No Sweet Child of Mine…Gunning for the Rose in Cleveland

By Kimberly Johnson 

Axl Rose…grow up, man. For those who don’t know, Axl Rose refused to be a part of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s induction for Guns N’ Roses. Axl ranted and vowed not to show up for the festivities. And he didn’t. And he later apologized.

 It’s well-documented that bad blood runs through the veins of Axl and the boys: Professional jealousies. Back-stabbing. Money. Women. The usual stuff. Full disclosure -- I grew up jamming to the LA rockers belt out monster hits like Paradise City and November Rain. I had to read this letter. I went online and found it on the LA Times newspaper’s music blog. My goal was to just read it but, I found myself reviewing it using the techniques I learned from the SCWW critique sessions, Toastmasters and from my experiences as a newspaper reporter. Here are some observations:


Observation 1: Never lose the reader. 

Drawing on my reporter’s instincts, the first sentence should provide enough information to entice the reader to move beyond that sentence. Plus, I like shorter sentences. Axl, man, you lost me.

When the nominations for the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame were first announced I had mixed emotions but, in an effort to be positive, wanting to make the most of things for the fans and with their enthusiasm, I was honored, excited and hoped that somehow this would be a good thing. Of course I realized as things stood, if Guns N' Roses were to be inducted it'd be somewhat of a complicated or awkward situation.

Observation 2: Get to the point. 

It was four paragraphs into the missive before the disgruntled front man announced:

That said, I won't be attending The Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame Induction 2012 Ceremony and I respectfully decline my induction as a member of Guns N' Roses to the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame.

In Toastmasters, a writer needs to state the main point early in the text so the reader can gain an understanding. Axl, this should have been the introduction.


Observation 3: Think before you hit 'Send.' 

Welcome to the Jungle. Axl was PO’d at Slash, Steven and Izzy. Sure, there were coded references:

So let sleeping dogs lie or lying dogs sleep or whatever. Time to move on. People get divorced. Life doesn't owe you your own personal happy ending especially at another's, or in this case, several others' expense.

Axl, everybody knows, once you put it in print, you can’t take it back.


Observation 4: Refrain from using “In closing.” 

After airing his grievances, the rocker ends it by using the overrated phrase. Try Toastmasters, Axl. The public speaking organization provides tips on implementing other words to close out a letter.

"In closing," Axl, try some Patience before you craft an open letter to your fans. Or better yet Try a Little Tenderness. It goes a long way.

Source: http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/music_blog/2012/04/axl-rose-pens-open-letter-to-rock-hall-will-not-attend-asks-to-not-be-inducted.html

Putting Memories Into a Memoir

By Deborah Wright Yoho

When I last read a selection at our writers' workshop, someone remarked, "How can you remember all these details?" I understood the question both as a compliment and as a sincere query, since I am writing a true story that took place more than 35 years ago. Besides, I turn sixty this year. This graying old mare ain't what she used to be, especially her memory!

Much of the pleasure I stumble upon as I struggle with the hard work of writing a memoir is the delight of savoring old times, old friends, old places. So I thought I would share how, indeed, I work to retrieve detailed memories to include in my writing. It isn't rocket science, and what works for me may be useful to any writer.

My secret: I work with photographs. You could be astounded at how much you will notice in a photograph you haven't looked at for some time. A picture of myself at seventeen playing a guitar while sitting on my mom's sofa brought back all sorts of things: my mom's interest in watercolor (the photo showed a picture on the wall behind me); how I felt about my body at the time (I wasn't really playing the guitar, but hiding my stomach); the heat and humidity of Charleston, where my parents lived while I was in college; and how I hated the Greyhound bus rides I endured to visit them. The next thing I knew I was remembering, in detail, a conversation I had with a soldier on the bus about the Vietnam War.

I talk before I begin to draft a piece of writing, to anyone handy, even to myself if necessary. Details come to mind as someone else asks me questions, or when I am literally thinking out loud as my own mind wanders and wonders. I find that actually hearing words helps me compose in black and white what my mind "sees" in pictures while I'm talking.

I must be an auditory learner, because music, an evocative medium in its own right, has been another powerful catalyst when calling details to mind. I'm writing about the 1960s, so I immerse myself in the popular music of that time, not just while writing, but all day long.

