Writing Fiction

. . .is much harder than it sounds. No, really. I'm currently in the midst of my Writing Short Fiction 5F class, a "workshop" as my grad student teacher would say, and so far it has been rather interesting. The way it works is that in the quarter, along with learning how to write cohesive stories as taught by two books we read, each student submits two different short stories up for critique by the entire class. Sounds frightening, huh? During those critique sessions, the class pretends that the author isn't in the room and starts openly discussing the good and bad of the piece being analyzed (within reason and respect, of course), and ways on which the writer can improve.

Well having been through one with my first story - and participating in other's workshops as well, I thought I'd have it figured out by now. Granted the class marks my first foray into my Creative Writing major, but I thought I'd be able to get into the swing of things rather early on. Instead, as experienced last week when I turned in my second and final story, theres always this sense of dread and nervousness that hums around my head until the day of my own workshop. In fact, leading up to the 6:00 pm class today almost made me feel nauseated. I recall being equally nervous when my first story was critiqued, but today just felt totally different - its hard to describe really, as it wasn't my collaspse-inducing moment when I turned it in last week (worked 6 hours straight on it the day it was due), but it was just as disconcerting.

See, my passion for writing began, fittingly enough, with video games. From there, I composed some slightly-retarded fan-fiction (that I hope will never see the light of day again) and slowly created new ideas for me to write from. Though I never actually finished any of these stories - I was always dissatisfied with one idea, and would begin an entirely different story concept later on - it provided me with at least some sort of rookie foundation: I developed a feel for it, but quickly bailed out if the idea ever bored me or wasn't looking to go anywhere further.

The thing was that, outside from "publishing" certain chapters of those stories to forums that I used to frequent, no other eyes would see what I wrote. It was mine, and mine alone, no matter how terribly bad or terribly good the writing happened to be. That's why when, upon learning of the syllabus for my writing class this quarter, it almost scared me to death that I'd be in the same room as those who are openly critiquing my piece of writing. Its akin to giving up your baby to the wolves - you're never quite sure how the audience would react to your writing, and it seemed if they had said anything bad about it, (with your sensitivity to such things already ramped up to the max) you feel nothing short of being depressed.

Maybe I'm exaggerating a little too much - after all, the workshops are meant to foster growth and improvement, and as a writer, criticism is one of the most important assets to have in maturing one's craft. But like I said before, when my work is critiqued, everything just seems to be overly sensitive to comments made from real live people. It sounds quite silly when I think about it, but considering that a lot of my fiction writing was done within the detached distance of the internet, it was a scary idea to see these people in class actually saying good or bad things about my work.

That's why I was totally elated when mostly everyone seemed to love my first story, which I titled "The GreenHill Gunslinger", and some few technical problems aside, it seemed to materialize my idea of a gripping, heartfelt story. After that class was over, I was content for pretty much the rest of the week - nothing could touch me; I felt invincible. It was honestly a feeling I had never felt since playing football for my high school a few years ago. The first story seemed to cement the writing skills that my teachers had been praising all along (that is, in essay form at least), so it felt good that I could actually piece a cohesive story together.

Then came today.

To be honest, I don't want to make a big deal about this - as the other writers in my class take their criticism graciously and with tact, something I try to do - but sometimes, it honestly sucks to see that the vision that I had lied out in my head did not translate as smoothly to the ink on the paper. My second story certainly wasn't bad writing, but it ended up confusing people a whole lot more than I suspected it would - to be short, it dealt with a woman with a personality disorder and her attempts at organizing her life from within it. But the lack of clarity was evident in the comments they gave in class, and I really took it to heart.

All told, the second story took about 14 hours to complete, much of it written on the day it had been due (it was a similar case with my first story as well). In that sense, I guess I was too impassioned by my efforts to make a dramatic story that I didn't bother to go back and consider what may have been a confusing part of the tale. Irregardless of when I wrote it, however, the response from my class was markedly different from before: many expressed interest in the concept, but got lost due to lack of clarity in particular areas of the story.

The only reason that this had a particular impact on me as well was, when I first set out to write this story, I explicitly reminded myself not to confuse the reader or leave them in the dark intentionally to carry a point across. The fact that I did not accomplish this well enough had left me quit downtrodden: it's true when they say that your harshest critic will always be yourself. Every comment that I heard just automatically amplified itself in my head, leaving me in a sort of daze once my workshop was over.

Coming home I didn't think much of it, actually, until I read some comments from the copies themselves - as part of the workshop, people turn back their copies of the stories with comments once the author is done being critiqued. A few them said nothing at all, but others echoed the lack of clarity that had been prevalent in tonight's discussion. From there, all I could help feel was just this slight tinge of depression, completely opposite from what I felt after my first story was critiqued. It's a rather weird feeling, too. I don't get depressed too often - frustration is more like it - but the more I think about, the more it makes me concerned about my future in writing.

I'm sure I'll do fine in my later fiction classes, but right now at least, I can't help but worry. I admit that my second story was somewhat ambitious, and had an overall complex plot (perhaps I'll post it here one day?) but I hate seeing the faults in my abilities as a writer, since I do hold myself if not to perfection, then at least clarity and cohesiveness. It is definitely hard for me to accept these faults, though I do try my best to learn from them in the long run. Just right now, it makes me feel almost downright terrible.

On the bright side, things always tend to look better in the morning.