WriteWrite Rewrite:
Surrealistic Stories & Sketches, Dramas & Dialogues
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Left: Henrik Eger with workshop participant
Center: Book cover by Deepak Manchanda Right: Anup Singh, assistant and co-facilitator, with workshop participant |
The German Institute (Max Mueller Bhavan, aka Goethe Institute) in Mumbai [then Bombay] asked me to conduct workshops for Indian writers in the spring of 1980. This particular workshop dealt with surreal stories, sketches, dramas, and dialogues.
To introduce Indian writers to modern Western writers, I gave each participant excerpts from a wide range of classical and contemporary writers from American, British, and German literature who used surrealism as their mode of expression:
To introduce Indian writers to modern Western writers, I gave each participant excerpts from a wide range of classical and contemporary writers from American, British, and German literature who used surrealism as their mode of expression:
Adamov, Beckett, Bichsel, Borchert, Brautigan, Brückner, Coover, Crackenedge, Eliot, Fassbinder, Grass, Handke, Heißenbüttel, Henisch, Hildesheimer, Joyce, Kafka, Laszlo, Mather, Reuben, Sachs, Schnurre, Stein, and Steinbeck.
Less than a mile from the Arabian Sea, the intensive writing workshop started with about two dozen writers in India sitting in a circle on the floor with nothing but their writing pads and pens. After the introduction, I asked the writers to read the texts we had distributed from worlds dramatically different from their own culture, and allow their imagination to get inspired and compose in a way they had never written before.
The atmosphere throughout the whole weekend was electric—creativity at its best.
The atmosphere throughout the whole weekend was electric—creativity at its best.
My assistant Anup Singh [now a well-known, award-winning film director] and I worked with each writer throughout the whole process, ending on Sunday night with a presentation of the works of the workshop participants, who showcased their stories and plays in front of a standing room-only crowd at the German Institute.
In the following weeks, Anup and I then put together this 74-page book.
In the following weeks, Anup and I then put together this 74-page book.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Henrik EGER, “Can one learn creative writing?"
Martin ESSLIN & workshop participants, “Recipes of the Absurd"— A taste of response
1a Jürgen ALBERTS, On my first day of work I received the following instructions
1b Anup SINGH, How to write: Workshop Instructions
2a Arthur ADAMOV, The invasion
2b K.K. VARMA, Sorry, can't!
2c Leo REBELLO, Bombay bus stop
3a Wolfgang BAUER, Shakespeare the sadist
3b Samuel BECKETT, Eh Joe
3c Feruzi ANJIRBAG, The movie
4a Samuel BECKETT, Waiting for Godot
4b Feruzi ANJIRBAG/K.K. VARMA, Who's U?
4c Glynis BARBOSA/A. RADHAKRISHNA, Who am I?
4d Glynis BARBOSA, Let's move!
5a Samuel BECKETT, Not I
5b Deepak MANCHANDA, Waiting
6a Peter BICHSEL, There is no such place as America
6b Arun GHANDI, There is no such place . . .
6b Clifford ANTHONY, . . . as India
7a Peter BICHSEL, A table is a table
7b Helmut HEISSENBÜTTEL, Bad news
7c Deepak MANCHANDA, Mr. Hoppat
8a Wolfgang BORCHERT, The outsider
8b K.K. VARMA, The eternal
8c T. NIRANJANA, The other one
9a Richard BRAUTIGAN, Homage to the San Francisco YMCA
9b Rukmini ARBREO, The art of living
10a Jutta BRÜCKNER, The power of men is the patience of women
10b T. NIRANJANA, A normal day
11a Robert COOVER, The marker
11b Sarabdeep SINGH, Adolescence
12a Edmund CRACKENEDGE, Medd
12b Azar KHAJEPOUR/Sumedha NILAKANTA/Simon SAHU, Another way
12c A. RADHAKRISHNA, Invisible strings
12d Glynis BARBOSA/A. RADHAKRISHNA, Attacking the blind
13a T.S. ELIOT, The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock
13b T.S. ELIOT, The cocktail party
13c Carl LASZLO, Let's eat hair!
13d Pallobee DASGUPTA, Culture vultures
14a R.W. FASSBINDER, Bremen coffee
14b Leo REBELLO, The vote
15a Günter GRASS, The tin drum
15b Nitindra JOBLEKAR, The match
16a Günter GRASS, Flood
16b Günter GRASS, The wicked cocks
16c Nelly SACHS, White serpent
16d T. NIRANJANA, Echoes of the future
17a Peter HANDKE, My foot, my tutor
17b Azar KHAJEPOUR, Your chance
18a Helmut HEISSENBÜTTEL, Wedding reception
18b Vandana JAJODIA, Art objects
19a Peter HENISCH, The small figure of my father
19b James JOYCE, A portrait of the artist as a young man
19c Sarabdeep SINGH, In no hurry
20a Wolfgang HILDESHEIMER, Nightpiece
20b Franz KAFKA, Metamorphosis
20c Archie D'CRUZ, The takeover
21a Anne MATHER, Dark moonless night
21b Anil WANVARI, Before the night broke in
22a Bunny REUBEN, The professional mourners
22b Archie D'CRUZ/Ayesha PRABHU, Rites
23a Wolfdietrich SCHNURRE, One of our most difficult repairs
23b Anup SINGH, How long is your tongue?
