“The Voice of Nature”, Revisited: An 11-year-old workshops her short story

Caitlin: I mean, first off, that title. I initially thought you were using it ironically, but then it turned out you weren’t. It’s way too direct. Why would you want to give away the story’s central plot device in the title?

Professor Michaels: Thank you, Caitlin, but let’s actually dive into the story before we start giving feedback.

Caitlin: No, totally. I just think this title suggests that the story will be didactic and juvenile — which, actually, I guess it is. Go ahead.

Sonya listened to the familiar sounds of the woods as she sat on the big rock in the middle of the forest in Fargo, North Dakota.

Mark: Is Fargo the only city you can name in North Dakota? Everyone’s heard of Fargo because of the movie, obviously, so a more seasoned writer would have steered clear of setting a story there.

Caitlin: Not to mention that you literally — and believe me, I hate when people misuse the word “literally” — you literally can’t get any less descriptive than “big rock.”

She heard twigs snapping as a rabbit scampered through the trees. The greenery and brightness around her reminded her that it was spring.

Jackie: You obviously were aiming for alliterative verbs here, but you totally missed the mark. How exactly would rabbits scamper through trees? I started wondering if the story was set in an alternate universe, or if maybe you were delving into magical realism à la Gabriel Garcia Marquez, but I’m pretty sure you just used the wrong word.

She took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of pines. Birds of all shapes and sizes flitted around her, glad to be back after their long trip south.

Mark: Which species of birds are you referring to, exactly? The phrase “all shapes and sizes” is much too cliché. If you want me to believe that these birds are flying south, I need to know more about them, otherwise you’ve lost me as a reader. I’ve “flown south,” so to speak.

She averted her mind for a moment from the scenery to think about what her dad had asked her to do. Sonya’s dad had asked her to play piano and sing for a nursing home this Saturday morning, but she had plans with her friends that morning.

Caitlin: You establish the conflict right away, and I think more time needs to be devoted to exposition. What did Sonya eat for breakfast? How many freckles does she have? Why is she sitting alone in the woods? Is she homeless?

Mark: I agree with Caitlin. Take Dickens, or Hemingway — their character development and world building is so much more substantial than what we see here.

Caitlin: Sorry, I’ve actually never read either of those writers.

Mark: Dickens and Hemingway? What did you study in college, modern dance?

Caitlin: I make it a point to only read white male writers who suffered a serious tragedy or setback in their formative years. Otherwise, I just can’t. The patriarchy has enough going for it.

Professor Michaels: As much as I support thinking creatively about the intersection of gender and society, we should probably return to our discussion of the story.

She told her dad no right away, but he begged her to think about it. To humor him, she had agreed to think about it. And true to her word, Sonya was thinking about it when she heard a voice.

Jackie: The repetition of “think about it” would be clever if you were aiming for an Eliot-esque sensibility, but I think you probably just couldn’t come up with another way to frame that idea.

“Look at the birds. Listen to them. Their singing brings comfort to the lonely and joy to those who have none. They do not get anything in return for their singing. They share their talents for no reward and it makes many people happy.”

Caitlin: This is where the story really goes off the rails. Are we actually supposed to believe that Sonya is hearing a voice? Is she schizophrenic, or is this a conceit that calls for the reader’s suspension of disbelief?

Mark: Also, most birds — we don’t know what species, but still — most birds use their songs as mating calls. Everyone knows that. So birds are, actually, “getting something” in return for their singing.

Professor Michaels: I think the metaphor is actually very well mapped out. It’s juvenile, yes, but its simplicity harkens back to the innocence of childhood.

The voice in Sonya’s head, deep and full of wisdom, disappeared as quickly as it had come. Sonya sat still for a moment, then she slowly stood up and started walking back in the direction of her house. She knew what her answer for her dad would be.

Jackie: This was when I realized that you’re employing the unreliable narrator trope. For example, when Briony recounts her version of events, the reader is aware —

Mark: Have we had a single workshop where you haven’t referenced “Atonement?”

Caitlin: Seriously, Jackie. Could you at least TRY to read something written by a woman or a person of color?

Professor Michaels: We should try to stay on track here. Continue reading, please.

John stared furiously forward, trying to stop the hot tears welling up in his eyes from cascading down his face. He was concentrating so hard that he didn’t notice the dark rain clouds forming in the sky. John set off for the small pond at the end of his street in Liverpool, England.

Caitlin: This is too abrupt of a transition. Maybe it’s supposed to speak to the inherent disorder and meaningless of modern life, but if not, it kind of sucks.

