The New York Press, an alternative weekly, printed two stories last week which provide interesting bookends to our debate on Orientalism. In the first, a columnist uses Calcutta in the City of Joy sense, as synonym for grinding poverty:
The mayoral election was still fresh in everyone’s mind… “The billionaires have won,” Ken said. “They’ve been given a billionaire’s mandate…”It’s time to start making New York City more homeless-friendly again… Before the rest of us are completely shoved out of Manhattan, we do our part to repopulate the streets with smelly, drunken and drug-addled bums. We turn street-level New York into Calcutta. Doing that will destroy the property values these people have worked so hard to build up. Multimillion-dollar real estate isn’t worth shit when it stands along Calcutta streets. [Link]
That will come as a surprise to homeowners in posh South Calcutta, I’m sure. In the second, Sam Sacks begins an essay on modern American short stories with a 40-year-old tale by R.K. Narayan, a self-referential parable about writing which foreshadowed works like Adaptation:‘Multimillion-dollar real estate isn’t worth shit when it stands along Calcutta streets’
In R.K. Narayan’s novel The Vendor of Sweets, a young entrepreneur pushes his father to invest in what seems like a dubious venture: a short-story machine. How the machine works exactly is never made clear, and the hapless man squanders the family savings.Still, if Narayan floated the idea ironically 40 years ago, today a short-story machine is probably within technology’s grasp. Given a set of common parameters… a literate engineer could surely create a serviceable program. [Link]
It’s already been done. This post was generated by our AutoBlogger™: works day and night, doesn’t demand the abuse meted out to interns, and is just as repetitive as our own writing. I’m actually kicking back in Ooty right now. If you get too many M.I.A. posts, tweak a checkbox or two.
Sacks criticizes the bland homogeneity of stories from writers’ workshops:
… I was reminded of Narayan’s machine recently while reading the Best New American Voices 2006… Without ignoring the occasional flashes of verve, the stories included are so monotonous that they seem to have been written by a single person of middling talent. All but one of them are written in the first person; a similar percentage hinge upon the narrator’s difficulties with dysfunctional or deceased members of his or her family, or with ex-lovers. The tone is always confessional and saturated with self-pity. The plot and action are always negligible…
Even the style of writing displays a numbing verisimilitude. The first-person voice is always a lazily generalized vernacular… most of these stories end with a symbolic “moment of clarity” in which nothing happens, but a change has been imperceptibly arrived at… “It’s a little after midnight when the phone rings again. It seems as if it’s ringing forever, but finally it stops, abruptly and absolutely. And it’s quiet again, and I’m alone.”It should be no surprise that every one of the writers in this anthology have one more thing in common: They have attended writers’ workshops… [Link]
He pays special note to the most well-known, Iowa, where Bharati Mukherjee has taught:Doctrine is imposed. It grades down the spiky brilliance of the talented and elevates the hacks
In the passing generations Iowa’s rich bloodline has become increasingly anemic, and the truth is that, with the possible exception of Marilynne Robinson, who teaches there, no major writer has come out of the Workshop in decades. [Link]
Hmph. Keep your eye on a certain Sepia reader who’s also an Iowa alumnus. Sacks sounds a lot like Bill Deresiewicz on Jhumpa Lahiri, quoted again below:
Interpreter of Maladies… exhibit[s] a high degree of competence, but it’s the kind of competence that makes you want to call for the abolition of writing programs… The pieces in Interpreter of Maladies are crafted—no, machine-tooled—to within a millimeter of their tiny, calculating lives; their writing-handbook devices—the inciting event, the governing symbol, the wry turn, the final epiphany—arrive one after another, exactly on time, with the subtlety of a pit bull and the spontaneity of a digital clock. [Link]
He concludes that writers’ workshops breed formulaic checklists…
… Show Don’t Tell becomes one of the rules in a standardized how-to checklist… These rules aren’t exactly arbitrary. Having a character gaze into a mirror is evidently an involuntary reflex for amateurs and writers without talent. But the rule makes no allowances for the possibilities of a mirror scene in the hands of a writer with talent….This gets to the crux of the danger of the workshop: Doctrine is imposed with the working assumption that everyone is a mediocrity. If obeyed, it grades down the spiky brilliance of the talented and leads to the limited elevation and refinement of apprentice hacks… [Link]
… and drowns ambition:
A popular anecdote… has F. Scott Fitzgerald, fresh out of Princeton, saying to his fellow alumnus Edmund Wilson, “I want to be one of the greatest writers who ever lived, don’t you?” There is naiveté in the statement and there is hubris, but the boast also expresses a serious pursuit of greatness… But today, such a statement would most likely be met with muffled embarrassment in a workshop, which values the practical ends of publication and employment over this sort of dreaming…… we can only wonder what is being lost amidst an institution that, unintentionally but inexorably, conspires to discourage daring greatly as both irregular and impractical. [Link]