24a Gertrude STEIN, Forget grammar and think about potatoes
24b Veena GOKHALE/Anup SINGH, O.K., let me be frank!
25a Gertrude STEIN, Ralph Church
25b Subha NILAKANTA, Brainworker
26a John STEINBECK, How Mr. Hogan robbed a bank
26b Norbert KRIPP, We, the dead
Henrik EGER, “Can one learn creative writing?"
Martin ESSLIN & workshop participants, “Recipes of the Absurd"— A taste of response
1a Jürgen ALBERTS, On my first day of work I received the following instructions
1b Anup SINGH, How to write: Workshop Instructions
2a Arthur ADAMOV, The invasion
2b K.K. VARMA, Sorry, can't!
2c Leo REBELLO, Bombay bus stop
3a Wolfgang BAUER, Shakespeare the sadist
3b Samuel BECKETT, Eh Joe
3c Feruzi ANJIRBAG, The movie
4a Samuel BECKETT, Waiting for Godot
4b Feruzi ANJIRBAG/K.K. VARMA, Who's U?
4c Glynis BARBOSA/A. RADHAKRISHNA, Who am I?
4d Glynis BARBOSA, Let's move!
5a Samuel BECKETT, Not I
5b Deepak MANCHANDA, Waiting
6a Peter BICHSEL, There is no such place as America
6b Arun GHANDI, There is no such place . . .
6b Clifford ANTHONY, . . . as India
7a Peter BICHSEL, A table is a table
7b Helmut HEISSENBÜTTEL, Bad news
7c Deepak MANCHANDA, Mr. Hoppat
8a Wolfgang BORCHERT, The outsider
8b K.K. VARMA, The eternal
8c T. NIRANJANA, The other one
9a Richard BRAUTIGAN, Homage to the San Francisco YMCA
9b Rukmini ARBREO, The art of living
10a Jutta BRÜCKNER, The power of men is the patience of women
10b T. NIRANJANA, A normal day
11a Robert COOVER, The marker
11b Sarabdeep SINGH, Adolescence
12a Edmund CRACKENEDGE, Medd
12b Azar KHAJEPOUR/Sumedha NILAKANTA/Simon SAHU, Another way
12c A. RADHAKRISHNA, Invisible strings
12d Glynis BARBOSA/A. RADHAKRISHNA, Attacking the blind
13a T.S. ELIOT, The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock
13b T.S. ELIOT, The cocktail party
13c Carl LASZLO, Let's eat hair!
13d Pallobee DASGUPTA, Culture vultures
14a R.W. FASSBINDER, Bremen coffee
14b Leo REBELLO, The vote
15a Günter GRASS, The tin drum
15b Nitindra JOBLEKAR, The match
16a Günter GRASS, Flood
16b Günter GRASS, The wicked cocks
16c Nelly SACHS, White serpent
16d T. NIRANJANA, Echoes of the future
17a Peter HANDKE, My foot, my tutor
17b Azar KHAJEPOUR, Your chance
18a Helmut HEISSENBÜTTEL, Wedding reception
18b Vandana JAJODIA, Art objects
19a Peter HENISCH, The small figure of my father
19b James JOYCE, A portrait of the artist as a young man
19c Sarabdeep SINGH, In no hurry
20a Wolfgang HILDESHEIMER, Nightpiece
20b Franz KAFKA, Metamorphosis
20c Archie D'CRUZ, The takeover
21a Anne MATHER, Dark moonless night
21b Anil WANVARI, Before the night broke in
22a Bunny REUBEN, The professional mourners
22b Archie D'CRUZ/Ayesha PRABHU, Rites
23a Wolfdietrich SCHNURRE, One of our most difficult repairs
23b Anup SINGH, How long is your tongue?
24a Gertrude STEIN, Forget grammar and think about potatoes
24b Veena GOKHALE/Anup SINGH, O.K., let me be frank!
25a Gertrude STEIN, Ralph Church
25b Subha NILAKANTA, Brainworker
26a John STEINBECK, How Mr. Hogan robbed a bank
26b Norbert KRIPP, We, the dead
Diogenes by Jean-Léon Gérôme, 1860
“Can one learn creative writing?"
“I can't write!"
He pushed his pen aside: “I really can't write!"
He genuinely felt he couldn't do it. Layers and layers of traditional schooling had helped to build up the belief that writing creatively is an activity for the chosen few. But ordinary people? No!
Yet, he had bothered to register for the two day creative writing workshop. Indeed, he was ready to work for a whole weekend—10 hours a day, almost non-stop.
“I can't write . . . I can't write . . ."
One could hear the ticking of his doubts. Yet, he tried and joined all the various activities: introduction, body sculptures, team writing, reading, discussions, meditations, re-writing sessions.
And then he was asked to read his piece to the whole workshop. As if to make up for time lost he raced through his text. Half way through he stumbled, stopped:
“Shit, it's all shit!" He said.
Yes, writing can be painful. Reading one's own writing in public can be agonizing. And yet, this particular piece of prose was thought provoking, in spite of its author's rejection.
It was only after the presentation, the following night, that the myth exploded: he began to realize that he, too, was capable of writing creatively; that he, too, could say whatever he wanted to say; that he could say it in a way unique to him. And he realized that he could communicate with other people. Slowly, painfully slowly, Sarabdeep Singh began to believe in his own creativity.
