Updated Bio

JANIE KRONK

Janie lives with her husband and daughter in Columbia, South Carolina, where she has enjoyed the camaraderie and critiques of the South Carolina Writer's Workshop since 2006. Her writing has appeared in The Petigru Review and South Carolina Architecture.

Reflections on WRITING PAST DARK

By Janie Kronk

Bonnie Friedman's Writing Past Dark is not a new book. It was published 20 years ago, but its content remains fresh and relevant. The book is a writing guide offering little actual guidance – no ‘how-to’ on plot, character, or dialogue. No tips on technique. That isn't the point. In the author's words, the book is conceived as a companion, a "friend departing in the opposite direction who [you] can anticipate meeting in the middle" on the otherwise solitary journey of writing.

The book is organized into eight essays, each a manageable size for digestion in one sitting, about the "emotional" side of the writing life. The essays deal in turn with envy, distraction, hurt feelings, writing school, judgment, meaning, writer's block, and success.

Throughout, Friedman presents writing as a slow-developing process that begins on the inside--one that starts with a love of the process rather than hopes for any particular outcome. Preoccupations with success are external distractions that only get in the way. In The Wild Yellow Circling Beast, Friedman speaks of not being able to write until all thoughts have been separated from outside authority. She describes writing as happening in a place "like a chamber that registers the images of a photograph, and which must be kept dark for the picture to be captured."

Friedman also addresses internal judgment. "[O]ur obsession with perfection [makes] us mute," she says in Message From a Cloud of Flies. In Anorexia of Language, she further suggests that a reluctance to write may actually be a reluctance to destroy the beautiful vision in one's mind by putting it on paper, where it will be imperfect. Writers must set this "non-book" in their head aside and allow imperfection in the real book in order to move forward.

Finding meaning in all this work is a topic that weaves its way through the book. In The Story's Body, Friedman builds a case that there is no need to insert "hidden meaning" into a story. Because the world is "imbued" with meaning, to write about this world (and the things in it as perceived with the five senses) will naturally give rise to meaning. In other words, writers don't create meaning; they communicate meaning that is already present in the world. "I saw books milked the world," Friedman says in The Paraffin Density of Wax Wings. A writer's task is to find "the optimal arrangement of words to convey the most meaning possible."

Writing After Dark does not offer technical insight on how to find this optimal arrangement of words. There are other books for that. What this book does do, in often beautiful language embroidered with insight, is encourage us to live well and to write with abandon. And, through writing, to "heal the rift between the hours we've lived through and the authoritarian grid of language."

An Outsider Asks: What Is Southern Lit?

By Janie Kronk

“You learn a lot about where you’re from by learning about someplace new.”

These words were spoken to me by my boss in Ohio, shortly before I transplanted myself south for graduate school. Taking this statement to heart, I’ve done my best to be a good pupil while living here, learning about “The South” and trying to piece together what it teaches me about the north.

There are many aspects of Southern living to hold up in comparison to what I knew back home: Southern Architecture, Southern Cuisine, Southern Literature. This last item on the list is of particular interest to me. While it is easy to see the influence of climate and history in the buildings along the coast, and hard to argue with the zeal for barbeque that permeates the region, I have a little more trouble recognizing what makes writing “Southern.” Is it literature that takes place in the South? Written by Southerners? Or is writing made Southern by the presence of certain thematic elements? If so, what are those elements?

The tradition of southern literature includes greats such as William Faulkner, Truman Capote, Harper Lee, Mark Twain and many others. There are anthologies published to highlight the work of contemporary Southern writers. I must admit, I have not witnessed quite the hype over a tradition of Midwestern literature, even though Ohio alone claims authors such as James Thurber, Sherwood Anderson, and Paul Laurence Dunbar.

For a time, I thought this may have something to do with my home region being part of “Middle America” – thus having no distinctive character of its own around which to form a literary culture. Still – and this may just be because it is “home” – I do find something unique about the blend of farm and factory, rivers, cities, and cornfields. But the sense of identity with the place is more subdued than what I have witnessed in The South.

So far, the thing that strikes me as being most unique about The South is not its food, its cities, or its literature. It’s not the manners, and it’s not the hot summers. It’s the sense of being Southern that Southerners seem to have.