Professor Michaels: I think you do a nice job here of establishing setting. Dark clouds, small ponds — we immediately know we’re in England.

He clenched his fists together as a single tear escaped from his right eye. Insults ran through his head, insults he had heard directed towards him only one hour before at school. He was the one, the geek, the nerd they called him, that all the bullies picked on.

Mark: I didn’t really buy this bullying bit. Since this takes place before the invention of Facebook and Twitter, I would classify it as historical fiction, though you clearly didn’t do enough research. It’s rife with anachronisms. You expect the reader to believe that, before the Internet, kids went around calling each other names to their faces? This scene reads like it’s been ripped from a cheesy John Hughes movie.

Jackie: I actually like John Hughes, and sorry, this story doesn’t come close to achieving the emotional complexity and psychological depth of his films.

John was used to the constant mean-hearted teasing and rude comments, but today had been too much. The school bullies had remarked on everything from his clothes to his hair, from his grades to his love of art and nature, to his sensitive personality.

Caitlin: “Constant” mean-hearted teasing and rude comments seems too hyperbolic. Most people learn from a young age to at least act like they’re treating others with respect, even if their behavior comes from a place of calculated self-interest. I can’t imagine anyone being that openly rude. So this doesn’t work for me at all.

That was part of the problem. His sensitive personality. Every bad thing the bullies said he took personally, not taking into account that they were bullies and would say anything to get someone upset.

Professor Michaels: Now this part I really like. Through this interior monologue, we get a sense of who John is, and the way in which his tendency to blame himself for his problems stands as an obstacle to his happiness.

Mark: Yeah, but he’s still not remotely likable or sympathetic. As far as we know, he hasn’t grown up destitute and isn’t being shipped off to war. His problems seem nonexistent, which really prohibited me from engaging with the story.

John finally came to the soft, willowy grass that bordered the pond. This was John’s favorite place in the whole world, the one place where John could be alone, alone except for the ducks and fish in the pond.

Professor Michaels: I like the reiteration of the theme of nature as escape, or at least, the idea that what happens in the private sphere is wholly influenced by the public sphere, and vice versa.

Jackie: In “Atonement” —

Mark: Does this not bother anyone else?

Professor Michaels: If a work of fiction speaks to a student, and they choose to repeatedly draw parallels between this work and the story we are workshopping, I have no problem with that.

John heard a clap of thunder in the distance and a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the now dark sky. He looked up just in time to see the skies open up and send sheets of rain tumbling down. In no time at all John’s wet hair was plastered to his face and his soaking wet clothes stuck to him like glue.

Jackie: This isn’t your fault, necessarily, but it really seems like you stole that phrase from Sugarland’s “Stuck Like Glue.”

Caitlin: I think it’s just a cliché. The crutch of the lazy writer.

Mark: And using “crutch” as a metaphor isn’t lazy?

Caitlin: Last time I checked, one word does not a cliché make. Sorry, Professor Michaels. We can keep going.

“Spring shower,” John thought, figuring any minute now his mum would come down to tell him to get out of the rain. The ducks, though, didn’t seem to mind the rain.

Caitlin: I saw Meg Wolitzer — “The Interestings,” of you know — at the L.A. Times Festival of Books, and she compared writing to playing Jenga — if you can take something out and the structure is still standing, whatever you took out didn’t need to be there. It just makes me think: Does any of this need to be here?

Professor Michaels: Well, I like the use of “mum” here. It feels very authentic.

Mark: Or like she read Harry Potter and thought “Hey, this must be how British

people speak.”

“Look at the ducks. They do not mind the rain. It slides right off their backs when it hits them. People can do that too. When someone insults them, they can ignore it and not mind. They can let it slide right off their backs like wet rain.”

Caitlin: I think you need a less trite image than ducks in the rain. Worms, for instance. Worms eat other people’s garbage. They thrive on the discarded refuse of humanity. So maybe if your character is able to make that conclusion, that would be more interesting, and wouldn’t make me, as the reader, run for the nearest paper shredder.

The deep voice echoing in John’s head was gone, all of a sudden. It just disappeared. “John,” his mum called from down the street. “Out of the rain, quick!” John stood up and smiled. He ran to his house, ready to tell his mum he didn’t care what anyone said to him ever again.

Mark: This just seems like an inane way to wrap up a character arc. What happens if, say, two years later, John is walking towards a sinkhole and someone shouts out “Watch out John, there’s a sinkhole!” He steps into the sinkhole and dies, that’s what happens.