This, in a way, is what happened to majority of workshop participants. In fact, they wrote some of the most exciting stories and sketches, dramas and dialogues that I have come across.
This collection is an attempt to document the progress made by 24 young writers. It is based on the conviction that everybody is creative. It's based on my experience that almost anybody who can write English, German, Hindi or any other language can also write creatively in that language.
“But how can I learn to write creatively?" Sarabdeep, like many others, had asked on the first day.
“Forget grammar and think about potatoes . . ." (p. 52) he was told by Gertrude Stein. He took her advice literally, forgot about grammar and thought—about cigarettes. The result is remarkable: his text is so free and liberated that even literary anti-smokers could inhale, with some benefit, his mild “junkie stream of consciousness":
i smoke my mother my father my sister . . .
i must stop I never touch touch a cigarette again whats a
cigarette to me this time its final no more cigarettes
well why bother if you want something then have it
why deny yourself
i know what i gonna do
(p. 42/3)
Indeed, why deny yourself the opportunities which creative writing can offer? Why. Not break out of the prisonhouse of conventions and “proper language use"? The land of originality is vast:
For a moment they sat in silence. Then the older man moved forward as if to share the last secret: “Believe me, dear Ali, India itself is just a name, it's another piece of fiction.”
(p. 15)
Which reminds me of my dinner party last week. Did you know that that Hitler was a hit with my guests?
(p. 33)
O lord of the meeting rivers
How can I tear out my shame and my ovaries
(p. 25)
This volume is full of examples, both modern classical (Kafka, Beckett, Stein) and contemporary (Handke, Bichsel, Fassbinder or Coover). It presents excerpts from established writers like Steinbeck and Grass as well as stories and scenes by young Indian writers: students, teachers and clerks, journalists, translators and copy writers. Some of these people had never written a single text before the workshop series started; others like A. Radhakrishna, Leo Rebello or Anup Singh (my assistant and partner) have published widely. Tejaswini Niranjana did the “official" translation of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar into Kannada (a South Indian language) and published a number of her poetry collections in English, one of which received the Commonwealth Prize for Literature some years ago.
Obviously, the more a person reads and thinks and tries to express in writing his or her thoughts and feelings, experiences and dreams, the greater is the chance that something original might develop. But that means writing, writing and rewriting. And, most of all, it means radical variations of thought patterns and deviations from rules.
Being alone out there in the wilderness of creativity, being naked in the paper jungle, exposed to words and syllables, to sentences and thoughts, can be bewildering, even frightening. But—as this collection tries to show—it may also help the writer to stumble across hidden feelings, to discover new forms.
One way into creativity could be the highly structured, methodical approach by writers like Irving Wallace or teachers like Wilson R. Thornley (see p. vi). Another approach to writing, and a much more liberating one, to me at any rate, is that of the surrealists. André Breton, in his Manifesto of Surrealism (1924) presented his version by advocating a “pure psychic automatism by which it is intended to express, either verbally or in writing the true function of thought. Thought dictated in the absence of all control exerted by reason, and outside all aesthetic or moral preoccupations. (Emphasis added; for applied “automatic writing" see p. iii)
Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, the pieces in this volume which are somewhat “outside moral preoccupations" seem to be deeply involved. Texts like “Shakespeare the sadist" (#3a), “The movie" (#3c), “The eternal" (#8b), “A normal day" (#10b), “Modd" (#12a), “Bremen coffee" (#14a) and, especially, “The marker" (#11a) and “Adolescence" (#11b) come to mind.
Whether their authors deal with sadism or lesbian love, with drug addiction or menstruation, with Hitler or murder, or with necrophilia and some of the most intimate taboos (“Grandmother—just a cunt to be seen. Now touching with finger . . ." #11b)—deep down, at a level which defeats sensationalism, a power emerges which could transcend traditional morality. And, with it, traditional aesthetics are questioned. In short, surrealism has helped to go above, beneath and beyond “reality."
To return to the “reality" of the workshops, if that does not seem too much of a contradiction, I feel I should itemize the main points of the actual workshop experience:
1. Creating a creative environment
We were lucky in having at our disposal the library of the Max Müller Bhavan (Goethe Institute) in Bombay, which we turned into a sort of action center: most activities took place on the floor—surrounded by books and magazines, tapes and recorders, posters, papers and pencils.
2. Helping people to relax
Some cultures appear to be more formal than others. In this connection, getting people to take off their shoes helped in easing initial tension and shyness. (For a 50 line account of some of my alleged “workshop instructions" see #1b). Calling each other by our first names made for a further breakdown of inhibitions.
3. Making it enjoyable
Music played an important role in filling the gaps of anxiety; so did mime and dance, body sculptures and acting out some of our “dialogues."
4. Pairing up writers, at least initially
“Pick a number and think of an unusual way of introducing yourself to the group while blending in with your partner-to-be."
And then pair #1—people who had never met each other before—would start: without any preparation whatsoever. The results (approximately two minutes per pair) were most entertaining: they ranged from mime to farce, from mock realism to the absurd. A feeling of togetherness began to grow and the sense for language was heightened as witnessed by “Bombay bus stop" (#2c) which, in a satirical way, depicts a breakdown of intercommunal communication, a phenomenon to be witnessed in practically all multi-lingual societies.