When I first became serious about my writing, I was highly selective about what details I included, thinking only "relevant" items advancing the storyline would be of interest to the reader. But our group set me straight! Readers want detail, if your writing makes them curious enough to want to know more.

A Perfect Workshop

By Monet Jones

Many thousands of years ago, or so it seems, I graduated from Hannah High School. My graduating class consisted of twenty-one persons, fourteen girls, and seven boys. The curriculum in that small rural school was naturally limited. Two non-academic courses were considered mandatory; all girls were to take FHA, Future Homemakers of America, and all boys, FFA, Future Farmers of America.

The FFA proved to be an extraordinarily boring class except for three areas, each of which included a contest: electricity, public speaking, and cattle judging. That third area, cattle judging, has had a greater than expected impact on my life because of one learned principle. In order to judge or compare cattle or anything else, one must first determine a perfect example of that which is to be judged.

As one might suppose on reading the title of this article, I set out to describe the perfect writer’s workshop. I started by looking for a definition. Since I didn’t find a good one in my research, I made up my own and present it that my readers, both of you, might critique it.

An environment or gathering of respectful peers wherein one might use words to depict original concepts or events, and receive constructive nonjudgmental criticism of said depictions.

For a participant to receive maximum benefit from a workshop, I believe one must be familiar, but not necessarily friends, with other members. My reasoning here is that in order for comments to be constructive, an evaluated writer must expect criticism from respected peers. If a writer chooses to use familiarity or intimidation to prevent criticism, the concept of a workshop is perverted.

I recently presented some material that connected two big scenes on my current novel. I had not spent as much time on it as I should have. The workshop members made that point very clear.

R - too many long sentences and holes in plot
B - too many repetitions of same idea, POV errors
G2 - “that” not a good connector and two improbable scenes
K – ignorant of how young girls might react to a situation
L - didn’t like me, my work, or the horse I rode in on
D - helpful in showing proper paragraph separation and comma use
G - mixed in a positive comment with several faults

I think Columbia II workshop approaches perfection. I love the camaraderie as we get together but have no doubt the friendliest person there will savage my material if it’s not properly written. That is as it should be.

Why Workshop

By Monet Jones

“Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.” What a bunch of nonsense! Most of us have heard this line from childhood and perhaps responded to insults with it. It’s a lie. Words hurt, criticisms hurt, and even “constructive criticisms” often cause anguish.

This is a fact that we must recognize if we intend to relate to readers or improve our writing style. Spoken words can insult; written words can destroy. As aspiring authors, we must be aware of the possible impact of our words, and particularly the concepts described.

We also quickly learn that the power of words is a double-edged sword. Words give us power to hurt others, while at the same time endowing critics with the ability to cut us to the quick.

For that reason, a certain amount of masochism is involved, particularly with the Columbia II Workshop, whenever one submits to a peer review. Writers who set up scenes with words must realize that we can’t be objective enough to anticipate all possible viewpoints, never mind spelling and grammar. Painting word pictures is always an inexact art, and therefore, accords suggested improvements.

This is the “raison d’être” for writers' workshops. It is my belief that no writer ever achieves a standard of professionalism that would make peer review redundant. You might have a rapier wit and think you have produced a “monumental tome of literary excellence,” only to have it drop into an abyss of indolent nescience, if none but a select few appreciate it. (The preceding statement is a façade of BS intended to impress the casual reader.)

The Curse of Concrete/Sequential

By Alex Raley

My twelve-year-old grandson just finished a workshop in creative writing as a part of the University of South Carolina's Carolina Master Scholar program. After the first day, I asked him whether the workshop was what he expected. His response was negative. A bit surprised, I asked him what he expected. He said, "Boooring!" I said, "It isn't boring?" "No, it is so fun. We wrote about twenty short poems and prose pieces." I ignored the "so fun" nonsense and pondered writing "so much" in a group setting. His group kept that pace for five days. Of course, they met from 8:30 to 3:30 with a lunch break.

Groups are inspiring to me. I get excited on hearing the work of members of our writing group. Even reading books on writing is helpful and goads me to get to writing more. Attending workshops on writing provides me with lots of fodder for thought, but rarely do I produce something in the workshop that excites me. I suppose my mind just doesn't work that way.

