Writing “Leda” began as an experiment in myth storytelling but became more about the transformative power of chosen love. This course has shown me that the act of writing is inseparable from the act of revision, and that feedback, whether from peers or from my professor, is less about being “right” or “wrong” and more about sharpening intention. The journey from character sketch to short story draft was not linear; it was a conversation between influences, critique, and my own creative instincts. In the end, I discovered not only why this story needed to be written but also how the revision process has taught me to think as both a writer and a reviser.
One of the most influential stories I read was ZZ Packer’s “Brownies.” Packer’s use of contrasting characters (I was in love with the abrasive voices like Arnetta and Octavia against the quiet strength of Daphne) which demonstrated how contradiction within a group can illuminate theme. Daphne, though soft-spoken, carries profound weight in the story’s climax. This technique directly shaped how I approached Leda: a character defined not by loud declarations but by subtle gestures and quiet choices. Her retreat beneath the willow tree, her silence in most moments of the story, and her sacrifice are deliberate echoes of how quiet characters can carry unexpected power.
At the same time, I had to be mindful of audience. My intended readers are those who enjoy fairy tales, myth retellings, and gothic settings. I love readers who expect fairytale aesthetics, dreamy atmospheres, and written poetic resonance. To meet these expectations, I leaned on imagery and rhythm in the prose while grounding Leda’s supernatural curse in the deeply human themes of rejection and love.
The greatest difficulty I encountered was balancing lyrical description with narrative momentum. My professor reminded me that while my sentences often carried poetic weight, the heavy use of modifiers in the opening paragraphs created more confusion than clarity. His advice to pare description back and ground the story in immediate action helped me understand how to sharpen focus. This tension between “telling” and “showing” became my greatest difficulty, but also my clearest path for growth as a writer.
The peer review workshops also shaped “Leda” in essential ways. From Alyssa, I received the suggestion to deepen Leda’s family history. While I could not expand her mother’s presence due to page limits, Alyssa’s reminder helped me dive into how absence itself can shape character. From Nidhin, I gained the insight that Leda needed clearer reasons to view the intruders as “hunters.” His suggestion that she overhear Eric and Daisy clarified the stakes and provided a more cohesive logic to the family’s role in the story. Brittney encouraged me to expand Leda’s inner thoughts, reminding me that the silences in the draft were powerful but could resonate more deeply if balanced with carefully chosen glimpses into her emotions.
Not every piece of feedback fit the story I was tasked to write. Alyssa’s idea to expand Leda’s mother, or Nidhin’s request for more background on the townspeople, were strong suggestions but not workable within the fairy-tale tone and page constraints. Still, choosing what to set aside was as instructive as choosing what to include. The most helpful part of peer review was receiving encouragement alongside practical critique, while the most frustrating part was deciding how to maintain the delicate balance between clarity and mystery without sacrificing the dreamlike quality of the story.
Providing feedback to peers also changed how I see revision. With Chris’s sketch of Neville, I learned to think critically about how much historical detail to include versus how much to center the character. My suggestions about quirks and personal habits reflected my own belief in humanizing characters through small details. Later, I realized my suggestions did not fully align with Chris’s intent to make Neville a “protagonist as witness.” This taught me to listen more closely to a writer’s stated goals and to frame feedback in a way that respects their vision while offering concrete strategies. Ultimately, my professor’s comment that my draft read more like a “blueprint for a long movie” than a short story reframed how I thought about my short story writing ability. I now see actionable feedback as a balance of clarity and respect.
Through peer review, professor feedback, self-analysis, and reflection, I learned to discern what strengthens a story, what distracts from it, and how to articulate why it matters. For me, this reflective process has been an act of claiming my own voice as a writer, while still listening to the feedback of others.
Works Cited
Packer, ZZ. “Brownies.” 100 Years of the Best American Short Stories, edited by Lorrie Moore and Heidi Pitlor, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2015, pp. 556–572.
Downy feathers unfurl from her skin the moment the pale orb rises, casting silver light across her small kingdom. White as moonlight itself, they spread, cloaking her shrinking frame. Rosy lips stiffen into orange; soft brown eyes glaze and darken. Fingers fuse, hands dissolve into wings, and her toes bind into webbing.
It feels as if it has always been this way.