5. Using a gliding approach: from acting to writing
Each pair was given 15-30 minutes to discuss their original version, to remould it or to write a new sketch altogether and to present it. This aided the writers in leaving behind some of their old notions about writing and, instead, encouraged them to experiment with language in a playful way. This approach set immediate goals and made for a sense of achievement. Some of the wittiest results were achieved in this way. (See #4b, 4c or 12d.)
6. Activating instant writing
Team up the whole workshop into small groups of two or three. Give the “writers" a piece of paper with a subject or title (“The poetic popcorn machine," “Bombay is an ageing whore," etc.) and supply the “readers" with books and magazines. Play several cassettes of different types of music or sounds and, simultaneously, let the “readers" read to the “writers," let the “writers" write. Ask the participants to change their role whenever they wish, or blow a whistle, scream—or whatever—to indicate a change of roles. This kind of automatic writing (André Breton, p. ii) will cause a creative shock in most writers who, in turn, are almost bound to produce some extraordinary material—language clay which can and should be moulded into new poems, stories, or dramas, into exiting texts. (For some examples of this approach, see Workbook Poetry, English and German, ed. by Henrik Eger, Bombay, 1980.)
7. Setting deadlines: brief writing sessions
I held most writing sessions deliberately short (30 minutes to 1½ hours at the most) to put pressure on the participants, to encourage them to write and not to worry and waste time.
8. Let everybody listen, let everybody talk
After each intensive writing session there should be a period of “creative rest”: split the workshop into two or three sub-groups and give all the writers a chance to read and discuss, however briefly, their drafts. Encourage note taking throughout all these sessions to ensure a maximum exchange of ideas.
9. Encouraging an open, direct approach
Instead of nodding assent, muttering dissent or, worse, criticising and hurting others, democratic forms of intercommunication were introduced and used throughout the whole workshop by practically all; for example, participant A (a student) would say to participant B (a teacher): “I like this aspect of your story because . . . but I think you could change the form a bit because . . .”
10. Enriching the writers’ experience (content & form)
Encourage students to start writing at a level way above the usual beginning: select literary excerpts which have immediate appeal—from modern classics all the way to the Kitsch (the decorated, perfumed excreta) of the Mills & Boon “true romance” products (see #21a and its parody in #21b). Ask the students to use literary excerpts as the starting point of their own writing.
11. Write, write, rewrite (emphasize “re-write”)
My files are full of various student versions and drafts—sketches with a few ideas jotted down, the outline of a dialogue including two or three unusual images; papers full of notes and suggestions by fellow workshop participants; final versions with last minute alterations; and the version presented here—hopefully not the final one—with new stage directions which I wrote (#3b, 3c, 3d, 5b, 8b, 8c & 13d) plus some recent alterations here and there. Purists might consider this an act of artistic infringement. I see it more positively: I am reminded of a “creative summer vacation” in Germany, years ago, when we were asked to draw onions and fruits. The resident artist would go from pad to pad and erase a few lines here and draw some new ones there, transforming an often two-dimensional sketch into a picture from which one wanted to grab an apple right away. We learned more this way than by any other method.
During and after the writing workshops, I tried something similar. Take Azar Khajepour, the Iranian participant, and her sensitive piece “Your chance” (#17b). First she read Handke (#17a); then she wrote her own “stage directions.” She showed them to me, and I suggested the use of a tape recorder on an otherwise empty stage. She immediately rewrote her drama, did the recordings together with some friends, and presented one of the most memorable plays. Similarly, K.K. Varma’s “The eternal” (#8b): originally he had tried to portray an inner voice. But, as it was meant to be a play, Anup then suggested that he personify death in the form of a junkie. This helped Varma to move the play from the mind to the stage.
How wiling most young writers were to try new approaches and to experiment with language and form can be gauged from their response to “Recipes of the Absurd” (see p. ix-xii), a key to the better understanding of surrealist/absurdist writing, a green key to this collection.
12. Working towards a goal: a presentation, a booklet
Nothing seems to justify hard work and sacrifice as much as the feeling of achievement and success, however small. Consequently, each workshop ended with a presentation, to which friends and the public in general were invited. It gave a sense of urgency to the whole weekend and helped in an almost unbelievable way to overcome fatigue and strain.
Even Sarabdeep (“I can’t write”), nervous until the last moment, sensed his achievement: he had gained not only new techniques but a belief in his own creative abilities. And, if the selection presented here is anything to go by, it seems that practically everybody gained the confidence that he or she could write creatively.
So far, so good. But what about the failures?
“I can't write!"
He pushed his pen aside: “I really can't write!"
He genuinely felt he couldn't do it. Layers and layers of traditional schooling had helped to build up the belief that writing creatively is an activity for the chosen few. But ordinary people? No!
Yet, he had bothered to register for the two day creative writing workshop. Indeed, he was ready to work for a whole weekend—10 hours a day, almost non-stop.
“I can't write . . . I can't write . . ."
One could hear the ticking of his doubts. Yet, he tried and joined all the various activities: introduction, body sculptures, team writing, reading, discussions, meditations, re-writing sessions.
And then he was asked to read his piece to the whole workshop. As if to make up for time lost he raced through his text. Half way through he stumbled, stopped:
“Shit, it's all shit!" He said.
Yes, writing can be painful. Reading one's own writing in public can be agonizing. And yet, this particular piece of prose was thought provoking, in spite of its author's rejection.
