The Great Courses

Nothing happens by accident.

A number of years ago, I received a catalog in the mail.  It was from The Great Courses.  I'd never heard of it, and I don't know how they got my address.  But I browsed through the catalog, taking particular interest in courses about writing.

I'm nothing if not slow.  Over the next several years, the catalog kept showing up in the mail, usually in the early part of the year, and I'd browse through it and read about the writing courses.  I was curious about buying the course titled  "Building Great Sentences," but the price seemed prohibitive.  Besides, I wasn't sure I'd sit down long enough to make my way through each of the lectures.  (Some time later, I was at a local bookstore, and found the book version of the same course, written by the professor who delivers the lectures, Brooks Landon.  I bought the book, read it thoroughly, marked a number of notable spots, and learned lot–although I have to admit I'm not much for some of the loaded sentences Landon constructed, consisting of so many words, my twelfth grade creative writing teacher, Mrs. Cassidy, would have shivered.)

Over the past months, another course caught my eye:  "Writing Great Fiction: Storytelling Tips and Techniques."  I kept seeing it advertised in several magazines (a sign?), but, again, the cost was prohibitive.

Then, recently, I found the same course severely discounted.  The DVD version was only US $59.95.  Once shipping and handling were included, as well as applicable taxes and US exchange, the total cost was just over CAD $100–not bad at all for twenty-four, half-hour lectures.  (Turns out, most courses offered by The Great Courses are discounted once a year.)  The other nice thing is most courses can be streamed moments after you purchase them.  So, while you wait for the DVD and accompanying course guidebook to arrive, you can stream the first few lectures (or all of them, if you like).

When I discussed buying "Writing Great Fiction" with my partner, Chris, he asked what could I possibly learn from "Writing Great Fiction" that wasn't already included in one of the hundreds of books in my writing reference library.  Good question.  I guess there's something more engaging in watching a lecture than reading yet another book about writing.  Plus, I wanted to try The Great Courses for myself–see what it was all about, in case I wanted to take advantage of another discounted course in the future.

So far, I've watched lectures 1, 2, 3, 4, and 22 of "Writing Great Fiction."  The first four were terrific.  Lecture 22, titled "Revision Without Tears," I found disappointing.  But, to be fair, I didn't watch all the lectures that precede it, which probably took away from the information it contained.  So I plan to go back and watch each one in chronological order.

If I've piqued your curiosity about The Great Courses, be sure to check it out online.  The array of courses offered is vast (you're sure to find something that interests you), and they really do a nice job of putting together their packages and Fed-exing them so they're received in only a few days.

A Letter to J. R. Moehringer

Dear Mr. Moehringer,

[long sigh, shaking head]

How do you do it?

How do you write with such style, and class, and grace?  How is your writing style so clean, efficient, and crisp?  How do you make me care about characters and situations I thought I'd care nothing about?  How do you draw me into a story and make me feel like I'm there?  How do you make your story come alive like it was just happening?  How do you write like no other writer?  How do you make me wish I wrote just like you?

When Sutton first came out, I recognized your name from the cover.  You were the fellow who helped Andre Agassi write his memoir Open.  Well, let's be honest.  Agassi didn't write Open at all.  You did.  I know that now, because the style of Sutton is so similar.  Actually, it's exactly the same.

I freakin' loved Open.  I recommended it to countless people.  I took great pleasure when it turned into a bestseller.  It should have been a bestseller.  It was amazing, some of the best writing I've ever read.  I read Open years ago, but I still remember it, vividly.  I still remember it being a fantastic book, one I must read again soon.  I couldn't wait until your next book.

So then Sutton appeared on bookstore tables.  But, Mr. Moehringer, it was about Willie Sutton, someone I knew nothing about, someone I told myself I didn't want to know anything about.  What did I care about the notorious Willie Sutton, who, according to the dust cover of the book, "was America's most successful bank robber"?  What did I want to read about him for?  I'm not even American.  So, disappointed, I put the book down on the table, told myself I'd have to wait for your next book to enjoy your amazing writing style again.