This sense of uniqueness is there even though modern life has erased many of the boundaries that define one place from another – throughout the country we see the same strip malls and the same sprawl; we have the same food shipped to us in our grocery stores; we have access to the same information over the internet and in our libraries and bookstores. Despite everywhere becoming more and more the same, there still seems to be a consensus: something is different about The South.

This different-ness holds up as writers continue to fabricate stories. But what makes these stories different? Maybe Southern Literature in the 21st century is itself a fabrication – not in the sense of being false, but in the sense of being a built thing – an identity constructed again and again with each telling of a new tale while other distinctions vanish with the shift to a global culture.

SCWW 2009 Conference Notes

By Janie Kronk

Here are the positive aspects of 2009’s “The Method, The Market, and The Muse” that stand out in my mind, regarding everything from the conference’s setting, its set-up, and it’s sessions.

1. Setting: The Chance to Retreat--But Not Too Far!
What can I say, it’s great to get out of town for the weekend. Myrtle Beach is a short enough trip from Columbia, and since I am not “marketing” myself as a writer at this point, this is purely a fun, stress-free weekend for me--a chance to relax at the beach and learn a few things. I enjoyed sitting on my ocean view balcony with my guitar (the wind off the waves loud enough to drown out the fact I can’t actually play) almost as much as I enjoyed the conference itself.

2. Set-Up: Less Paper in the Bag
Ever concerned about the environment, I was glad to see there was much less superfluous material in the goodie bags this year. The conference guide has been pared down from a binder to a simple folder with only the essentials, which was easier to carry around as well as being easier on resources.

3. The Book Nook: An Adventure
I also always enjoy book shopping at the retreat. It’s not as if there aren’t book stores right down the street from my house, but something about the limited and careful pre-selection of titles available at the “Book Nook” leads me to discover a few reads I really enjoy that I never would have picked from the glut of everything available at a mega-bookstore. This year’s fun finds include A Bad Day for Sorry by Sophie Kinsella, and poetry collections from regional authors Maureen Sherbondy and Paul Allen.

4. Sessions: Just Get the Drift
Not having a clear agenda in terms of what I wanted to learn and get out of the conference this year, I did much more drifting between various sessions than I have in the past. Having done so, I would actually recommend this as an effective strategy at a conference for a neophyte interested in learning more about the industry. You pick up tips. Most importantly, you see that all the agents, editors and publishers don’t always agree--some say resubmitting to them after you’ve been rejected is the kiss of death, others say why not. Some publishing houses work only with agented authors, some will not deal with agents. Although you get less out of each session by drifting around, you get a great number of snapshots contributing to the larger picture. Another interesting controversy between several of the faculty was the topic of the e-book. Is it the wave of the future, or are new books never to be replaced?

5. My Favorite Thing: Poetry Open Mike Night
I did not participate, merely listened, but for me this stole the show over any of the sessions. There was an air of festivity to the event, with writers from all over in the region coming together to share and celebrate their work. Writers, young and old, new and experienced, came together to read work that was funny, serious, and, in one instance, sung. My favorite piece was by Maureen Sherbondy (one of the fun finds mentioned above), a poem from her chapbook After the Fairy Tale called “Alice in AA.” To me, this event gave the conference a new light, and really underscored that we aren’t ONLY seeking to become better writers and achieve the ultimate goal of publication through these conferences--we are also participating in a rich creative culture that is very much an end in itself.

10,000 Hours

By Janie Kronk

Need a new perspective on what all those hours at the keyboard mean? Check out Malcom Gladwell’s latest book, Outliers.

Although this is not a book about writing, I recommend it here for two reasons:

1) It’s good. For anyone interested in “big idea” books, this will be an entertaining and informative read. Well-written and full of stories illustrating the ideas it puts forth, Outliers turns the notion of the American Dream on its head while examining why some people are successful and others are not.
2) It shows that practice is important, which can be a hard thing for a writer to remember while slogging through that first draft—or second, or third. Gladwell includes an eclectic mix of success stories, including those of Bill Gates and Mozart. What is interesting is that while the book does not deny the genius of these individuals, it does not focus on genius as a reason for success. Instead it focuses on the set of circumstances that allowed these individuals an opportunity to PRACTICE the thing they would become known for. One study described in the book separated university level music students into three groups based on skill level. What was the only thing that separated those that could go on to become world class performers from the rest? The amount of time they had practiced over the course of their lives.