It was only after the presentation, the following night, that the myth exploded: he began to realize that he, too, was capable of writing creatively; that he, too, could say whatever he wanted to say; that he could say it in a way unique to him. And he realized that he could communicate with other people. Slowly, painfully slowly, Sarabdeep Singh began to believe in his own creativity.
This, in a way, is what happened to majority of workshop participants. In fact, they wrote some of the most exciting stories and sketches, dramas and dialogues that I have come across.
This collection is an attempt to document the progress made by 24 young writers. It is based on the conviction that everybody is creative. It's based on my experience that almost anybody who can write English, German, Hindi or any other language can also write creatively in that language.
“But how can I learn to write creatively?" Sarabdeep, like many others, had asked on the first day.
“Forget grammar and think about potatoes . . ." (p. 52) he was told by Gertrude Stein. He took her advice literally, forgot about grammar and thought—about cigarettes. The result is remarkable: his text is so free and liberated that even literary anti-smokers could inhale, with some benefit, his mild “junkie stream of consciousness":
i smoke my mother my father my sister . . .
i must stop I never touch touch a cigarette again whats a
cigarette to me this time its final no more cigarettes
well why bother if you want something then have it
why deny yourself
i know what i gonna do
(p. 42/3)
Indeed, why deny yourself the opportunities which creative writing can offer? Why. Not break out of the prisonhouse of conventions and “proper language use"? The land of originality is vast:
For a moment they sat in silence. Then the older man moved forward as if to share the last secret: “Believe me, dear Ali, India itself is just a name, it's another piece of fiction.”
(p. 15)
Which reminds me of my dinner party last week. Did you know that that Hitler was a hit with my guests?
(p. 33)
O lord of the meeting rivers
How can I tear out my shame and my ovaries
(p. 25)
This volume is full of examples, both modern classical (Kafka, Beckett, Stein) and contemporary (Handke, Bichsel, Fassbinder or Coover). It presents excerpts from established writers like Steinbeck and Grass as well as stories and scenes by young Indian writers: students, teachers and clerks, journalists, translators and copy writers. Some of these people had never written a single text before the workshop series started; others like A. Radhakrishna, Leo Rebello or Anup Singh (my assistant and partner) have published widely. Tejaswini Niranjana did the “official" translation of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar into Kannada (a South Indian language) and published a number of her poetry collections in English, one of which received the Commonwealth Prize for Literature some years ago.
Obviously, the more a person reads and thinks and tries to express in writing his or her thoughts and feelings, experiences and dreams, the greater is the chance that something original might develop. But that means writing, writing and rewriting. And, most of all, it means radical variations of thought patterns and deviations from rules.
Being alone out there in the wilderness of creativity, being naked in the paper jungle, exposed to words and syllables, to sentences and thoughts, can be bewildering, even frightening. But—as this collection tries to show—it may also help the writer to stumble across hidden feelings, to discover new forms.
One way into creativity could be the highly structured, methodical approach by writers like Irving Wallace or teachers like Wilson R. Thornley (see p. vi). Another approach to writing, and a much more liberating one, to me at any rate, is that of the surrealists. André Breton, in his Manifesto of Surrealism (1924) presented his version by advocating a “pure psychic automatism by which it is intended to express, either verbally or in writing the true function of thought. Thought dictated in the absence of all control exerted by reason, and outside all aesthetic or moral preoccupations. (Emphasis added; for applied “automatic writing" see p. iii)
Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, the pieces in this volume which are somewhat “outside moral preoccupations" seem to be deeply involved. Texts like “Shakespeare the sadist" (#3a), “The movie" (#3c), “The eternal" (#8b), “A normal day" (#10b), “Modd" (#12a), “Bremen coffee" (#14a) and, especially, “The marker" (#11a) and “Adolescence" (#11b) come to mind.
Whether their authors deal with sadism or lesbian love, with drug addiction or menstruation, with Hitler or murder, or with necrophilia and some of the most intimate taboos (“Grandmother—just a cunt to be seen. Now touching with finger . . ." #11b)—deep down, at a level which defeats sensationalism, a power emerges which could transcend traditional morality. And, with it, traditional aesthetics are questioned. In short, surrealism has helped to go above, beneath and beyond “reality."
To return to the “reality" of the workshops, if that does not seem too much of a contradiction, I feel I should itemize the main points of the actual workshop experience:
1. Creating a creative environment
We were lucky in having at our disposal the library of the Max Müller Bhavan (Goethe Institute) in Bombay, which we turned into a sort of action center: most activities took place on the floor—surrounded by books and magazines, tapes and recorders, posters, papers and pencils.
2. Helping people to relax
Some cultures appear to be more formal than others. In this connection, getting people to take off their shoes helped in easing initial tension and shyness. (For a 50 line account of some of my alleged “workshop instructions" see #1b). Calling each other by our first names made for a further breakdown of inhibitions.
3. Making it enjoyable
Music played an important role in filling the gaps of anxiety; so did mime and dance, body sculptures and acting out some of our “dialogues."
4. Pairing up writers, at least initially
“Pick a number and think of an unusual way of introducing yourself to the group while blending in with your partner-to-be."
