Susan DeFreitas w/ Mo Daviau

At Corporeal Writing we’re all about opening the platform, continuously working on new ways to expand participation and experience, and breaking open what writing means.

We’ve created this new series of visiting writer workshops with some pretty phenomenal mammals. We are delighted to have humans in our community interview the writers who will be leading these collaborative workshops at Corporeal Writing Center.

In this sixth installation we present author and instructor, Susan DeFreitas interviewed by Corporeal comrade, author and karaoke extraordinaire, Mo Daviau.

Mo: I'm curious about this quote you mention from Ariel Gore--"traditional story structure takes the shape of a penis." Why did you choose this quote as the launching point in describing your upcoming Alt. Architecture class at Corporeal, other than the obvious thematic body tie-in? Are we talking actual penis here, or are we talking THE WHITE PATRIARCHAL CANON?

Susan: We are absolutely talking the White Patriarchal Canon—and I chose Ariel's assertion not because I think Freytag's Pyramid really does resemble a penis (I think it resembles a pyramid or a ramp, depending on how you draw it) but because it represents certain principles considered inviolable in fiction that really aren't—for instance, the idea that the story must culminate in an action-oriented showdown where all the major conflicts of the story come to a head (see what I did there?).

A novel needs a climax, sure—but a climax can be a moment where the potential for violence gives way to a peaceful revolution (as in Ursula K. Le Guin's novel VOICES). A climax can be the moment where the protagonist suddenly understands everything that has come up to that point in the story in a different way (as in Shani Motoo's MOVING FORWARD SIDEWAYS LIKE A CRAB). It can even be the moment when the reader herself comes to see things differently—no fireworks (or firefights) required.

That's what I mean when I say, yes, you must bring your reader to orgasm, but pretending there's only one way to do that is dumb. (Not to mention boring.)

MD: If I were to entrust anyone with showing me the different ways in which one can bring a reader to orgasm, I would trust you. You know I tell everyone who will listen what a gifted and wise editor you are, but now I'm seeing you differently—Betty Dodson, but with mad editorial talent.

What we're talking about here is ultimately relationships: the relationship between author and reader, between author and editor, and now, you're introducing a very tantalizing three-way between all concerned parties. And the one unifying element that makes the courses taught at Corporeal different from any other independent school of writing is that Lidia and her teachers, above all, value the gift of permission above what we call "craft," as in "there is a right way to tell a story, and a wrong way, and we're going to learn and do the 'right' way." Permission to be our real, messy selves on the page, but also permission to venture far away from the White Patriarchal Canon's codified ways of bestowing worthiness to certain types of stories.

Since we can all identify the (penis) shape of a novel written to please the White Patriarchal Canon's conventions, what, then, is the shape of a story that defies those conventions? What does it mean to you to teach form in opposition to this canon?

SD: Alternative shapes for stories include the spiral, the jigsaw puzzle, and my personal favorite, Gore's Vajajay (hi, Ariel!). Which I've actually termed Gore's Cauldron, the inverse of Freytag's pyramid—but just to be clear, she does specify "a big vagina in the middle." ;-)

As for traditional storytelling structure, I'm actually not opposed to it, any more than I'm opposed to the missionary position—for certain types of stories, it's really the most appropriate form.

Especially for writers coming from historically marginalized backgrounds, I'm reluctant to say, "Oh, yeah, you should totally throw traditional storytelling structure out the window," for the simple reason that I care about people from historically marginalized backgrounds getting paid, and working with alternative structures has the potential to marginalize your work, because the publishing industry tends to recognize traditional storytelling structure as the standard.

But there are all sorts of ways to subvert different elements of traditional story structure, in ways that actually interrogate that structure. That's one sort of creative activism I'm into.

Another sort of creative activism I'm into is actually changing the publishing industry's ideas and expectations by making alternative structures more common in the world, and by showing how accessible they are, the degree to which readers embrace them. Because there are many stories that just don't fit that traditional storytelling mold—important stories, vital stories, stories that we need right now that are not being told because writers (and would-be writers) haven't yet found a form that can contain them.

I experienced it myself just this last weekend, at a workshop in Santa Fe for mixed-race writers, led by Faith Adiele—I've written about all sorts of things in my life, but never found a way to write about my (extremely intersectional!) racial and cultural heritage. It took all day, but in the course of an exercise on found forms and fragments, I finally found a way to approach that subject (via a series of "recipes," for those who are curious). This nontraditional storytelling format allowed me to do something I'd been trying and failing to for years, which was to tell my nontraditional story.