So maybe practice does make perfect. What great news! At least, it’s great news as long as we can keep finding those opportunities to practice.

According to Outliers, there is even a magic number of hours of practice one must go through before becoming an “expert” (i.e. on par with Bill Gates in the computer world, or a world-class violinist in the music world), which seems to hold true in any field: 10,000. This could seem discouraging when you do the math and realize that this number corresponds to approximately three hours a day for ten years—what about our jobs? What about the kids?

But then again, how long have you already been writing? Is it necessary to be a writing expert to pen a story that is beautiful, or entertaining, or just plain good? No, it’s not necessary. That’s why we workshop. That’s why we edit.

The important thing to know is that practice makes us better, and, as long as we keep grabbing those opportunities to practice, no matter how brief, we will get better.

How close are you to your 10,000 hours?

Conference Thoughts

By Janie Kronk


The SCWW conference was great again this year. I attended mostly sessions on craft, my three favorites being Jeanne Leiby on "The Art of the Short Story," Irene Goodman's session on "Narrative Drive," and Forrest Gander's session on "Eco-Poetics."

Leiby crammed "an entire graduate semester into an hour-and-a-half," focusing mostly on that construct commonly known as the story arc. What I took away from Leiby's presentation was what she called "the crisis," the moment that occurs just before the climax. She says this element is often missing in much of what she sees come across her desk at the Southern Review--as well as in most contemporary, mainstream movies. This is the "no-turning-back" moment, when the character must make a decision that leads to the climax. As she said, "When Hamlet is preparing for a duel with Laertes, he has to make the decision to fight. What can't happen is that Hamlet puts down his sword and says, 'You know, I don't really feel like doing this right now. Let's go have a beer.'"

Goodman took us line by line through the openings of Gone With the Wind and Rosemary's Baby, explaining why, in her opinion, each phrase, each paragraph, pulls us along to the next. The session was an interesting dissection of what creates suspense, and how the reader can be pulled along even by planting small questions in their minds: "If she's not beautiful, then what makes Scarlett so charming?" and "What will the inside of Guy and Rosemary's new apartment look like?"

Gander's session satisfied my need to be a geek, listening to theoretical discussions on philosophy, geology, and poetry, all wrapped up into one session. We even translated an ancient Chinese poem, starting with the Chinese characters. He emphasized the writer's need to create awareness of the environment we live in, the importance of our connections between each other, and the places we live. This was a great message to end the weekend on.

By the way, Laura, Bonnie, and Beth made great roommates during the conference and were also great sources of information and inspiration.

Eat Spicy Food Before Going to Bed

And 7 Other Ways to Work on a Story
When You Aren’t Actually Writing

by Janie Kronk

Don’t call it procrastination.

We read stories, and we write stories. Even when we aren’t technically at work, we are busy watching, noticing, and remembering details of the world around us. We are busy enjoying elements of story in everyday life. Often these elements creep up in our own work over time.

Jack Kerouac’s Book of Dreams is exactly what it sounds like -- a record of each night’s dreams, meticulously recorded for mood and detail. A table in the front of the book lists the characters from his dreams, alongside the names of characters in The Dharma Bums, On the Road, and other works that originated from these nocturnal personas.

Aside from enjoying some spicy food at bedtime and keeping a pen handy to record the vivid dreams that ensue, here are my seven favorite ventures (mostly) unrelated to writing that help me better understand the art of storytelling:

