ADVANCE PRAISE FOR NAMING THE WORLD “I always thought there were no secrets to writing well, that only hard work, rare talent, and plenty of luck made a writer good. Naming the World proved me wrong—it opens the doors to some of the best writing classes in the country, the best teachers, and the minds of many of the best writers themselves. A fantastic resource for any writer (or writing teacher) looking for inspiration or guidance or support.” —HEIDI PITLOR, series editor of The Best American Short Stories, and author of The Birthdays “Forget about getting an MFA! Bret Anthony Johnston has put together the equivalent of a master class in writing by some of the best writers/teachers around. Here are the nuts and here are the bolts for any writer struggling with the essentials of his craft.” —BETSY LERNER, author of The Forest for the Trees: An Editor's Advice to Writers “Here's a book full of bright doorways into our writing, set out with specificity and reason. Not only is Naming the World a rich compendium of provocative prompts, but as a whole it serves as a timely conversation of the larger aesthetic of well-made fiction, a roomful of caring experts. Mr. Johnston, by assembling these worthy exercises, has done us all a valuable favor.” —RON CARLSON, director of the Graduate Program in Fiction at the University of California, Irvine, and author of Five Skies “At last—the book about writing I have been needing for years and that I will now keep on my desk at all times. Witty, warm, intuitive, inspiring, and hopeful, the writers gathered here feel like the best possible company as we all attempt to do this impossible, vital thing called writing.” —STACEY D'ERASMO, assistant professor of writing at Columbia University, and author ofA Seahorse Year In memory of Frank Conroy, whose presence here is as profound as his absence CONTENTS INTRODUCTION Bret Anthony Johnston GETTING STARTED GERMS John Dufresne WRITING PROMPTS Joyce Carol Oates NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH Christopher Castellani FICTION THROUGH ARTIFACTS Thisbe Nissen THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING ENVIOUS Tom Robbins MOURNING FALLS, USA Daniel Wallace A POSTCARD FROM THE VELVET REVOLUTION Rachel Cline WHAT IF IT WAS MORE THAN THAT? Lee Martin THE TITLE GAME EXERCISE Dan Chaon LIVING TO TELL, TELLING TO LIVE Norma E. Cantú MY FAVORITE FICTION-WRITING EXERCISE Alan Cheuse HOW TO NAME THE WORLD Bret Anthony Johnston UNTOLD STORIES Dorothy Allison BULLIES I HAVE KNOWN C. Michael Curtis OUR EVER-CURIOUS MINDS Tom Barbash ADOPT A MYTH Tom Bligh CHARACTER ON CHARACTER Bret Anthony Johnston WRITING AS PARLOR GAME Debra Spark OBJECT OF AFFECTION R. T. Smith NONFICTION TIME-TRAVEL EXERCISE Kyoko Mori YOUR FIVE SECONDS OF SHAME! Steve Almond INTERVIEWING YOUR CHARACTER Ann Packer FROM AUTOBIOGRAPHY TO FICTION Jason Brown PUTTING CHARACTERS INTO ACTION Varley O'Connor SUBVERSIVE DETAILS AND CHARACTERIZATION Lee Martin COMPLEX CHARACTERS Eric Goodman TWO LITERARY EXERCISES Melissa Pritchard GET CLOSER Julia Fierro THROUGH YOUR CHARACTER'S EYES Michael Knight POINT OF VIEW AND TONE ON POINT OF VIEW Bret Anthony Johnston STRATEGIES OF THE STORYTELLER Thane Rosenbaum EXERCISE ON POINT OF VIEW Elizabeth Strout THE POINT OF POINT OF VIEW Paula Priamos AN EXERCISE IN WRITING MEMOIR James Brown WHAT DO YOU WANT MOST IN LIFE? Vu Tran POINT-OF-VIEW EXERCISE FOR PROSE WRITERS Susan Straight TWO EXERCISES Tom Grimes THE CHICKEN CROSSED THE ROAD Katherine Min WALKING A MILE IN THEIR SHOES Amy Hassinger THE GLORY OF GOSSIP Bret Anthony Johnston PLOT AND NARRATIVE ON PLOT AND NARRATIVE Bret Anthony Johnston THE FIVE MODES Dan Pope THICKENING YOUR PLOTS Jacob M. Appel THE PLEASURE PRINCIPLE Josh Emmons FROM ANECDOTE TO STORY Elizabeth McCracken SEEING THE SCENE Adam Johnson THE PARTICULAR GESTURE: WRITING SEX SCENES Michelle Wildgen CREATING THE MEMORY MAP FOR YOUR MEMOIR Danielle Trussoni USEFUL LIES Robert Boswell REWRITING THE CLICHÉS Aimee Phan FROM IMAGINATION TO PLOT Vanessa Furse Jackson WHAT EVERY FICTION WRITER CAN LEARN ABOUT PLOT FROM THAT LOVABLE, FURRY OLD GROVER Bret Anthony Johnston ON PLOT Michelle Wildgen RECYCLING PROPS Nick Arvin DIALOGUE AND VOICE ON DIALOGUE AND VOICE Bret Anthony Johnston DYNAMIC DIALOGUE Jewell Parker Rhodes HE SAID WHAT? Colette Sartor CHARACTER AND SITUATION THROUGH DIALOGUE Richard Bausch ON DIALOGUE Katherine Min THE THING ABOUT DIALOGUE Bret Anthony Johnston & Robert Torres, Illustrator USING SUMMARY, INDIRECT, AND DIRECT DIALOGUE Robert Rosenberg DIALOGUE: MASTER OF MULTITASKING AND SLEIGHT OF HAND Kate Myers Hanson THE FOREIGN VOICE José Skinner A DIALOGUE EXERCISE Michael Jaime-Becerra DESCRIPTIVE LANGUAGE AND SETTING ON DESCRIPTIVE LANGUAGE AND SETTING Bret Anthony Johnston DESTROYING WHAT YOU LOVE Sarah Shun-lien Bynum