Whiteout in the Hands of a Fool

I think I mentioned attending the Festival of Faith & Writing, yes? Yes. And I mentioned these workshops I attended. On poetry and on playwriting.

Well, just this minute I decided to rest my brain from a taxing revision, to read something that was handed out during workshop. A ten-minute play about a guy and a girl talking about their failed relationship. We weren't given time to read it during the workshop, even though the focus of the workshop was on structure as seen in a short play. It would have been wonderful to read it then and there, to dissect it and unpack it and learn from it. But whatever. We didn't.

So I pulled it out and read it. And I wondered what was up with the margins. There were these big gaps in the middle of paragraphs or at the start of lines. Then I noticed the gaps were not gaps, rather words. Words that had been mostly successfully whited out by ... someone. The workshop facilitator? I'm assuming.

See, the topic of profanity came up briefly during our workshop. One participant mentioned that his scene had a naughty word in it, and asked if we minded. I was more than a little surprised when the man beside me said he did indeed mind, and if he read the part, he would not say the word. Really? Well, ok, I thought, the man is a pastor. Not a pastor of any church I've attended (or would attend even if it meant salvation from the fires of hell), but a pastor. So his reluctance to drop the D-bomb aloud is allowable.

But what about profanity in a written work, a script? I can understand censoring a word mid-read-aloud to avoid violating one's own moral code, but is it acceptable to censor a published work (pre-photocopying) - thus inflicting your moral code on everyone who happens to read the document? Hmmmm.

Yes, yes, I understand that she may not have been inflicting anything on us. Rather, she likely did it to avoid offending anyone. Is it really possible to avoid offending anyone? Some may be offended by a well-placed damn, others by the presumptuousness of someone else deciding what words are appropriate for us to read, still others by the (marginally) salacious content of the scene itself. Personally, I'd rather be treated like a grownup. Pick a different scene, or put the white-out away.

Plus, maybe it's the jr. higher in me, but it's really distracting to read something when I'm tilting the page sideways trying to see what that word might have been.

Note to the facilitator: you missed one. An F-bomb!

The Seriousness of Poetry

Setting: A poetry workshop at Calvin College's Festival of Faith and Writing. Fourteen attendees and one facilitator sit in plastic chairs arranged into a lopsided circle.

Attendees have just finished their first writing exercise.

Facilitator: We've all had sixty seconds. Shall we read what we've created? Let's hear three or so, then pause to consider what stands out most ...

Reader #1: (coughs a bit, reads quietly) Lake Michigan ... sand dunes ... swim on wide feet ... out over the river ... it would be lovely ... like a highway map ... on the palm of your hand.

(attendees sigh and nod appreciatively)

Reader #2: (run together) Tulips and traffic of dunes in Peg and Bill's diner open as a book past the glowing compost of my mind.

(attendees nod and sigh, but appear slightly confused)

Reader #3: (clears throat) Electricity. (clears throat again, dramatically, and begins to read in epic poetry slam style) The glow ... of pollen ... on the fallen darkness of my soul ... is ... not ... a thing ... for ...

(As Reader #3 reads, the door opens and Latecomer enters. She moves toward a seat quietly.)

Reader #3: (continuing unbroken) the squeamish. (pause as if drums are beating the rhythm of the poem) Electricity ... far from dusk ... into

(Reader #3 stops abruptly as Latecomer enters the circle of chairs. All attendees look at Latecomer. The attention makes Latecomer nervous and awkward. She drops her umbrella, trips over someone's bag.)

(Reader #3 watches Latecomer even after she is settled in her chair. For several beats, Reader #3 continues to stare at Latecomer.)

Reader #3: (Clears throat to return to reading. Latecomer shifts her position, causing Reader #3 to stop and fix her with a stare once more. Finally, Reader #3 begins. From the beginning.) Electricity. (clears throat again, dramatically, and begins to read once more in epic poetry slam style) The glow ... of pollen ... on the fallen darkness of my soul ... is ... not ... a thing ... for ...  the squeamish. Electricity ... far from dusk ... into dusk ... (growing quieter and more dramatic) into dusk ... into dusk ... into ... dusk ... in ... to ... ... dusk.

Facilitator: (Over the final syllable.) Very good, so what do we notice about these selections? 

(Attendees begin talking at once, the tension in the air evaporating except for Reader #3 who glares fixedly at Latecomer until lights out.)

The other workshop I attended was on playwriting. Can you tell?

Festivalivities (aka Festival of Faith and Writing)

I haven't felt like a writer since Penny came along, or not like a good writer or a serious writer. I've been writing in snippets between nursings and changings and appointments and errands. It's amazing how complicated life is with now four children. In the past two weeks, for example, I've sewn a Revolutionary War costume, attended two (or three?) school events, two (three? four?) doctor's appointments, writer's group, made several trips to the library, run countless errands, gardened, read a parenting book, gardening book and two juicing books, made thirty or more lunches and several dozen breakfasts and dinners, played Single Mom for six-or-so nights, slept through the night zero times, changed about 190 diapers, spent 3-4 hours each day nursing the baby ... oh, and wrote. A little. When I could.

But this weekend I was able to attend the Festival of Faith and Writing. Three days, 11 sessions, two meals with my MFA friends, and only one occasion of a wet shirt from over-full-leaky-milk-makers. Plus, I still managed to attend the kids' school carnival.

Refreshed, renewed, ready to tackle that ever-present question from Dr. D: How do you plan to pay off your student loans?