Lan Samantha Chang

Lan Samantha Chang is an award winning fiction writer (All is Forgotten, Nothing is Lost, Hunger) and teaches at the prestigious University of Iowa's Iowa's Writer's Workshop. Here are some things she has to say on writing fiction.

Fiction is a focus on things in the world.

Writing is a construction of identity.

Take details and turn them into something more. For example, a lady could be wearing a leopard spotted jacket because her personality is predator-like. 

Defy conventional logic. Literature is an un-quantifiable, making writing an irrational practice.

Writing fiction helps us learn to love others and not just ourselves. The development of compassion, and the ability to see others and feel for them, is the fiction writer's art; and this is what art has to be about. The practice of the fiction writer's art is learning to see outside themselves, seeing beyond the self.

Don't be afraid to interact with everyone from all cultures, religions and beliefs, etc. etc. These interactions bring more facets of the human experience into your fiction. For example, acknowledge that humans have spiritual experiences that drive and motivate them.  

The Earth is a Landfill

The earth is a Landfill

I tread in asphalt streams amongst the Great Plains

Overwhelmed by the rushing rapids of nearby

Gerald R. Ford River

As the albino sky cows grazed peacefully in the toxic pastures

To stomachs content, releasing thunderous flatulence

Onto the earth

Red brick revolvers emitted smoke lingered by death

Imprinted in the buffalo grass at the battle field

Of Superfund

The natives lived off the land, filled by its roots

And the pioneers laid waste, landed there by

By the whispers in the wind

One group’s trash is another’s treasure.

Cluttered

Cluttered

Peering through my window,

I cup my hands to see

Mr. Roy G. Biv.

Haplessly strewn about

within a backdrop of “trees.”

My eyes strained, as

I took it all in:

“nature’s” random.

I discovered a reflecting pond of me

I stepped back,

tried the brass knob (one more time),

and wondered:

Where is my key?

Linda McCullough Moore

Linda McCullough Moore is a short story writer who has published over 300 short stories in various literary magazines, and she has won numerous awards (most notably, The Pushcart prize). Here are some brief notes on what she has to say about writing and writing short fiction.

Moore believes the best short stories, and any story for that matter, have two narratives going on at the same time. The two narratives may be moving back-and-forth like a checkered pattern; or the narratives may be told in giant blocks, telling all of narrative #1 before telling narrative #2. For Linda McCullough Moore, two narratives going on within the same story is the mark of a good short story.

Second, Moore believes that a short story, by definition, is about human longing/yearning. Somebody has to want something. Kurt Vonnegut says, even if it is a nun wanting a glass of water, there must be that yearning for something.

Third, allow your stories and characters to go place you don't particularly like, For example, two people meet and you plan a really nice reunion; however, when you get to writing the scene, the two people end up arguing.

Finally, write a last sentence that will turn a story on its ear! (This is probably the toughest out of all these tips. Even Moore admitted that that is still a goal of hers, having a last sentence that completely changes things.)

Writing the Essay

Over April 19-21, I had the privilege of attending the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids, Michigan. As the title would suggest, it is a writing festival in which authors--some more well known than others--came to Calvin College to speak on topics surrounding all writers of many genres. I took many great notes, (or at least I think I took many great notes) on many great authors--Marilynne Robinson, Brian Doyle, Patrick Madden, Gary D. Schmidt, Johnathan Safran Foer, etc. etc.--that I will share more of later.

This post, the one I am currently typing up right now, comes from the insightful words of Brian Doyle and Patrick Madden--two great modern essayists.

What do they say?

Well, for starters, the essay form of writing is in danger! Yes, danger! It is a dying art; and it is a dying art because it is a misunderstood art. That is to say, when most people hear the word "essay," they run, they cower, they cringe, stoop, wince, recoil, shrink... there is just a simple misunderstanding plaguing the essay.

Let's be honest, what do you think of, immediately, after hearing the word--do I dare say it?--essay. I know I think of the arduous hours spent crafting--no, that sounds too kind--spent slaving over writing prompts assigned as homework, major papers, exams, and so on. And we all know writing the essay in those situations was never fun; and if you say otherwise, you're lying. I mean, really, who enjoyed essays? No one. I don't think it was possible to enjoy essays back then.

But that is why the essay is a dying art form. Too many people have had too many horrific experiences with the essay. It doesn't have to be this way; certainly two prominent essayists, Patrick Madden and Brian Doyle, believe this. The essay, in fact, can be one of the best forms of writing.

How?

The essay can be just you; it is an opportunity to open up a vein and just bleed onto the page. The essay is a chance to tiptoe towards holiness. That is to say, there is nothing ordinary; everything has an extraordinary component to it.

