What We’re Reading: Every Writer Has A Thousand Faces
Not so long ago… okay really, forever ago in Internet Time, we interviewed poet, teacher, and essayist David Biespiel about his opinions on the ins and outs of MFA programs. I’m returning now (perhaps in the hazy disillusionment of my own MFA experience) to his book for a little guidance, better yet: a wake up call.
Every Writer Has A Thousand Faces by David Biespiel (Kelson Books, 2010)
If you’re anything like me, a preface to a book on creative technique and craft that features Adrienne Rich is a fairly sure guarantee that you’ll make it to chapter one. While that’s the case in Every Writer Has a Thousand Faces, David Biespiel shows less of an interest in delivering what you think you want and instead offers the reader what they might (or probably) need. This is a book about wandering and fixation, boundaries and boundlessness. By the end, you may discover a new friend—the Artist inside you—who’s ready to take a stroll through a fresh process, a creative journey.
Now, reviewing a craft book is kind of tricky, I mean, I can’t just give away all the craft tips! So I want to explain why this is an important summer read. For me, at least, summer is slightly less stressful than the other nine months of the year. Maybe the American education system has also conditioned you to breathe a little easier June through August. In any case, now that I feel less pressure, I am more willing to consider my craft and method of crafting. And really, that’s what David’s book is—a proposal of another method of creativity and creative output. He never mentions submissions or contests, reading recommendations, or even educational programs (and thank goodness because my browser history is chock-full of all that jazz in blog and article form). Before sitting down with this text, my summer plans went something like this: revise, revise, revise, submit, draft. Maybe that’s your plan of attack, and more power to ya!, but I can say with total confidence that the first three verbs on my to-do list would have been fraught with frustration, “submit” clouded with self-doubt, and “draft” with dread. (You guys, I’m just being honest.) Instead, reading this book just reminded me that there are many paths to “success” (whatever that is). What Every Writer includes, instead of the advice de rigueur, is a well-spring of ideas for how to jump start the creative process, valuable examples of athletic and visual artists who exercise this proposed method, and, perhaps most importantly, OODLES of empathy for the writer/artist who is battling their own stuck process and potentially self-doubt or frustration. Sound familiar? If you’re interested in a fresh approach to your writing, I say, dig into this read and discover your other 999 faces.
If I had to sum it up, Every Writer proffers an order of operations: Palette, Passion, Failure. Yup, I said failure, but Biespiel said it first. Before you fail though, you might begin with a lengthy dabbling or brainstorming method that might begin with a “word-palette,” a method where you sit down and essentially doodle language. A list of language forms itself, out of your mind, associations, and surroundings. The word-palette leads to a version of an experience (story, poem, et cetera). “The more you investigate change, the more you discover what you hadn’t known to see. In other words, the known unknowns become all you confidently know,” Biespiel explains. In my understanding, expanding the drafting process in this way allows for feeling and passion to enter into many versions of poems where stress or frustration may have formerly governed revisions.
I use the word “version” very intentionally because so does Biespiel. In fact, one could sum up this text with a very simple maxim: “versions not revisions.” The reason is simple. With the draft-and-revise method, one is only ever trouble-shooting and adjusting the draft that already exists. And we all know what happens when you come to a road block and you simply cannot “fix” what’s in front of you. You scrap it and feel like crap. But did you ever give the poem/prose a real chance to fail? Perhaps not, because the revision process was dictated by the problems in the original draft, and where can imagination or exploration enter in when we are confined to an initial creative impulse? Enter Palette; enter Passion.
The word-palette exercise frees you from constipated drafting: “No one wants a tepid attitude in your marks,” says Biespiel. “Write with a fierce attitude—whether it’s a sentence or scene—and that’s what readers will most positively respond to.” The marks he refers to are: sentences & syntax, lines & stanzas, characters & scenes. Whatever your medium, your writing will be imbued with your attitude, and your attitude is inevitably shaped by your engagement and your process while drafting. Biespiel proposes, therefore, that you explore with all your might the “marks” you employ and let them lead you to discover the version of whatever you are writing.
David says he forms these word-palettes over weeks and days, carrying around a folded sheet of paper that serves as a catchment for all the language, thoughts, lines, and the title that comes to mind. Then,
As for what I create from the words on the list? Well, if I like what comes of it, great. If not, I move on. I pick words out of the version, start over. Make a new list, do it again. I’m not making drafts and revising to fix it. I’m making lists of words to see what resonates within me. And then thinking about how I feel about the words and the resonances.
Failure does not sound so bad when you can recycle the palette and reinvent the poem/prose that first evaded you. “[B]y throwing up air ball after air ball in your writing, you master the distinction between miss and swish—which because of their consonance, assonance, and rhyme these two words would fit wonderfully onto one of my word-palettes!” So what kind of ball are you playing? Draft-and-revise or miss-and-swish?
More importantly, I leave you with the question that Adrienne Rich posed to Biespiel and the Stegner fellows: “Are you in it for the long haul?”
