think of your audience. The common sentiment goes, if you try to please everyone, you’ll end up pleasing no one, and I think this is the function of the Ideal Reader—to provide someone, real or imaginary, to write to.

I made a previous attempt at blogging before, with even less direction than I have now, but in those early posts, I addressed my Imaginary Readers, operating on what I thought was a similar philosophy. That misses the point, though. The Ideal Reader is a single entity, one who is well-defined in the mind of the writer; Imaginary Readers are a nondescript group of unknowns, and as a result, an attempt to appeal to them is doomed to fail.

My Ideal Reader is less defined than it once was. I suspect this is part of what has frozen me up with regard to my blog—I get flustered by considering all the potential readers.

This website will be getting redesigned over the coming weeks and months, and with that, I hope to alter my approach to blogging so that it is less self-conscious and less insecure. We are in a period of transition, my Ideal Reader and I. The times, they are a-changin’.

(Okay, three references, but none of them is a peer-reviewed study. I think that counts for something.)

The Hero Rises: extraordinary figures for extraordinary times

There’s a stereotypical opening to terrible pre-written statements—valedictorian speeches, application essays, remarks at weddings—that goes something like this.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines “extraordinary” as “out of the usual or regular course or order.”

“Extraordinary” often has positive connotations, but this is a recent shift, one that hasn’t wholly taken hold; “extraordinary” can be a gunman opening fire on a crowded theater.

As you have no doubt heard from many other, more reputable sources, the much-anticipated midnight opening of The Dark Knight Rises was overshadowed by something extraordinary.

Extraordinary. Extraordinary. Extraordinary. Extraordinary. Extraordinary.

The literary theorist Viktor Shklovsky talks about the role of art as a means of defamiliarization. We encounter day-to-day things so regularly that we become numb to them. They, like a word repeated too many times, lose heft. Defamiliarization, it can be said, “makes the stone stony.”

If you look at movie releases over the years, an interesting trend appears: as our times become extraordinary, so do our heroes. During crisis, we take comfort in the Bruce Waynes and Peter Parkers, the seemingly familiar figures who carry with them extraordinary alter egos.

I confess, I have not seen the Dark Knight films. I can’t speak from that experience, but I can speak from others. Harry Potter indelibly colored my childhood. I watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer as a young adolescent. Early on, I became convinced that Yoda kicked ass, and I stand by that. All these characters are extraordinary, in their ways. All are heroes. And all had their evil counterparts.

Because without extraordinary evil*, what good it a superhero? When the Comics Code Authority set new standards and the Joker was relegated to stealing children’s homework, wasn’t Batman just as crippled?

In response to the impulse to blame the violence of the Dark Knight films for the violence in Denver, NPR blogger Glen Weldon writes:

Batman didn’t create this act of random violence. In a very real sense, he exists to help us respond to it.

True, comic-book heroes are childish notions. But this is exactly what lends them a simple, primal purity of meaning. They are a means by which we vicariously confront—and defeat—what threatens us. Batman is our agent, our proxy, our sense that Good exists and that it invariably wins out over Evil. On the streets of Gotham he will be met by Fear (The Scarecrow), Greed (The Penguin), Wrath (Bane) and, inevitably, repeatedly, Insanity (The Joker).

But he—and thus, we—will win. Always. Every time. That knowledge is what he gives us. That is what he is for.

A good superhero is (I would imagine, not having made an attempt since I was quite young) hard to write. There is the risk of the Luke Skywalker—the character so good and extraordinarily pure that he becomes grating. There is the risk of the deus ex machina—the character with an extraordinarily arbitrary and simple solution that makes the resolution feel unearned. But a good superhero is also hard to resist, on a good day, but even more so on a bad one.


*There are complications with portraying extraordinary evil in the real world. But that is another matter for another time.

Syntactic Violations: neurolinguistics and a night in the park

Last week, I saw a good friend of mine play the role of Peter Simple in an outdoor performance of Shakespeare’s The Merry Wives of Windsor. Every summer, Shakespeare in the Arb puts on a show in a local nature area, where both actors and audience members move from location to location for different settings, incorporating the flora (and, on the occasion luck is particularly good, fauna) into the scenes.

Nicols Arboretum, though, isn’t far from the city. Sometimes a train rumbles by, or a helicopter passes overhead en route to the nearby hospital. Even when that isn’t an issue, nature may not cooperate: the first of the two nights I went, the wind sometimes swallowed the actors’ words.

Thanks to smart phone technology, by the end of the first windy scene, I had downloaded The Merry Wives of Windsor so as to read along when I couldn’t hear, but as the evening went on, I found myself referring to the text even when I could hear easily. Part of this is that there are subtleties in Shakespeare I wouldn’t catch just listening—and I know there are some I missed, even after seeing it a second time; part of it, though, is that I am a casual Shakespeare fan in the twenty-first century, so the Bard’s language makes me pause.