And then pair #1—people who had never met each other before—would start: without any preparation whatsoever. The results (approximately two minutes per pair) were most entertaining: they ranged from mime to farce, from mock realism to the absurd. A feeling of togetherness began to grow and the sense for language was heightened as witnessed by “Bombay bus stop" (#2c) which, in a satirical way, depicts a breakdown of intercommunal communication, a phenomenon to be witnessed in practically all multi-lingual societies.
5. Using a gliding approach: from acting to writing
Each pair was given 15-30 minutes to discuss their original version, to remould it or to write a new sketch altogether and to present it. This aided the writers in leaving behind some of their old notions about writing and, instead, encouraged them to experiment with language in a playful way. This approach set immediate goals and made for a sense of achievement. Some of the wittiest results were achieved in this way. (See #4b, 4c or 12d.)
6. Activating instant writing
Team up the whole workshop into small groups of two or three. Give the “writers" a piece of paper with a subject or title (“The poetic popcorn machine," “Bombay is an ageing whore," etc.) and supply the “readers" with books and magazines. Play several cassettes of different types of music or sounds and, simultaneously, let the “readers" read to the “writers," let the “writers" write. Ask the participants to change their role whenever they wish, or blow a whistle, scream—or whatever—to indicate a change of roles. This kind of automatic writing (André Breton, p. ii) will cause a creative shock in most writers who, in turn, are almost bound to produce some extraordinary material—language clay which can and should be moulded into new poems, stories, or dramas, into exiting texts. (For some examples of this approach, see Workbook Poetry, English and German, ed. by Henrik Eger, Bombay, 1980.)
7. Setting deadlines: brief writing sessions
I held most writing sessions deliberately short (30 minutes to 1½ hours at the most) to put pressure on the participants, to encourage them to write and not to worry and waste time.
8. Let everybody listen, let everybody talk
After each intensive writing session there should be a period of “creative rest”: split the workshop into two or three sub-groups and give all the writers a chance to read and discuss, however briefly, their drafts. Encourage note taking throughout all these sessions to ensure a maximum exchange of ideas.
9. Encouraging an open, direct approach
Instead of nodding assent, muttering dissent or, worse, criticising and hurting others, democratic forms of intercommunication were introduced and used throughout the whole workshop by practically all; for example, participant A (a student) would say to participant B (a teacher): “I like this aspect of your story because . . . but I think you could change the form a bit because . . .”
10. Enriching the writers’ experience (content & form)
Encourage students to start writing at a level way above the usual beginning: select literary excerpts which have immediate appeal—from modern classics all the way to the Kitsch (the decorated, perfumed excreta) of the Mills & Boon “true romance” products (see #21a and its parody in #21b). Ask the students to use literary excerpts as the starting point of their own writing.
11. Write, write, rewrite (emphasize “re-write”)
My files are full of various student versions and drafts—sketches with a few ideas jotted down, the outline of a dialogue including two or three unusual images; papers full of notes and suggestions by fellow workshop participants; final versions with last minute alterations; and the version presented here—hopefully not the final one—with new stage directions which I wrote (#3b, 3c, 3d, 5b, 8b, 8c & 13d) plus some recent alterations here and there. Purists might consider this an act of artistic infringement. I see it more positively: I am reminded of a “creative summer vacation” in Germany, years ago, when we were asked to draw onions and fruits. The resident artist would go from pad to pad and erase a few lines here and draw some new ones there, transforming an often two-dimensional sketch into a picture from which one wanted to grab an apple right away. We learned more this way than by any other method.
During and after the writing workshops, I tried something similar. Take Azar Khajepour, the Iranian participant, and her sensitive piece “Your chance” (#17b). First she read Handke (#17a); then she wrote her own “stage directions.” She showed them to me, and I suggested the use of a tape recorder on an otherwise empty stage. She immediately rewrote her drama, did the recordings together with some friends, and presented one of the most memorable plays. Similarly, K.K. Varma’s “The eternal” (#8b): originally he had tried to portray an inner voice. But, as it was meant to be a play, Anup then suggested that he personify death in the form of a junkie. This helped Varma to move the play from the mind to the stage.
How wiling most young writers were to try new approaches and to experiment with language and form can be gauged from their response to “Recipes of the Absurd” (see p. ix-xii), a key to the better understanding of surrealist/absurdist writing, a green key to this collection.
12. Working towards a goal: a presentation, a booklet
Nothing seems to justify hard work and sacrifice as much as the feeling of achievement and success, however small. Consequently, each workshop ended with a presentation, to which friends and the public in general were invited. It gave a sense of urgency to the whole weekend and helped in an almost unbelievable way to overcome fatigue and strain.
Even Sarabdeep (“I can’t write”), nervous until the last moment, sensed his achievement: he had gained not only new techniques but a belief in his own creative abilities. And, if the selection presented here is anything to go by, it seems that practically everybody gained the confidence that he or she could write creatively.
So far, so good. But what about the failures?
Quite a few, methinks.
For the benefit of those who wish to conduct similar workshops, here is a brief danger list:
1. Never conduct a workshop on your own
Once I conducted, single-handedly, a workshop with 24 young writers in Asia, all of whom wanted to write in German. It was probably one of the most difficult tasks, one of the most nerve-wrecking that I have encountered. Yet, it was also one of the most rewarding workshops: of the 12-14 Sunday survivors (usually nobody drops out) 12 actually wrote some original stories and poems and, together, they produced two plays – all in German and all within 48 hours.
