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| Eric Witchey |
Any writer who believes they know
their craft is a liar or a fool.
It’s August 11th, and
I’m freshly home from the Willamette Writers Conference in Portland, Oregon—a
wonderful conference that happens to be more or less in my back yard. I had the
usual good time there. Old friends, new friends, and many new ideas made that
possible. At one point, I was sitting next to a woman and decided to strike up
a conversation. Since one of my jobs at the conference was to teach, I asked
her what she was getting out of the seminars.
She said, “I’m hearing the same
things I heard last year and the year before. I must be getting to the point
where I know what I’m doing.”
I nodded and said, “I guess it’s
time for you to teach.”
That won me a puzzled look.
While I was teaching one of my
sessions, a seminar student offered to buy copies of the modules I hand out if
I would tell him where to find them on the internet.
They aren’t on the internet.
He was disappointed. However, I
then told him that he should write his own. Mine were written to teach me how
to write. That is, I have made a habit for many years of identifying my writing
weaknesses, naming them, finding techniques to overcome them, practicing those
techniques until I’m sure I can perform well enough to sell, and then writing
up the techniques in order to prove to myself that I have truly learned them.
Of course, writing them up doesn’t
actually prove anything. I must then use the written document to teach another
writer to execute the technique successfully.
You see, my test for whether I
have truly learned something isn’t to just prove I can execute it. I must also
prove to myself that I can make someone else successful in the use of the
technique. Only then do I entertain the possibility I know something about the
thing.
Why do I require this of myself?
Because I am too good at tricking myself.
If I am the judge of my own
execution, I am much too likely to subconsciously restrict the context of my
self-testing, to decide that I did a good enough job, to pay less attention to
important details, or to simply move on without actually succeeding at all.
If I require myself to make
someone else successful, their story, their world, their hopes and dreams for
their fiction complicate the equation to the point that I must adjust
perspective on the techniques in order to accommodate all the complexities of
context, life, and form that they can, and do, bring to the page.
If I can teach the technique in
the context of someone else’s life, story, psychology, hopes, and dreams, then
I probably actually understand it and am much less likely to be fooling myself.
So, I suggested to the man that
he could write his own modules.
He was not best pleased.
The last session I taught on
Sunday was a seminar on how to run a writers group capable of launching
professional careers. While talking with the audience about their experiences,
one thing came up over and over. The groups that place a premium on new production
(not revision) launch the most careers. The people who make their
responsibility for analysis more important than their desire to receive
critiques are the ones whose careers are launched.
In other words, the entire
conference seemed to be focused on reminding me that writing success comes from
writing a lot, constantly evaluating skills, learning new skills, practicing,
and, finally, teaching. And that last one, teaching, is exactly what brings the
writer full circle in this never ending cycle of growth in craft. The
responsibility that comes with teaching reveals the tiny cracks in
knowledge—the holes and, sometimes, chasms that we overlook if we are only
serving our own pursuits. That new knowledge brings us back to the page with
new vision. Then, we write a lot, constantly evaluate skills, learn new skills,
practice, and, finally, teach.
What do writing groups do if
there aren’t enough manuscripts to fill the time? Chat? Cancel? Discuss old
stories?
Or, does someone step up and
attempt to teach a concept, technique, or skill?
-End-