The essay is endlessly new. It is taking a car, preferably your dream car, out for a ride. Just go with the flow; let your hair blow in the wind, as they say--explore playfulness and voice, love and pain, bluntness, foolery, bamboozle-ry, and anything else that excites you, hits home with you, gets you all hot-n-bothered. The point being, we, human beings, are trapped in the prison of our dignity; and the essay, in its fullness, takes off that mask and relieves the burden of dignity.

Aching to write an essay? Here are some quick tips from the talk from Brian Doyle and Patrick Madden...

• Don't universalize, cosmolize, homilize, didactic-alize, etc. etc. 
• There is a story behind the essay you are writing, so make it a story: beginning, middle, and end.
• Jazz your verbs.
• Don't be afraid to have blunt, jerky, goofy transitions.
• You can write great essays about other people; it doesn't have to be about you.
• Do both generalizations and detail, show and tell.
• Have an unexpectedness to your essay--just let go; let your mind range free.
• Tell a story that suggests something. Don't give your opinion. (For example, write as you are saying, "Hey, here's a story, what do you think?")
• Approach with humble skepticism. It is as if you are saying, "Are we really sure we know what is going on? What if?"

Now go out there and explore the essay form.

Anxiety

Hello. Today, my faithful readers, you all get another poem. I would not consider poetry a strong point of mine. I do believe, however, if you want to be the best writer you can be, then you have to practice in all forms of writing: creative fiction, creative nonfiction, memoir, essay, and poetry (I know I am not covering all my bases here).

For me, poetry promoted a deeper thought of reflection. A greater plumbing of the human heart. And technically speaking, poetry forced me to jazz up my word choice with a richer and fuller language. Enjoy this poem I entitled, "Anxiety."


 Anxiety

Four years and nothing to show.

Major, major problems

Shakespeare won’t shake these fears

Am I Donne?

Literature litters

Greens fritter each passing

Ink symbol:

And Frost-y trees blow in

as Shels flow onto shores

of this Poe-dunk towns Walt-

zing Whit-e-men, one-two-

three step-on-toes again

“A-Pablo-gize, don’t be

a Dick-in-son,” said a man.

My eyes strain for gold and

I get the muck,

until one art piece glimmers.

And I ask—

Are these Words worth it?

Silence

I am slacking on updating this blog with content. It is crunch time, right now; the semester is coming to a close. So, here is a poem I wrote in fall. It is called "Silence." Enjoy.

Silence

First dates sit in turquoise vinyl booths,

nursing on their text messages.

Women trudge home

through five o’clock traffic,

pacified by Andrea Bocelli’s

radio distorted voice.

Men sit with plastic attached to their ears,

placed on hold,

sucking on their IPods.

Mute birds perch on bark branches

Twitter tweets on their behalf.

Insulated from silence.

It has been awhile

It has been awhile since I last posted anything. Normally I would continue with my series, but I don't feel like writing that up right now (but I will continue it soon). Instead, I will share another short story that I have written. It will only be the first few paragraphs as usual, though (I do this so that if I have the opportunity to get it published somewhere, I don't have to worry about taking down my story). Enjoy:

Patrick Gilmore opened his bedroom window and poked his head outside. The air was cold--very cold--like a piercing dagger. But no matter the unpleasantness, there was a familiarity Patrick felt--though it wasn't a comforting familiarity. He paused.


A lady, walking her dog, sauntered along the sidewalk. She leaned backwards on her heels as if she had nowhere to be and nothing to worry about. Even the dog let its tongue hang loose, breathing heavy, dopey breathes of innocence. A couple ran along the sidewalk, talking and laughing. Patrick's neighbor across the street, Luther Franklin, stood in his bathrobe, pajama pants, and slippers, waiting for the mailman. Just waiting. Waiting with a cup of coffee in his hands. Waiting. And when the mail did come, Luther greeted him with a smile and a wave as if they were old college pals.


Patrick couldn't help but feel sorry for those poor souls. Their innocence. Their carefreeness. Their nonchalantness. Their ignorance truly is bliss, thought Patrick, but it's tragic. If only they knew what I knew. If only they could walk a day in my shoes, knowing the imminent threats in the world. But they are far too occupied with the pleasures of walking the dog, sharing laughter, and lounging in lush pajamas with a warm cup of coffee. I know better than to be preoccupied with the fantasies of this world. Reality is where I sit.


Patrick continued watching until the people cleared from the street. Then he pulled back from the window. He felt more relaxed with an empty street.


But then there was this car. Patrick's eyes went on alert, darting around. A Jeep Grand Cherokee parked across the street at the neighbor's house. Black. Tinted windows. License plate number MJY D303. Florida. What is Florida doing in Wisconsin? Family? Friends? The snow around the tires looked undisturbed. Whoever it is, they must have gotten here sometime last night, before the snowfall.