For most of my life I have thought through scenarios in my mind before beginning to write. That may have come from the many essays I had to write throughout my school career--essays that had to have well-defined theses and a sequenced development of those theses that would bring you to logical conclusions. Do you suppose we are wired before birth to be concrete/sequential or random access? If so, lucky is the writer of fiction who is wired as random access. Fiction is about life and life is not concrete/sequential.

Recognizing my bent to think concrete/sequentially and paying homage to that bent for its contributions to me throughout my school years, especially graduate school, I set about remaking myself. One of the things I did was to use every opportunity to jot down bits and pieces of scenes and experiences without tying them to other thoughts that might try to drive them to a logical end. I also approached reading differently. I chose books that did not feed my bent to the logical. Even mysteries, which must be built with a good measure of logic, lead you down many unexpected paths before finally confronting you with what you logically should have expected.

Writing poetry also has helped me. Poetry is built on unexpected interesting images drawn into the vortex your writing. The idea of poetry enhancing fiction is for a later blog.

Can you still expect to see me in writing workshops? Count on it. I love the camaraderie of and conversation with other writers. Now that's where random access resides.

The Luxury of Being Understood

By Deborah Wright Yoho

Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, "It is a luxury to be understood." Perhaps this is the reason a writer is a creature who craves feedback. We want to know we have communicated what we meant, that our words are received with all the nuance and meaning we ascribe to our efforts in our own minds.

We all want to be understood. Emerson noted the rarity of that privilege. The writer strives for the Holy Grail, an elusive instant that is precious. How can we know the reader 'hears' what we 'said'?

We have to ask. The SC Writers’ Workshops provide structured opportunities for readers to share what they 'heard'. As writers, we hope this is a reflection of our own voice, and if we are fortunate indeed, perhaps the reader's mind is challenged to follow our mental pathway toward something new.

I find that I get the most out of constructive, sincere feedback only after I reach a level of personal satisfaction with what I have written. So I don't share my work with anyone until I sense a fair chance that it is good enough for someone to 'hear' what I am trying to say. Like Emerson, I know the luxury of being understood. Perhaps I need to develop a thicker skin; it strikes me that writing is a risky business.

So if I don't really value what I have written--if it hasn't cooked long enough, or doesn't have enough ingredients yet, hasn't marinated to a richness at least in my own mind, I don't bring it to the workshop. I feel I can't expect a reader to value my writing (enough to give my words serious consideration and help me improve) if the selection isn't already close to the best I can do without the reader's feedback. If I want to grow tomorrow beyond whatever level I have reached today, I have to do my best first, and only then seek out the "luxury of being understood."

Is It Art Yet?

By Ginny Padgett

Recently I saw a docu-drama based on the life of Georgia O’Keefe. Her Svengali cum husband, Alfred Stieglitz, delivered a line that stopped the action for me, complete with bells and red flags. He said, “It’s not art until someone rich pays a lot of money for it.” Of course this line was said tongue in cheek, but it started me thinking.

My thoughts went to writing and publishing. Is the same true with the literary arts? I was still mulling over this question when a week or so later at our workshop there was a discussion about this very subject.

The conversation went like this. Some modern writers have become millionaires from their book sales, but some of these books are like potato chips…not good for you but you can’t put them down. On the other hand Mayo mentioned he was reading Lolita. Although he found the subject matter distasteful, he relished the beauty of the written word and envied Nabokov’s mastery.

Of course, art, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. But after giving this is-it-art question some thought and listening to others, here’s where I stand.

I believe art happens when one has an idea that is meaningful to him and strives to convey the impact of that thought or feeling through his chosen medium. I also believe that when one creates art, our collective consciousness is enhanced, elevated, edified. Furthermore, when one practices his art in community with others, like we do at workshop, I believe we inspire each other, and our experience is greater than the sum of our parts. Because of this experience, we don’t need a multi-million dollar contract or even to be published in a small literary magazine to consider what we do as art.

I think this a high calling to which we have responded. We ply our art without an eye to a generous benefactor. We write because we love it; we have a point to make; we have something we want to get off our chests. For whatever reason, we use words as painters use colors on canvases. Perhaps there is no better art than the pursuit of it. So write on, comrades in ink. Let’s make some art!

