War of the Words

Page 6 American Book Review about the limitations of the Freudian model. We are daring ourselves to envision a selfhood beyond conventional selfhood while contemplating the devices by which we tell, retell, and untell ourselves. We are remembering Czesław Miłosz’s sparkling observation : “The purpose of poetry is to remind us how difficult it is to remain just one person.” Remembering Ludwig Wittgenstein’s: “One of the most misleading representational techniques in our language is the use of the word ‘I.’” Re-learning what Samuel Beckett, KathyAcker, Ben Marcus,Young-Hae Chang, Patrik Ourednîk, et al. have already taught us…but from within the text we are scripting instead of from without. Re-learning that every narratological move we make, every technique we employ, carries with it philosophical and political consequences, whether or not we can at first articulate them, whether or not at first we are even aware of them. Every time any of us speaks in a “creative” writing classroom, we also challenge us all to reflect upon the institutional framework in which our words sound—what a “workshop” is; what it might be; how it exists within the power fields of a given department; what economic purposes it serves, and what cultural; how the university expresses itself through it and us; how the larger culture does; how that might change; why we teach creative writing… Lance Olsen’s next novel, Head in Flames, will appear from Chiasmus this fall. He teaches innovative narrative theory and practice at the University of Utah and serves as chair of the Board of Directors at FC2, associate editor at ABR, and fiction editor at Western Humanities Review. Act Truly Julie Shigekuni Years ago, a therapist friend jokingly defended her style of handling interventions: “I decide what’s true, and I act accordingly.” I’d wondered how she could bear to hear people’s problems all day long, and I’ve continued through the years to reflect on her insight revealed to me in jest. I offer it here as my response to the question, “Why teach creative writing?” I can think of different responses, such as Richard Hugo’s smart assertion that a good creative writing course saves the young writer time and effort by teaching the writer early on what not to do—or the stance taken by several writers to whom I’ve posed this question that goes something to the tune of how the well being of any culture can be measured by its production of literature. I find both positions edifying; it’s hard to sidestep the appeal of a solid, altruistic answer. But the question for me remains personal, and I find that my friend’s half-joke’s halftruth provides a better, if more selfish, answer. As a writer, I decide what’s true, and I act accordingly. Decisions I make on the page often send me spiraling into a conundrum. I teach creative writing because engaging with students is my way out. Students don’t tolerate self-deceit. They’re hungry for discourse that feels satisfying, and in interacting with them, I must change the way I think—often in surprising ways, always in ways that I had not imagined on my own—and thereby must change what I write. In the years since I began teaching, I’ve come back to the position that led me to teach creative writing in the first place. I write having tried other things and failed. I wish I could sing, or dance, or spend my days in a white lab coat. But since I don’t have the talent or the training, I write. I observe what other people do, and I document what I see in a way that makes sense to me.And when I emerge from this difficult task of attempting to set myself straight, I enjoy the company of other writers who have been similarly preoccupied. Writers need writers, and writing programs offer writers a venue. This clustering of writers who are necessarily solitary creatures leads to other questions that concern me: such as what does it mean when a good poem written by a woman of color becomes...