MD: Can we interrogate TRADITION for a moment? Because when I think of stories by women of color, I don't immediately think, "oh, this is a nontraditional story," but that's because I read work by women of color. But because these aren't the usual stories of the WHITE PATRIARCHAL CANON (which excludes the stories of women and people of color but includes an entire novel about a guy masturbating on the toilet while his mother yells outside the bathroom door demanding to examine his shit?) the story gets moved to special part of the bookstore. And for a lot of us who have been through workshops and MFAs and the publishing pipeline, we simply accept this line of thought and fail to name or interrogate it and know that our adherence to it is a way to be successful. Traditionally successful, that is.

Which leads me to ask about another passion of yours, which is to decolonize the workshop, i.e. to reject the intellectual dominance of "tradition" when reading and critiquing the work of other writers. While I don't want you to reveal too much here (the full reveal is for workshop attendees, of course!), how have you, as a writer, editor, and educator, identified methods that others can use to make sure that workshop is a more expansive and intersectional process? Or do you advocate rejecting the workshop model altogether? 

SD: There are tons of fabulous stories by writers of color that are written according to traditional Western story structure—and when we see the fight these writers have faced just to get that first book published, only to have it "ghetto-ized" in the bookstore, the politics around structure becomes clear. Sometimes we want to take on another struggle—the struggle to change expectations in the marketplace. Sometimes we don't.

That said, that kind of marginalization can also free you up to take risks. After all, if your book isn't going to be taken seriously by that Old White Dude anyway, why not do something different--and embrace the (necessary! important!) struggle of changing the world?

As for "best practices" for the intersectional and inclusive creative writing workshop, here are my core principles:

1. If something in a piece being workshopped doesn't conform to your understanding or experience of the world, ask questions about it (rather than dismissing it as unrealistic, or "not how X people act").

2. Understand that something that may seem obvious to the author may not seem obvious to you, because they have a different lived experience. Don't be afraid to ask "dumb" questions; and if you're being workshopped, don't be afraid to provide blunt answers. We can't help each other achieve our intentions for our work if we don't actually understand what those intentions are; being sensitive to others should not mean hiding your confusion as a reader (which doesn't help anyone).

3. Understand that you may not be the intended reader of a given piece, and that's okay.

MD: Last question: what are you working on right now in your own writing, and is it of an alternative architecture?

SD: Currently, I'm working on an anthology of short fiction: Dispatches from Annarres: Portland Writers Pay Tribute to the Vision of Ursula K. Le Guin. Which does indeed have a kind of alternative architecture, based on both genre and three very odd, very lovely little pieces by Stevan Allred. But I assume you mean my own work!

This year, I've been focused on finishing my second novel, World's Smallest Parade. This book is the sequel to my first, but in many ways, it has a more traditional structure (Hot Season started as linked short stories, and so did this manuscript, but maybe I've had more time to novel-ize it? Maybe I have a stronger idea of what novel-izing linked stories might be?).

That said, World's Smallest absolutely takes more liberties than a traditional novel does, most notably with its subplots. The novel is set in a neighborhood where an urban farming movement has taken root, and when you're writing a novel centered on a community, how can it just be one person's story, one person's voice, one person's POV?

Susan is leading a workshop at Corporeal Writing November 7th, 14th & 21st 6-9pm. Payment plans are available. Learn more and save your seat here.

An author, editor, and educator, Susan DeFreitas’s creative work has appeared in the Writer’s Chronicle, Story Magazine, the Huffington Post, Daily Science Fiction, and Southwestern American Literature, along with many other journals and anthologies. She is the author of the novel Hot Season, which won a Gold IPPY Award for Best Fiction of the Mountain West, and holds an MFA from Pacific University. She divides her time between Santa Fe, New Mexico, and Portland, Oregon, and has served as a freelance editor and book coach since 2010.

Mo Daviau loves words, stuffed animals, indie rock, and the color green. She is the author of the novel Every Anxious Wave (St. Martin's Press, 2016), which was a finalist for the Oregon Book Award in 2017, and a bunch of essays and humor pieces that you can find online. She got her MFA in fiction at the University of Michigan earlier in this decade and now lives in Portland, Oregon. Her go-to karaoke songs are "Wichita Lineman" by Glen Campbell and "Sara" by Fleetwood Mac.