There are as many definitions of creative writing as there are people in the world. In general, a person who is uneducated about creative writing pedagogy might think of a creative writer as somewhat of a Shakespearean figure (Haake 4), while the creative writing student might be unable to separate the term creative writing from composition or literature (Ostrom xi). Some definitions can be as simple as stating that creative writing is “the writing of fiction and verse” (Tate 181), or as complex as using a psychological perspective to analyze a topic.
Sigmund Freud once said that a creative writer is “like a child at play… [expending] his emotion (libido energy) into a world of make-believe. In serious fantasy he fulfills his wishes without embarrassment, allowing his reader to do the same” (as qtd. in University of North Carolina). One way to accept all definitions of creative writing without a conflict is to embrace existentialist philosophy in the classroom-the belief that everyone must find their own path so to speak: to create and formulate networks of ideas about topic in an authentic, uninhibited way, free from societal constraints and external influences. Existentialists believe that education should come from within the person, with a teacher as mentor.
There is no better place to put existential beliefs to work than in the creative writing classroom. By making creative writing a very personal endeavor-unique to the self-we take away the ambiguity that is inherent in trying to define the term ‘creative writing,’ and we begin to concentrate on that which is most important–the work itself.
Voice is the crux of creative writing. Father Walter Ong (in The Barbarian Within, Macmillan, 1962) said that the “personal voice” is an almost definite prerequisite for good writing. Hamalian (227) agrees with Father Ong, stating that “few voices are more personal than that of Eldridge Cleaver expressing rage over the injustices of our society, or of William Faulkner apostrophizing the agony of the human spirit” (Hamalian 227). Without voice, writing lacks originality, or a personal perspective.
Hamalian describes voice as the liberated expression of a human being who is deeply committed to what he is saying…which…might be looked upon as something we could call ‘existential style'” (227). The “liberated human being” that Hamalian talks of is the only type of person who can create a work that is worthwhile; without a personal attachment to the subject matter we become merely reporters of information.
We have all read trite, cliché pot-boilers-those hackneyed books that have a cardboard box for a personality, and we know what happens when a writer copies the style of another writer (“in the style of so and so”). Sure, we go out and purchase the book, whose author purports to be “the next Stephen King,” but do we get past chapter two or three? Probably not-the book gets placed on the shelf and forgotten. The reader forgets why he purchased the book and is uninterested with the characters or plot. The true creative writer is that elusive fellow who has a unique voice with which to turn ordinary situations-our existence-into metaphors with passion and meaning. He is the author who we keep reading; he is original, he is passionate, and he is existentialist.
Existentialism is not a dogmatic philosophy–rather it is a particular way of thinking about the world we live in. Although the philosophy is thought to have started in the nineteenth century with Soren Kierkegaard and Frederich Nietzsche, Jean-Paul Sartre coined the term “existential,” and popularized the movement through his fiction (i.e. the novels Nausea and No Exit). The philosophy became a strong cultural and literary movement in the 40s and 50s (Crowell) but quickly died as a coherent movement, instead being replaced by a fuzzy ideal much in the way that the literary movements of romantic or postmodernism are equally hard to define.
The exact definition of what it means to be an existentialist is somewhat muddy. In her book Dreadful Freedom: A Critique of Existentialism, Marjorie Grene tells us that existentialists portend to be misunderstood by many, and while “they expose the cant of a fraudulent, strictly bourgeois ‘human dignity'” with “honest ruthlessness” they are often accused of being “perverts and iconoclasts, as philosophic nihilists and artistic freaks” so that every dystopian novel, every literary work whose characters are depressed or angry at life, is labeled as “so existential” (Grene, 1) as if adults are chastising the three-year-old for having a tempter tantrum. Paul Leclerc agrees that a definition is somewhat hard to pin down, and he describes existentialism as something that:
… cannot be reduced to a single set of essential common characteristics shared by all existentialists. Rather, it will signify a complex and dynamic network of distinct yet interrelated philosophical orientations, attitudes, methods, and themes… [but] is of all teachings the least scandalousand the most austere: it is intended strictly for technicians and philosophers.
Creative writers fall into Leclerc’s definition of ‘technicians;’ they are the reporters of the world as they see it.
Perhaps the best place to pin down a concrete definition is to start with arguably the most famous existential from Jean-Paul Sarte, the 20th century novelist and existential philosopher: “existence precedes essence” (Priest 27). The meaning of the quote is buried in the belief that Sartre believed man is what he makes of himself. Although the exact ramifications of the quote are obscure, existentialist Paul Tillich (qtd. in Nordmeyer), translates Sartre’s words into a phrase that can have closer meaning for creative writers. He states that “the existentialist thinker is the thinker who is interested in his subject infinitely, personally, and passionately; the non-existentialist thinker, scientist, historian, or speculative philosopher tries to cultivate an attitude of objectivity and disinterestedness” (585).