1) TAKE AN ACTING CLASS (backstory, character)
This activity encourages thinking about a character’s objectives and motivations; it promotes thinking with your body, to explore a character’s actions and expressions
2) TALK TO PEOPLE IN THE STREETS (character)
Everyone has a story to tell: the homeless woman who believes she was used by the government for 25 years; the guy from Chicago who has been driving in circles for hours and can’t seem to find the museum; the old man walking a pot-bellied pig through the park, hoping to be noticed.
3) MAKE THINGS (detail, craft)
Creativity yields creativity. Working in a visual medium is another way to stretch the right side of your brain. Visual arts communicate ideas using many of the same devices found in the writer’s toolbox: metaphor, evocative details, pattern and motif, form and structure.
4) READ WRITING LIFE STORIES by Bill Roorbach (remedies for writer’s block)
Wait…wasn’t this supposed to be a list of activities unrelated to reading and writing? Several exercises in this book actually fit that criteria: drawing maps, making diagrams, and other unconventional ways of finding stories which are important to us.
5) HEAR DAVID SEDARIS SPEAK (voice)
Simply put, it’s a treat. And while on the topic of stories being read and told aloud, I highly recommend the following: thisamericanlife.org, themoth.org, storycorps.net. Listen enough and you may unleash an inner narrator that travels with you throughout your day.
6) DO ANYTHING STRESSFUL WITH YOUR FAMILY (conflict, resolution)
I’m being facetious, yes. Still, any time you find yourself a little too close for comfort, just consider yourself an impartial observer of human behavior.
7) TRAVEL (plot, setting)
Some sources say that all stories adhere to one of seven basic plots. Other sources say there are ten. Even others say, “There are two basic plots: A man goes on a journey… or A stranger comes to town…” So if you think about it, travel plans are stories waiting to happen. The journey can take on many forms. A friend of mine applied to live in a Mennonite boarding house outside Manhattan, even though she is a Catholic-raised agnostic from Pittsburgh. Another friend once ran with the bulls in Pamplona.

In the end, it is curiosity--about people, places, and experiences--that is the crux of what storytelling is all about. Why else would we keep turning the pages?

MAKE MISTAKES FASTER

By Janie Kronk
Columbia II Writers Workshop

It was the first time walking into a library ever made me feel afraid. The feeling was incongruous with the stillness, the patterned order of the shelves, the delicious book-smell. Still, my heart pounded. It wasn’t nerves exactly. There was another fear at work as I walked into the room where the writers’ group met and asked, “Can I just observe?”

See, I was not a writer, and I was certain I would be found out.

Although I wrote frequently, the bulk of this writing consisted of opening paragraphs of abandoned stories. Each time I started a piece, I quickly became disgusted with my flat characters, childish tone, eventless plots. I’d look at the paragraph, think, “Can’t I write better?” and lay it aside. I was afraid of the mess I would make if I continued.

I’d forgotten my writing professor, who always gave as his first assignment: “Write a crappy story.” i.e., Get over yourself and just write, or you’ll never get better. I also ignored such advice as, “Don’t be afraid to make mistakes—mistakes are how we learn.” Or, if important to learn quickly, “Make mistakes faster.”

The advice was sound, but thinking of joining a writers’ group and revealing my literary shortcomings gave me the willies. My concern was a grown up version of, “But what if the other kids are mean to me?” I expected frowns at my presence, and jeers at my audacity in wasting their time. In one of my nightmarish speculations, someone actually threw a tomato.

Fortunately, none of this occurred. At the meeting, I relaxed upon finding a group of talented, welcoming individuals. They didn’t seem to mind my coming. No one threw anything.

The next time I went, I would have to read. I assumed there were only so many times I could show up without any writing before my intentions were questioned. Spy from another workshop? Literary voyeur? Not wanting to appear suspicious, I compiled a pastiche of story-beginnings found on my hard drive. I hoped their juxtaposition would evoke some meaning, like images in a surrealist film.

This tactic proved unsuccessful. “It seems like a couple different stories,” someone said. “It’s interesting, but I’m wondering—where is it going?”

It took several more pastiches with similar feedback before it clicked: these weren’t problems with the pieces, but with my writing in general. I analyzed other things I had written. In all instances, my compositional structure was inexplicable, my plot lines often absent. Aha! How had I not seen the obvious? While I’d known the pieces were riddled with mistakes, the mistakes had been like shadows to me, impossible to pinpoint and wrestle with. With the groups’ feedback, I could suddenly see the bodies these shadows indicated. I had a goal.

Sharing work is intimidating, but also fulfilling when there are people interested in listening, and helping. It’s also necessary at times, getting us past current mistakes and on to the next—and the next, and the next. The good news about the process is twofold: we get better, and no tomatoes get thrown.