Fast forward several years.  Sutton appears on the discount tables at local bookstores.  I pick it up, again.  Read the inside flap.  Think about it.  Should I buy it or not?  The price is only $7.99 Canadian.  Not much.  I've bought many discounted books before.  Some of my favorite reads have been discounted books.  So, what the hell.  I bought it.  And, once I'd taken it home, despite everything else I had to read, I started reading it, right away.  It called to me.  I didn't know why. 

Was I in for a surprise.  Sutton is one of the best books I've ever read, and I don't make that claim lightly.  I was disappointed when it was over.  I didn't want it to end.  I never say that about a book.  Most often, I can't wait for the book I'm reading to end, so I can move on to the next one, something I hope I'll enjoy more, be more engaged in.

Your writing is like a pop-up book.  You use a minimum of words, but everything still pops up off the page.  I see the setting.  I see the characters.  In fact, I'm with the characters, I'm one of them.  I'm doing what they're doing, feeling what they're feeling.  No writer can ask his writing to do more.  No writer.  That kind of writing is as good as it gets.      

Nothing is an accident.  I read Sutton exactly when I should have.  When I'm having so much trouble editing my own novel.  When I need all the inspiration I can get to help me through my writing sessions.  When I need to see in front of me an exceptional example of writing.  When I hope your skill with words transfers over to me. 

I can't tell you how many times I've wondered how you'd write my novel, how you'd put something I'm struggling with, how you'd make my story come alive, in a way I can't seem to.  The good news is, I have Sutton to refer to.  I've earmarked entire sections I will return to again and again, breaking them apart, investigating how you did what you did.  I'll use what I learn to edit my own novel.

There are countless books about how to write a novel.  I own a good number of them.  But, in my opinion, writers need only one book:  Sutton.  Everything we need to know about writing is right there, in every beautiful page of your extraordinary novel.  Thank you, Mr. Moehringer, for the generous gift you've given us all.   Thank you.

[sigh]

And thank you for being the gifted writer you are, and for showing us how it should be done.    

Art

Jackson Pollock's "Eyes in the Heat"

I've long struggled with why the medium for my voice isn't painting, or drawing, or sculpting, or whatever–ANYTHING but writing.

I believe, probably erroneously, that creating just about anything is easier than what I'm doing.  I mean, for goodness sake, look at what passes for art these days.  All someone has to do is splash paint on a canvas, and, assuming someone influential, usually with lots and lots of cash, catches onto it (that is, buys lots of it), then it becomes art.  Jackson Pollock, I'm talking to you (even though he's been long dead, and I think his work is kind of cool).

Yesterday, in my reading, I came upon this, in Noah Lukeman's The First Five Pages: A Writer's Guide to staying Out of the Rejection Pile, and it sort of all made sense to me why I'm struggling so hard right now to make something of Chapter One of my novel:

Other art forms, such as music and painting, force the artist to jump right in and create, but writing has a sly ability to allow its practitioners to dodge the artistic.  This may be because writing has so many inartistic (or less artistic) manifestations, from legal writing to business writing to official memos to textbooks, where the main priority is not artistic expression but the conveyance of facts.  Of course, everything has its place: if it were your responsibility to write down the minutes of your weekly business meetings and as the writer you chose to dramatize these minutes, filling them with emotion, you'd probably get fired [p. 121].

So Lukeman draws a distinction between different types of writing, between writing that would be considered practical, and writing that would be considered art.

I don't know about you, but, in the writing of my novel, I'm aiming for more than the "conveyance of facts."  I'm aiming for art.  I can't aim for anything less.  I may fall short–in fact, I know I will, in relation to any writer who's considered an artist at what he or she does–but that doesn't mean I shouldn't try.

If I'm going to sit down every writing day, and put in all the hours and effort I do, I won't settle for everyday, practical, inartistic writing.  My life is worth more than that.  I will do everything I can to produce something to the best of my ability, something I'm proud of.

And, even if not one other person sees it or thinks I've created something worthwhile, I will know I have.  In the creation of any art, that's all that matters.  That's all we can hope for.