The Writing Life: An Interview with David Biespeil
Note: David Biespiel, acclaimed American poet, is the author of numerous books of poetry including the newly released, Charming Gardeners (University of Washington Press). Furthermore, he is a writing instructor and author of a book about creative process—Every Writer Has a Thousand Faces (Kelson Books). Biespiel is the founder and president of an independent literary studio, The Attic Institute, in Portland, Oregon. I met with David, at The Attic in southeast Portland, to discuss Creative Writing, Master of Fine Arts programs. With application season for MFA programs upon us, I thought it would be interesting to hear about Biespiel’s opinion on the matter, and, let’s face it, I wanted to glean some wisdom from this long-time writer and mentor.
David Biespiel earned a Master of Fine Arts from the University of Maryland; however, he never actually applied to the program. He was pursuing his PhD at the University, and fell into the MFA program, then continued on to earn his PhD. He’s been variously involved in MFA programs around the country, and currently conducts a yearly graduate workshop at Oregon State University in Corvallis, Oregon. Biespiel also teaches for a low residency program—the Rainier Writers Workshop, through Pacific Lutheran University, in Tacoma, Washington.
I wondered what drew Biespiel to a low residency setting. He says, “I came to it coincidentally. They asked me to give a presentation and things just developed from there.” Biespiel speaks highly of the people involved in the program and their sense of community, and also the excellent work he’s seen over the last few years.
Given Biespiel’s long career in the field of Creative Writing, I asked him to tell me what he thinks are the most important criteria for selecting an MFA program. “You need to look at who you want to work with, study with.” He says it is important to seek out writers with whom you have “kinship” or share in creative “sensibility.” Again, Biespiel advocates for the value of working with a community of writers: “The more you think about what you can be a part of rather than what you’re going to get out of it, the more you’ll actually get out of your experience.” As other sources say, Biespiel agrees that the number of people in the program, the location, and the setting are all relevant factors in selecting a program. Most importantly, in his eyes, the program has to be a place where you’d be happy to get off the grid. “That’s all the MFA is, a rest stop on the highway of reality, where you can look inward, grow, and write.”
David and I get off on a tangent about genres, dynamics within workshops, and space for experimentation in different writing programs. I ask Biespiel why it seems that so many MFA programs advertise the opportunity to study more than one creative writing genre. He says that you have to step outside of the context and take a look at the bigger picture. Faculty are hired as writers within specific genres, but once they’re engrossed in poetry, fiction, or non-fiction, they realize what a narrow focus that can be, and they may see room for cross-fertilization. “This is radical to the Academy,” claims Biespiel. By offering multi-genre study, these programs see it as a way to break down the borders between genres. “Really, there are no borders” Biespiel insists, and adds that to younger writers coming into these programs, it doesn’t seem quite as radical because they’re approaching from outside Academic environments.
In terms of the workshop experience of MFA programs, Biespiel says that sometimes competing aesthetics in the programs can create such tension that you can lose control. The argument can come down to the value of the aesthetic instead of making the poem the best poem that in can be. Biespiel’s advice? “It’s important to protect yourself. But, for the most part, once you’re in a Creative Writing program, it’s not nearly as competitive as it seems from the outside.” He says that writers tend to be very supportive. And, realistically, people’s talents and strengths are all over the place. David did add that, in his opinion, the problem with some Creative Writing programs is that they might try to steer you away from failure; so, sometimes you end up not discovering something because you’re protected from potential failure.
Of course, we’re really just talking about approaching the MFA, but still I ask David Biespiel if he thinks it’s important for candidates to think about what they will do after they earn their MFA degrees. “No,” he says, “There’s a lot of anxiety about that, but the MFA is really just an opportunity to look in thyself and write.” And the point of the programs is that you’re not alone as you do that; you develop as artists within a community. Literary friendships are an important component of these programs. Speaking of his own literary relationships, Biespiel explains, “It’s fascinating to observe their [literary friends’] writing and work as it develops over the course of a lifetime. I was a Stegner Fellow… Oh… 25 years ago! And those relationships are still intact. They’re some of my closest friends. They have to be.”
If we could return to the rest area/highway metaphor, David says to think about it this way: “You have to keep driving after you leave the rest area. You’re driving on to other destinations… you don’t just magically arrive at them.”
Just because I can, I ask Biespiel one last, grandiose question: Why is it important that we continue to do this—to write poetry, to pursue writing as a Fine Art? “Poetry is a precious commodity,” he answered. In a society that so heavily emphasizes materialism, Poetry is the antithesis of commodification. “A poem is an experience, not a tool, not a commodity.” Of course, he admits, poets are not outside the commodified world, they do participate, “but in their hearts, they resist materialism. Poetry exists in a gift economy; you can barely sell a poem!”
And this is no news, really. But Biespiel says that by studying poetry, that in programs like the MFA, “it’s about the making.” It’s not about readability or selling a poem, in his opinion, “it’s about writing better and better poems.”
What do your “literary friendships” mean to you and your creative process?
If you’ve ever experienced “failure” on a creative project, what did you take from the experience?