Long ago, in a snowstorm, the moon goddess came to her father’s mansion on the lakeshore. Frost tinged the windows and boughs of evergreen cloaked the doorframe. Hidden in rags and behind her magic, the goddess begged for shelter from the snow. But she had been pampered, proud, and spoiled by her gilded life, so the swan had turned the goddess away.
Offended, the goddess retaliated. The curse fell as the bells of the Chapel in town far away rang for nightly mass. From that night forward, every time the moon climbed into the sky, she turned.
In her naïve hope, she believed her father might save her. Yet the moment he saw flesh collapsing into feathers and his daughter morphing into a swan, his love soured into fear. He named her a witch, drew his crossbow, and spent the rest of his days chasing her pale shadow through the forests.
Her father’s mind shattered. He prowled the forests until madness hollowed him, and the mansion he once ruled over with pride began to rot. Its marble halls sagged with mildew, echoing not with music and laughter but with the groans of madness and the whispers of ghosts. The servants fled one by one, and all the while, she haunted the lake.
She hid well yet never strayed far; the curse tethered her to the lake. Should she fail to touch its waters when the moon ascended, death would claim her before the first rush of dawn.
The goddess’s curse had been deliberate; her decree etched into the girl’s mind: "Only an act of true love may break my spell. Not love of beauty, nor love of desire, but love born of understanding and of trust."
So, she endured.
Night after night: feathers where her skin should be, silence where her voice once sang.
Yet time, it continued moving like the tick-tock of the old mantel clock in her abandoned bedroom. The Moon kept vigil, in her long and merciless reign, yet as time grew the years, so did also form a protectiveness. The curse held fast, yes, but her life endured with it. No cruelty could trespass upon her watery court. Wolves and foxes could not come into her kingdom, sickness swept past her body for years, and even time itself faltered, unwilling to carve its lines upon her human skin.
Thus, suspended between life and death, she drifted.
Beyond the lake, the human world marched ceaselessly on. Roads split the earth where once only deer had passed, and smoke from distant chimneys smudged the horizon. Generations rose and withered like flowers in the wind, their lives brief sparks against her endless life.
Even the old mansion did not remain immune to time’s hunger.
She watched from the shelter of the trees as strangers came to lay claim to its bones. But the manor itself endured, untouched, as though the goddess had made sure it remained protected as well. It became a waystation, inhabited by some and eventually abandoned, claimed and reclaimed, yet never truly home to any human who passed through.
At last, after long years of silence, someone came to claim the chateau as their own.
The man’s hair was spun gold, his curls catching moonlight as he got out of a moving thing made of metal. At his side walked a woman with hair black as a raven’s wing, her dark curls glimmering beneath the stars as she looked up at the home. In their arms they bore not one child, but two. Two children bundled in soft blankets, rosy-cheeked and wriggled, their tiny fists grasping at the night air.
They arrived beneath the moon’s gaze, and from her watery throne, the swan watched, head tilted in quiet speculation. She wondered if these humans would stay, and love the lake, as she did. The woman saw her first, a pale shape drifting across the mirrored lake. With one hand she steadied the infant in her arms, and with the other, she pointed eagerly.
“Oh, Eric—look! A swan. Isn’t she beautiful?”
The woman’s name was Daisy. Gentle yet unyielding, her laughter often drifted across the water, carrying warmth into the lonely place. With her golden-haired husband, she poured her time into the mansion, coaxing life back into its hollowed walls.
Stone by stone, window by window, hearth by hearth, the chateau was reborn. In time, its gardens stirred with color once more. The children grew swiftly alongside it, their childlike wonder bringing more enchantment to the swan’s kingdom.
The boy, Jimmy, was his mother’s reflection: dark curls tumbling over his brow, his laughter bubbling out in wild, unstoppable bursts. Fearless, he often rushed headlong to the lake, his little legs tearing through the grass, mud spattering as he splashed after frogs and tumbled through the reeds.
The girl, by contrast, was gentler, turned inward like a flower that bloomed only for a few lucky eyes. They called her Darling, and the name suited her. Bright copper pin curls clung to her head, catching the light like small flames, while her wide blue eyes carried the unblinking wonder of a dreamer. She lingered along the garden paths, arranging her dolls in perfect rows or threading daisy chains with patient, careful fingers.
It was the children who named the swan. They called her Leda, a name quickly embraced by Eric and Daisy. She no longer remembered her old name, not even a whisper of it, but this one stirred something in her chest.