A STRANGER COMES TO TOWN Rebecca Johns THE MONSTER IN THE ATTIC Jonathan Liebson SIMULTANEOUS ACTIONS IN FICTION DeWitt Henry LEARNING TO LIE Mark Winegardner ARTISTIC PERSPECTIVE Nick Arvin ALL ABOUT RHYTHM Paul Lisicky EMOTION IN FICTION Margot Livesey REVISION ON REVISION Bret Anthony Johnston THE FIRST DRAFT OF ANYTHING Don Lee ON THE WHEEL John Smolens SILENCES AND BLANK SPACES René Steinke RESEEING IN REVISION Jason Brown REVISE, REENVISION, REINVENT Holiday Reinhorn HIDING THE I IN FICTION AND NONFICTION Marlin Barton SHOPPING FOR CONFLICT IN THE SECOND DRAFT Merrill Feitell THE RIGHT WORD IN TAILS Stephen D. Marlowe DAILY WARM-UPS A NOTE ABOUT DAILY WARM-UPS Bret Anthony Johnston DAILY WARM-UPS Jacob M. Appel, et al. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS INTRODUCTION DON'T BELIEVE IN TALENT. NOR DO I PUT FAITH IN THE idea of inspiration, the muse, or the muse's shadowy and malicious twin, writer's I block. (That is, of course, unless you're considering buying this book because you have writer's block; if that's the case, it's a tragic, insidious affliction, and these exercises provide immediate, lasting, and entirely affordable relief.) Truth be told, I'm not at all sure that writing can be taught. I am positive, though, that it can be learned. What I believe in, as a writer and a teacher, is dedication. And stubbornness. And discipline. Being a writer is, in the fullest sense of the word, a vocation. It's labor, to be sure, often very lonely and stilted and compromising labor, but it's also more than that; it's a calling, an act of courage, an act of faith. I don't mean this in any New Agey, touchy-feely way; quite the opposite. Much of the writer's work must be—can only be—accomplished by doggedly venturing into territories unknown, by risking failure with every word. With this in mind, I strive in my classes—and in this book— to create an environment in which each writer feels invited and prepared to take such risks; I try to provide concrete and specific— rather than abstract or stock—lessons that might increase the student's chances at thematic, aesthetic, and technical success; and above all else, I encourage the aspiring writer to show up at her desk every day. This is what I believe in, what I trust will ultimately distinguish those who want to write and publish from those who do write and publish: work. I believe in rolling up your sleeves and buckling down when a sentence or story or chapter is struggling. I believe, to paraphrase Henry James, that every writer is a reader moved to emulation, and I believe that the act of writing is itself the muse. The articles of my faith are revision and perseverance and rigor and commitment and craft and what Frank Conroy, on a muggy Tuesday afternoon in Iowa, so aptly referred to as “butt-in-chair time.” On the first day of my fiction workshops at Harvard, my students and I tell a story together. This is an exercise devised, I believe, by the angelic writer Nancy Willard. There are usually twelve of us sitting around a seminar table, and we're feeling simultaneously excited and terrified and hopeful and more than a little worried that we'll be unmasked as impostors. (At least I'm feeling these things, and because I've never met a writer who wasn't constantly enduring some mishmash of this weird and potent anxiety, I assume student writers are likewise afflicted.) I tell them that I'm thinking of a character, a man named Bill. Bill, I say, wants a glass of water. Then, with the students confused and staring at me in silence and thinking maybe they should've opted for that economics class taught by the professor who eats his chalk, I turn to the person on my right and ask what happens next in the story. And like that, they're at home. It's one of my favorite moments in teaching, seeing this particular relief deliver the students to solid ground. With the parameters of the project established—each writer contributes to the narrative, then passes it to the right— their imaginations soar and they're eager to spend the next twenty minutes telling Bill's story. (Bill's story, you should know, is almost always of the Old Testament sort: abject poverty, intestinal parasites, wolverine and black widow and IRS agent attacks, alien abduction with requisite probing, projectile vomiting resulting from nonpotable water ingested earlier in the story, pachyderm stampedes, and so on. A sadistic bunch, tomorrow's literary lions.) And soon there's this important and undeniable and infectious air of confidence filling the room; I always imagine it's what a locker room would feel and sound like after an underdog football team has won a championship. When the impromptu narrative comes full circle and ends, the students clap and laugh and debate who rained down the most creative trouble on good ole Bill.