Note that Tillich says nothing about the creative writing process itself, only the thinking process–the way the creative writing existentialist thinks about their subject material. Most human beings exhibit existential thought patterns at one point or another in our lives–from the self-centered teenage who is completely involved in their egocentric world to the nursing home patient who is contemplating death. But while thoughts are crystal clear in our heads, it is not as easy to translate that existence onto paper–that is the hallmark of an existential writer.
Every writer should strive to be existentialist, to use that unique voice that contributes to a complex, multiphonic symphony. Crowell tells us that the unique voice can be thought of as a different way of thinking than has gone before, “thinking about human existence requires new categories not found in the conceptual repertoire of ancient or modern thought; human beings can be understood neither as substances with fixed properties, nor as atomic subjects primarily interacting with a world of objects.” In other words, people are not robots, pre-programmed with a set of behaviors and traits. In the same way, creative writers do not set out to report within a certain set of parameters, their aim is to break the rules and offer a new insight.
Creative writers are existentialists by their nature, whether they realize it or not. Simone de Beauvior describes how even Jean Paul Sartre declined to think of himself as an existentialist:
During a discussion organized during the summer [of 1945]…Sartre had refused to allow Gabriel Marcel to apply this adjective to him. ‘My philosophy is a philosophy of existence; I don’t even know what Existentialism is.’ I shared his irritation. I had written my novel [The Blood of Others] before I had even encountered the term Existentialism; my inspiration came from my own experience, not from a system. But our protests were in vain. In the end, we took the epithet that everyone used for us and used it for our own purposes. (p. 4)
Nordmeyer talks of the simplicity of existential writing when he states that “the essence of a truly existentialist approach… [is that there is] nothing dogmatic, nothing stereotyped, nothing professional about it whatsoever” (Nordmeyer 583). By ‘professional,’ I do not think that Nordmeyer was referring to a highly polished and edited manuscript. I think he was referring to scientific, academic, or journalistic writing–those types of writing that are expected to adhere to certain ‘standards.’ Of course, the creative writer today has a confusing array of signals beamed to him from the echelons of published writers: one must be grammatically correct, one must “show not tell,” one must adhere to current trends (no westerns, thank you, or tales of child abuse).
If great writers are truly existentialist, then how can they adhere to current trends and get published? The answer may be to ignore what is going on in the present and delve into the innocence of childhood.
Children and young adults are naturally existentialist. “Observation of children and young people indicates that they want to share much of their experience with a sympathetic audience and that this sharing is important in establishing and maintaining the reality of the experience” (Botts 886). As we age, societal constraints–those expectations that we receive from parents, teachers, television, and all manner of different inputs–choke us like a barbed wire wrap and quash natural creativity.
Hamalian states that “[The student] may worry too much about his “audience”–usually some entity bearing the face of his teacher who is looking over his shoulder, red pencil poised, as the student writes. His ‘voice’ freezes up” (228). As we mature, the temptation becomes to write something that the professor is expecting, to write something that will get us an A, to write something that will sell-anything other than it seems, something that is representative of our authentic self. If the temptation to fit our writing in with a norm: be it classroom, societal, or other, we cannot call the results of these practices creative writing.
An existential pedagogy is often seen as too radical (or too archaic) to work in the classroom. I believe that this misguided belief is fueled by a misunderstanding of what it means to be existentialist. A few years ago, I returned to school to complete a Master’s degree in teaching mathematics, with the strong desire to make a difference in the classroom. My underlying philosophy was existentialist and I was told by a professor in my curriculum design class that my philosophy was “too radical” for the local school district and that if I wished to be successful at teaching I had to learn to “fit in” to the progressive style. To that particular professor I was a revolutionist, an ultraist intent on chaining myself to the educational structure and screaming at the toe-the-line types who were condemning our children to a life of dull, traditional principles and society-oriented beliefs.
The common misconception is that a child who is encouraged to stay in an existential thought pattern-note, that I believe children are naturally in the state of existentialism and therefore do not need to ‘become existential’-is a child who will grow up to be an uneducated loser who will spend his childhood playing endless video games and spend his teenage years smoking dope and proselytizing about the inherent good of his inner self and the fundamental ‘badness’ of society.
In stark contrast however, existential schools are as successful at educating our children as traditional schools.
In an informal study of fifty graduates of Summerhill existential school almost all were successful in their daily lives (the group included two lawyers, two physicians, a zoologist and a professor) (Bernstein). Summerhill has successfully been in operation in England for over eighty years. It was founded in 1921 and formed the pedagogical foundation for hundreds of similar, existential schools that opened up around the world following Summerhill’s success, including several in the United States. Typically, existential schools are self-governed by students, offer optional classes free from attendance policies. At Summerhill, teachers are addressed by their first names, they eat the same food as the students, are friendly and are seen and treated as equals to their students (Neill 3). The Summerhill philosophy is based on the notion that children should be able to enjoy an education that is their own, free from forced opinions and mandatory subject matters.
This philosophy blends seamlessly into the creative writing classroom, where children who write about personal experiences are “excited and charmed for having done so. Having drunk at this intoxicating well of delight, he is seldom satisfied with his initial accomplishments, but returns again and again to slake his thirst” (Cramer 512).