During the past year I was extremely lucky in having Anup Singh as my assistant and partner throughout all the workshops in Bombay. We planned every step beforehand, made hundreds of notes, selected what we thought were the most relevant examples, typed the stencils for the handouts, went through all the paraphernalia of getting persmission for this and that and for das and dies plus getting vegetarian hamburgers for lunch … And after each day we discussed in detail the running of each session and wrote down all the suggestions for improvements for the next workshop.
2. Don’t be laissez-faire
During the first few workshops I allowed people “to do their own thing” if none of the projects “turned them on.” The results spoke for themselves – too many mediocre pieces for comfort.
3. Don’t be pedantic
To fulfill the request by some writers for more “structure,” more “guidance,” I carried out an experiment: I handed out excerpts from Wilson R. Thornley’s Short Story Writing (Bantam, New York 1976) and asked the students to integrate his main points into their own writing. Here is an excerpt from his “Checklist” (p. 66 ff.):
“BEGINNING SCENE OR SCENES:
1. Is the deciding character reported in a statement which will be clear to the reader covering:
It was painful to type all this, embarrassing to hand it to the young writers and agonizing to have to wait for protests forthcoming. Yes, Indian students on the whole seem to be as indoctrinated by authoritarian mediocrity as are millions of students in other countries. My little experiment had failed. The silence and acceptance of Thornley’s pedantic “authority” was reflected by stories which were so “well-written,” so “properly idiomatic,” so “properly positioned,” (p. 68) so “properly that” and so “properly this” that I had no other choice but to admit defeat and to bury those little masterpieces of unoriginality in a green old file which once had sheltered Dadaists and Expressionists. May all the checklist victims rest in literary peace.
“There is no such place . . .” (#6b) seems to be the only survivor, an excerpt of which I have included in this volume of mainly surrealist pieces. The reason? It’s one of the better of Thornley’s children and, perhaps more important, fairy tales could be considered the forerunners of surrealism. “Once upon a time and a very good time it was . . .”
4. Don’t Dominate
Quite a few chairpersons, teachers, writers-in-residence and visiting experts and dignitaries appear to dominate procedures and discussions. An effective way of finding the right balance could be the matchstick technique: every participant, including the chairperson, gets a handful of matchsticks to be thrown into the middle, one at a time, whenever he or she speaks. This way, shy people get a chance to kindle at least some of their thoughts and ideas.
5. Allow more time for the needs of each writer
Looking at some of the programmes (for an example see p. viii) I can see Anup and myself doing the rounds: reading, listening, discussing, suggesting another beginning or aiding to reformulate a sentence. Sometimes Anup or I would spend only a minute or two with a writer, sometimes up to 10 or 15 minutes, depending on the time available. But—it was never quite enough. In short, writing workshops need to be longer—a whole week, maybe—or they should have a better staff/student ratio, perhaps 1:4.
6. Develop and practice patience
“No, not at all. That’s the way I feel. In fact, I don’t want any change whatsoever!” she said.
What to do? Especially when there is a string of clichés, a predictable ending or a Stilbruch--a clash of style. (The ending of # 21b is a deliberate change of language and mood altogether.) Even some of the most intelligent and more experienced writers seemed to find it difficult at times to distance themselves from their own pieces. Anup and I took turns in trying to help the individual reconsider awkward forms or images. Most participants appeared to appreciate these efforts; others seemed to be a bit reluctant at first. But, usually, subsequent group discussions encouraged them to take the final hurdle, to let go of X or Y and, instead, to search for that which lies beyond Z.
This list of DOs and DON’Ts could be expanded. Many examples could be given, many humorous incidents—“It was tragic. It was tragic.” (p. 17)—could be recalled. And, in particular, there could be a first analysis of the various texts, making for connections between Beckett, Handke & Co. and our 24 writers. But this task is left to the reader, to the active reader. In fact, the best thing which could happen is for you to take a pencil, a ballpen, a feltpen, a fountain pen, a lipstick, a brush or a typewriter and to write, write, rewrite.
Forget grammar—just write, write, rewrite.
Forget checklists —just write, write, rewrite.
Forget even surrealism—but write, write, rewrite.
When you have reached the 27th version and still feel like writing: WRITE. WRITE. REWRITE. And if the day should come, perhaps late at night, when you will think about grammar and checklists and surrealism—why not? There’s nothing wrong with these inedible products, as long as you feel encouraged to delve deeper into the strange land of creativity.
Bon Voyage, from wherever you start.
And last, but not least, many thanks and shukrias to all those who helped in making this collection possible:
Henrik Eger
Bombay, 26 June 1980
For the benefit of those who wish to conduct similar workshops, here is a brief danger list:
1. Never conduct a workshop on your own
Once I conducted, single-handedly, a workshop with 24 young writers in Asia, all of whom wanted to write in German. It was probably one of the most difficult tasks, one of the most nerve-wrecking that I have encountered. Yet, it was also one of the most rewarding workshops: of the 12-14 Sunday survivors (usually nobody drops out) 12 actually wrote some original stories and poems and, together, they produced two plays – all in German and all within 48 hours.