It's Been Said Before and Better

By Bonnie Stanard

This criticism goes to the question of creativity, especially as it applies to fiction. How can we produce writing that departs from what has already been published? The challenge to poets can be seen in the desperation evident in some poems published today.

We write from our feelings, intellect, and experience, things that make us human. However, these very things are as old as humanity, and we’ve been writing about them for hundreds of years. The scenery may change, but there are no new plots or characters.

Our feelings are strong motivators. We’re tempted to turn our love life into a novel, but an affair, unique to us, becomes boy-meets-girl as a plot. The angst of puberty, loneliness of old age, and pride in battle are but a few examples of stories that have been retold many times.

Can our intellect save us from writing a rehash of what has already been written? It is possible to develop new concepts from our perceptions, as people like Freud, James Joyce, and Shakespeare bear out, but how many of us are in that league?

Surely each person experiences life differently from every other person. This may be analogous to saying nobody has my recipe for chili. The “ingredients” of life may mix, interact, and react differently, but we all have the same ingredients. You may say, “Nobody else can remember the time I cut my foot on a glass bottle while swinging on a vine.” That may be unique to you, but is it original? See what I mean?

The point here is that if we think we’re on the road less traveled, we may be unaware of the traffic backing up in our lane. One of the few ways we’ll discover derivative or mundane aspects of our work is from critics in our workshop. Our group is cautious with criticisms. Questions often mean the text being discussed is weak. If your manuscript gets hardly any reaction, it is either very good, very bad, or very long.

The advice I’ve heard at our SCWW conferences has devolved into my current writing strategy, which is to reach for the unexpected in characters and the unpredictable in plot. For instance, the guy sitting in a nearby seat just mailed a rattlesnake to his girlfriend. The little girl with him is not his daughter. If a character seems to be falling in love, the last place for the plot to go is the bedroom. The boss who promises his secretary a promotion is demoted himself. Screams in the night aren’t murder. They’re cat fights. A pizza delivery man knocks at the door, and he’s carrying...

On Writing Groups

By Alex Raley

During our last writers group meeting, I realized that I am the oldest person in the group, by both years of age and by years in the group. You might ask why I am still in a writers group. Have I not learned to write? Oh well, I suppose passing a writing test is not beyond my abilities. But, the group is not about learning to write. Most of us write fairly well, thank you.

The writers group helps me make my writing more interesting. Group critiques are honest and to the point, the point being to truly communicate and hold the interest of a reader. There is a bountiful supply of diverse thinking in the group, so there is always someone who clicks immediately with what I write, but if just one person seems to miss what I intend to say that is a good reason to take another look at the writing.

The diversity of age in the group sometimes points you in a different direction, or supports what you have written. The group read a poem I had written about the regimentation we build into the lives of children. In naming such events in the poem, I asked what child needed a project on PowerPoint. One reader said that was too adult, but, before I could explain that my second- and fifth-grade grandsons had just completed PowerPoint assignments, the younger folks jumped in to say that children are indeed dealing with PowerPoint in school. And, of course, I love to hear the wise, calm voice of an elder in the group when the younger folks are railing for more action, more detail.

We recently had a new person visit us. He said that he had sent a manuscript to an editor, or agent, who responded that the story did not have a narrative curve, or some such name for the peak in a story, which usually occurs just before the writer pulls all threads of the narrative to a conclusion. I would say to that visitor that we may not be able to give you a well-written definition of the narrative curve, but, through the thoughtful and caring responses to your writing from our group members, you will develop your own narrative peaks and writing style.

Where I Do Most of My Writing

Last week the Columbia II Writers Workshop group met for a social evening. It is our custom to devise some sort of game that involves our writings. On this night we were given two writing assignments to be submitted anonymously. The pieces were read aloud, and then we tried to match the written word with the writer. What follows is one member's descriptive submission "of the room where you're sitting."


By Mike Long

I’m normally at the breakfast table, when I’m composing. To my left is a bay window overlooking the deck, the backyard, and some of the lake. To my left front is the Florida room and to the right front is the den. The den wall facing me is composed of bookcases bracketing our fireplace, above which is an oil portrait of my father in his pilot’s uniform, painted by his father. Behind me is the kitchen.

I know this because I just sat in my chair and looked around. When I’m composing I seldom look up. When I do, I’m seeing my characters in action, hearing their conversation, and trying to take in their surroundings rather than mine.