An existential creative writing classroom, however, is not one without rules. Rather, the rules are loosely defined to take into consideration the student’s interests and needs; they are more likely to mention authenticity and sincerity, than knowledge or methods. Cramer tells of how a teacher asked her class to write about their “favorite [zoo] animal. Instead, one child wrote a lively, humorous account of an accident he saw on the way to the zoo. The teacher accepted his offering as a satisfactory fulfillment of the assignment” (509). On first glance, the acceptance of the child’s paper may seem quite ridiculous considering that in ‘real life’ we are often constrained by subject matter limitations (such as writing an article for the local newspaper in Jacksonville, Florida-there’s not much point in submitting an article about the local golf club’s annual competition winners in Essex, England). But as existentialists, so we can see clearly that the aim of the teacher assigning the topic was not to see how much a child could write about a particular animal, but to spark creativity, and that is what happened!
In a radical approach to English education (at least, radical at the time: it was 1958) Hughes Mearns encouraged his students to write, accepting everything that was turned in to him. He praised only the work that was free from cliché, trite expressions and other commonplace writing. He saw this as stimulating the creativity in his students. “English teachers and educators have become aware of another basis for considering the nature of English…the student himself, the young person the teacher sees every day and without whom the teacher would not exist” (Botts 884). “The teacher knows…that young people today are not likely to be dull. They have had experience that many teachers have only read about” (Hamalian 228).
Traditionally, a student was seen as “someone who lacked a skill or didn’t know something” (Botts 885). Some would argue that most of our education still works this way, with students having educational deficits rather than interior passions that need only to be fostered and brought out. Everyone according to Botts, “has creative powers in one form or another” (885).
The above paragraphs should also answer the question of how students work should be graded. This seems like an impossible task in an existential environment: if creativity is deeply personal, then why should students be graded? The answer is that they should be graded because, when signing up for the class of their choice, they entered into a contract to be held to a certain standard of effort and introspection. Education in a particular subject is not mandatory in an existential environment, but certain behaviors are expected and called for (usually though, these institutions are self-governing so the ‘rules’ are there but are enforced by a democratic process).
“Each of our students has had an immense and unique variety of experiences by the time he comes to our classes” (Botts 886). It is the goal of an existential school to foster that unique experience and perspective, to clarify that student’s authentic view of the world, as unencumbered with the status quo as possible, then to give that student the tools with which to express his perspective.
One existential method of creative writing instruction currently practiced is the story workshop. A story workshop is, according to John Schulz “A wholly new way of teaching writing: by personal discovery in a group situation. A flexible, always developing method with an arsenal of verbal and perceptual word, telling, reading, and writing exercises of increasing demand.” (qtd. in Stoll). “I believe that a student–adult, interested in writing–who attends
Ostrom, in contrast, notes that a problem with the “traditional” model in its simplest form is “‘going over’ poems and stories in a big circle, holding forth from time to time, pretending to have read the material carefully, breaking up squabbles like a hall monitor, marking time” (xiv). This is an example of the passive consumption of educational media by disinterested students.
Those who are interested can be left behind just as easily, entranced by the rules, structures, and frameworks they must ascend and master. “Novices are sure they can’t catch up, learn the code, and be accepted” (Bishop & Ostrom xv). With existentialism, there is no one to catch up to: the benchmark of progress is one’s self. So instead of being overwhelmed with work they are told is classic, students are free to discover quality with the help of a mentor. Says Stoll, “‘Creative Writing’ classes so often kill the imaginative impulse: the workshop lets the poor battered thing out and lets it play” (Stoll 258).
A creative writing student attempts to answer the metaphysical questions that existential philosophers do: why are we here? What is life? Why does this matter? These questions are at the forefront of every writers mind, whether it materializes in his written work or not: “Existentialism is an approach to life, while literature at its best is a symbolism of life” (Nordmeyer 583). Creative writers attempt to answer metaphysical questions: “what’s out there, and if anything is out there, what should our relationship to it be? What will we gain or lose from believing in what we can’t prove to be true?” (Rowell & Phillips 214).
Very much short of asking these fundamental questions, traditional students must conform to the system of prescription learning, and a “pigs to the trough” approach to education. As a result, “by the time a person reaches adolescence much of his creative potential may have been inhibited” (Botts 886).
Objections are rooted in the traditional philosophy of education which is still pervasive. James Hosic wrote in 1932:
Such vague concepts as freedom and spontaneity are not very serviceable when it comes to laying out courses of study, and to the objection that courses of study should never be laid out in advance anyway, it may be answered that at a time when all of us together can hardly decide what children should learn in school, it is not likely to that the individual teacher can find out by asking the pupils (111).
It is true that educators spend much time deciding what is appropriate to teach and how, but “perhaps it is time to acknowledge that there is no longer any one way in creative writing teaching, and to begin to ask what are the many ways there are?” (Haake 5)
References
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