During the past year I was extremely lucky in having Anup Singh as my assistant and partner throughout all the workshops in Bombay. We planned every step beforehand, made hundreds of notes, selected what we thought were the most relevant examples, typed the stencils for the handouts, went through all the paraphernalia of getting persmission for this and that and for das and dies plus getting vegetarian hamburgers for lunch … And after each day we discussed in detail the running of each session and wrote down all the suggestions for improvements for the next workshop.
2. Don’t be laissez-faire
During the first few workshops I allowed people “to do their own thing” if none of the projects “turned them on.” The results spoke for themselves – too many mediocre pieces for comfort.
3. Don’t be pedantic
To fulfill the request by some writers for more “structure,” more “guidance,” I carried out an experiment: I handed out excerpts from Wilson R. Thornley’s Short Story Writing (Bantam, New York 1976) and asked the students to integrate his main points into their own writing. Here is an excerpt from his “Checklist” (p. 66 ff.):
“BEGINNING SCENE OR SCENES:
1. Is the deciding character reported in a statement which will be clear to the reader covering:
- His (sic) governing characteristic with its phrase or repetitions?
- His (sic) problem?
- His (sic) proposed solution?
- His (sic) physical appearance reported and adequately repeated; age, name?
- Is the (sic) point of view established?
- Is the (sic) panoramic view reported adequately?"
It was painful to type all this, embarrassing to hand it to the young writers and agonizing to have to wait for protests forthcoming. Yes, Indian students on the whole seem to be as indoctrinated by authoritarian mediocrity as are millions of students in other countries. My little experiment had failed. The silence and acceptance of Thornley’s pedantic “authority” was reflected by stories which were so “well-written,” so “properly idiomatic,” so “properly positioned,” (p. 68) so “properly that” and so “properly this” that I had no other choice but to admit defeat and to bury those little masterpieces of unoriginality in a green old file which once had sheltered Dadaists and Expressionists. May all the checklist victims rest in literary peace.
“There is no such place . . .” (#6b) seems to be the only survivor, an excerpt of which I have included in this volume of mainly surrealist pieces. The reason? It’s one of the better of Thornley’s children and, perhaps more important, fairy tales could be considered the forerunners of surrealism. “Once upon a time and a very good time it was . . .”
4. Don’t Dominate
Quite a few chairpersons, teachers, writers-in-residence and visiting experts and dignitaries appear to dominate procedures and discussions. An effective way of finding the right balance could be the matchstick technique: every participant, including the chairperson, gets a handful of matchsticks to be thrown into the middle, one at a time, whenever he or she speaks. This way, shy people get a chance to kindle at least some of their thoughts and ideas.
5. Allow more time for the needs of each writer
Looking at some of the programmes (for an example see p. viii) I can see Anup and myself doing the rounds: reading, listening, discussing, suggesting another beginning or aiding to reformulate a sentence. Sometimes Anup or I would spend only a minute or two with a writer, sometimes up to 10 or 15 minutes, depending on the time available. But—it was never quite enough. In short, writing workshops need to be longer—a whole week, maybe—or they should have a better staff/student ratio, perhaps 1:4.
6. Develop and practice patience
“No, not at all. That’s the way I feel. In fact, I don’t want any change whatsoever!” she said.
What to do? Especially when there is a string of clichés, a predictable ending or a Stilbruch--a clash of style. (The ending of # 21b is a deliberate change of language and mood altogether.) Even some of the most intelligent and more experienced writers seemed to find it difficult at times to distance themselves from their own pieces. Anup and I took turns in trying to help the individual reconsider awkward forms or images. Most participants appeared to appreciate these efforts; others seemed to be a bit reluctant at first. But, usually, subsequent group discussions encouraged them to take the final hurdle, to let go of X or Y and, instead, to search for that which lies beyond Z.
This list of DOs and DON’Ts could be expanded. Many examples could be given, many humorous incidents—“It was tragic. It was tragic.” (p. 17)—could be recalled. And, in particular, there could be a first analysis of the various texts, making for connections between Beckett, Handke & Co. and our 24 writers. But this task is left to the reader, to the active reader. In fact, the best thing which could happen is for you to take a pencil, a ballpen, a feltpen, a fountain pen, a lipstick, a brush or a typewriter and to write, write, rewrite.
Forget grammar—just write, write, rewrite.
Forget checklists —just write, write, rewrite.
Forget even surrealism—but write, write, rewrite.
When you have reached the 27th version and still feel like writing: WRITE. WRITE. REWRITE. And if the day should come, perhaps late at night, when you will think about grammar and checklists and surrealism—why not? There’s nothing wrong with these inedible products, as long as you feel encouraged to delve deeper into the strange land of creativity.
Bon Voyage, from wherever you start.
And last, but not least, many thanks and shukrias to all those who helped in making this collection possible:
- The Max Müller Bhavan, Bombay;
- Deepak Manchanda, our (“Don’t worry, we’ll do it”) graphic designer;
- Sumedha Nilakanta, A. Radhakrishna, Leo Rebello, K. K. Varma and the workshop students of S.I.E.S. College (“We hate surrealism”) for helping, or acting or playing music;
- Tejaswini Niranjana, Azar Khajepour, Joshua Alexander and all the workshop members for their kindness and creative cooperation;
- Anup Singh, my friend & founder of newVoice, a group involved in literature, theatre, art and music which came into existence after the creative writing workshops;
- and those who cleaned up—the morning after.
Henrik Eger
Bombay, 26 June 1980
The Turtle Seed by India's Arjun Rao