Caitlin: I can practically smell the Dickens on you, Mark. Maybe try reading something written this century.

Erica names her problems to herself as she sets glumly out across the open field a mile from her house in Toronto, Canada.

Jackie: The tense shift here is jarring. We’ve been in the past tense, and now we’re in the present? If you’re looking for an example of a work that effectively utilizes flashbacks to demonstrate the subjectivity of memory, I would recommend “Big Little Lies.”

Mark: God, “Big Little Lies?” I changed my mind. Feel free to talk about McEwan all you want. On another note, Erica seems like a real bummer.

In most things, for example, guitar and school, she was okay but not the best. That was what bothered her. Everyone is good at something, she told herself. But I’m an exception.

Caitlin: I wonder if this character is too naïve to be believable? So many people make it through life without really discovering a talent or a passion.

Mark: You would know.

Caitlin: I’ll ignore that. But like Hobbes said, “Life is nasty, brutish and short.” To have Erica hoping for so much more from life doesn’t feel genuine to me.

She crossed the field and headed toward a path that led up a hill. The beginning of the path was lined with assorted flowers, mostly roses and wildflowers. Erica sat down on an old tree stump next to a cluster of different colored roses. She was still sitting there when she heard a voice.

Mark: There’s pretty much no sensory detail in this entire piece. Can you seriously not name a single species of flower?

“Look at the roses. They are all different, as people are different and have different talents. Some of the roses have bloomed. It is their turn to shine. Some roses will bloom later, but that does not mean they are worse than the other roses. They just have a different time to show off their beauty. That is how it is with some people.”

Caitlin: It strains credibility that none of these kids — however old they are, we don’t even know — that none of them question hearing a deep, creepy voice in their heads. Not to mention that everything the voice says is extremely cliché.

Jackie: I agree. The thoughts of these characters are very surface-level. Say whatever you want about “Big Little Lies,” Mark, but its characters are extremely three-dimensional. In this story, there’s barely any neurosis or rumination or depressive thought patterns before this voice fixes everything — and we’re just supposed to believe these characters are real people?

Professor Michaels: I see your point, Jackie, but I do believe we’re talking about children, here. Of course, the story could benefit from that clarification.

Erica smiled as the deep voice in her head stopped talking. She left the path feeling as if she were floating, happy and self-confident.

Mark: These adjectives are pretty much shit. You could have at least Googled synonyms for them. I don’t think the word “happy” has appeared in serious literary fiction since the 1950s.

On Saturday morning in Fargo, North Dakota, you would have seen Sonya playing piano and singing at a nursing home for the elderly.

Professor Michaels: The abrupt shift to second person here alludes to the ephemeral nature of storytelling. Well done.

Jackie: “Nursing home for the elderly” seems redundant. Are there other kinds of nursing homes?

And if her dad had asked her what had convinced her to volunteer then, she would have replied, “Nature teaches great lessons.”

Mark: At this point, if I’m Sonya’s dad, I’m losing my shit, like, “Do you have an imaginary friend named Nature? You don’t mean “nature” as in something herbal, do you?” The dad pretty much functions as a placeholder, I get that, but then at least have him act like a normal father.

On the Monday after that, in Liverpool, England, you would have seen John at school, surrounded by bullies insulting him. John just smiled and walked away, unperturbed.

After a while, seeing they would get no reaction out of John, the bullies left him alone for good.

Caitlin: Your tenses are all over the place here, which really left me floundering. My level of investment with the characters bottomed out so many times that I stopped counting.

And if another bully target had asked John why he didn’t care what anyone said to him, John would have replied, “Have you ever watched ducks in the rain?”

Mark: What the hell is a “bully target?’ I’m still convinced this kid has a sinkhole in his future.

Caitlin: I see one in yours. It’s called obscurity.

Professor Michaels: Ahem.

On that same Monday morning in Toronto, Canada, you would have seen Erica, happy and self-confident and changed tremendously from the sulky girl who had walked glumly out onto the field a few days earlier. And if someone had asked her how to find a solution for their problem she would have replied, “Go for a walk and find a quiet, peaceful place. Sit down and think awhile, you’ll find a solution in no time.”

Neither Sonya, John or Erica asked themselves exactly what voice they had heard that day, because without ever thinking about it, they all knew who, or what it was: The Voice of Nature.

Professor Michaels: I really think you accomplished what you were trying to do with this piece. Nicely done.

Originally published at okkiley.wordpress.com on September 20, 2015.