Which, as it turns out, might be part of the appeal.

In 2007, Guillaume Thierry and several others published a paper called “Event-related potential characterisation of the Shakespearean functional shift in narrative sentence structure.” It’s thick with more advanced neurology than I fully understand, (this is a much friendlier summary) but here’s the gist of it: Shakespeare’s use of “functional shifts” (i.e., language that is in some way non-standard, such as “lip something loving in my ear” in place of “whisper something loving in my ear” or the many other examples on p. 929–930) makes the brain hesitate for a moment, work just a little harder in a way that excites us.

Subjects’ brain activity in response to a nonstandard sentence shows a peak occurring noticeably later than a normal response (see the difference between images A {roughly when a normal response would occur} and C on p. 928)—the pause that comes for me when Master Page says

Let’s go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, we’ll mock
him. I do invite you to-morrow morning to my house
to breakfast: after, we’ll a-birding together; I
have a fine hawk for the bush. Shall it be so?
(III.iii.205–208)

and it sinks in just a little slower, like a new food whose flavor is unfamiliar to me. Perhaps that mini-rush from linguistic novelty makes it all the more delightful when, two lines later, the Frenchman Dr. Caius declares, “If dere be one or two, I shall make-a the turd.”

Transitions: felonies, decomposing corpses, and love

This March, I had the opportunity to attend the Association of Writers and Writing Programs conference in Chicago. One session was called The Long and Short of It: Navigating the Transition between Writing Novels and Short Stories, featuring Bruce Machart, Hannah Tinti, Melanie Thon, Erin McGraw, and Kevin Wilson. While some of the panelists’ remarks were less helpful than others (as a writerly friend points out, if trusting our instincts was enough, we would be successful writers already), some had interesting perspectives. Wilson, for instance, suggested a short story is stealing a car and crashing it into a tree, whereas a novel is stealing that same car but resisting the urge to crash it.

This transition—novel and short story—has always vexed me. I remember becoming serious about writing in fifth grade, coming home from school every day and sitting down at my family’s computer, listening to the same Dar Williams CD on repeat and eating Gardetto’s and writing for some indeterminate span of time, and even then, I was writing an eleven-year-old’s version of a novel. It ended up around two hundred pages, give or take. I entered it in our local 4-H fair’s fiction category. The year after that, they instituted a ten-page limit (at which point I took the first chapter of my new novel project, single-spaced, and shrunk the font down until it fit in ten pages, thus driving them to institute further restrictions).

I have, as far back as I remember, preferred novels to short stories, as a reader and a writer. Sometimes I think I know the reasons for this, and sometimes I don’t, but it’s pretty consistent.

The problem is, short stories are a practical form. Looking ahead to MFA programs, I recognize that stories tend to be stronger samples than novel excerpts, and it’s much easier to publish in journals than it is to publish a novel, making short stories a faster way to begin building a writerly resume.

This transition, then, is one I would like to learn to navigate. I can appreciate a good short story, but I have never fallen in love with a short story the way I have with select novels. Even the best short stories don’t have the same payoff for me, which I suspect is why I have trouble getting really excited about them.

Right now, I’m between projects. I have a loose concept for a possible short story collection, but I don’t yet love it like I’d hoped I would (though this could be due to a lack of clarity about the project as much as anything else). I got coffee with a friend today to discuss my paralysis. At one point, I remarked that I had once known how much force it takes to bite off your tongue but couldn’t remember.

“That,” my friend said, “is what you should be writing about. You know all these weird things—you should have a collection called Weird Fucking Shit.”

The title might not be a winner, but it’s a fair point. We each have a unique set of interests and passions and perspectives we bring to the page (or keyboard) with us, and we do ourselves no favors when we don’t take advantage of them.

I don’t know what I’m going to write next. This friend suggests a story about a body farm, so perhaps I’ll follow that. I want to be able to love short stories to the point I honestly want to write them, as opposed to viewing them as a necessary exercise, like an audition tape or application essay; I just haven’t found out how to develop that. Maybe body farms are the way to go. After all, who doesn’t love a good body farm?

Build your wings on the way down.

Ray Bradbury died.

I hope to gather some thoughts. Until then, take this from him:

If we listened to our intellect we’d never have a love affair. We’d never have a friendship. We’d never go in business because we’d be cynical: “It’s gonna go wrong.” Or, “She’s going to hurt me.” Or, “I’ve had a couple of bad love affairs, so therefore …” Well, that’s nonsense. You’re going to miss life. You’ve got to jump off the cliff all the time and build your wings on the way down.

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