Jimmy, bold and reckless, was the first to truly seek her out. Each night he stole breadcrumbs from the kitchen, his small fists clutching them as he scrambled down the banks without a trace of fear. He hunted for her where she lingered beneath the willow branches, its long green fronds trailing into the lake like curtains. There she hid her changing body, her skin rippling into feathers beneath the moonrise. He whistled as he came, tossing crumbs into the dark water until ripples carried them to her.
Darling, softer by nature, searched in daylight. Her wide blue eyes swept the surface of the lake as though hoping to catch a glimmer of white beneath the trees. She lingered often on the garden paths, her gaze fixed on the water’s edge, watching as her parent’s hosted parties and picnics along the shore. Musicians played, laughter rose, and yet Darling always looked past the gaiety, daydreaming beyond the parties and lavish lifestyle.
It was Daisy who spotted her in her human form first. Leda had slipped too far from cover, drifting like a pale phantom between the trees on the bordering forest. Daisy gasped, dropping the basket in her hands.
“Oh!” she cried, her voice sharp with surprise.
Roscoe, the family’s hound, barked furiously and rushed forward. Leda darted back into the shadows, her heart pounding, crouching inside a moss-covered cave of rock and dirt. From there she watched as Daisy searched every hollow, every tree, her skirts catching on briars, her brow furrowed. But the swan was a thief of time and thus, patient with it, so Daisy found nothing.
In time, each member of the household had their own strange meeting with her. Darling stumbled across her accidently. One afternoon, the young girl burst from the chateau in tears, fleeing into the gardens, and nearly turned her ankle on a stone path where Leda had been bending to smell the last roses of summer. Their eyes met for only a moment before Darling collapsed onto the grass, weeping. Leda slipped away like a phantom into the woods where she watched until Daisy arrived, scooping Darling up with a kiss meant to brush away tears.
Eric’s encounter came inside the forest. He was hunting deer, bow in hand, when he stepped silently through the underbrush and found her picking wildflowers. She hadn’t heard him approach. When she lifted her head, startled, their eyes locked—his widening in shock, hers dark with fear. He nearly shouted aloud, but she vanished in the long grass before his voice broke free.
At last, both Daisy and Eric saw her together. The sun was dying into a blood-red dusk, and Leda had slipped into the willow’s shadows to change back into a swan. They caught sight of her just before she folded herself into feathers, the transformation burning swift across her skin. By the time they reached the water’s edge, she floated there as a swan.
“I just don’t understand it,” Daisy whispered. “If we are all seeing this girl—we all cannot possibly have gone mad?”
Eric frowned. “Maybe it is a ghost.”
“I didn’t think ghosts existed until we moved here.” Daisy furrowed her brow as she added, “but I am finding it easier and easier to believe.”
And though Leda floated farther out, she stayed close enough to hear every word.
Eric tossed an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We’ll tell the kids she’s a friend of Leda’s.”
Daisy laughed, her eyes sparkling up at her husband. “They do love the swan, don’t they?”
“I got Darling to do her writing practice last night because I told her Leda would want her to know her words.”
Leda watched the couple head back to the chateau, taking a deep breath that ruffled her feathers. The family always spoke fondly of Leda when she appeared in white feathers upon the water. And slowly, even in her own thoughts, she began to answer that name. Leda. A name shaped not by curses or time, but by a family who treated her kinder than she deserved.
That winter came harsher than any Leda had ever known. Bitter snow fell for weeks on end, burying the forests and fields until the whole world seemed frozen. The family huddled in their chateau, but they never forgot her. Eric trudged through drifts to leave food by the willow. Sometimes he lingered, a hammer in hand, strengthening the small shelter he had built against the trunk with scrap wood, so she’d take refuge from the storms. The children pressed their faces to the windows, waving whenever she flew across the frozen lake looking for a place to land.
One night, when the moon rode high over the snow, Leda saw movement at the forest’s edge. Two men crept from the shadows, their jackets black as crows. In their hands they carried the same long, gleaming instruments Eric used when he hunted pheasants and ducks. But these were not huntsmen after birds, no.
Leda watched as they moved toward the house, toward Daisy and Eric and the children.
Leda’s heart slammed against her ribs. She ruffled her wings, indecision clawing at her, for she had never brought attention to herself before. She had resigned to her fate. But when the intruders shattered the glass in the front door that Daisy and Eric had painstakingly put in last spring, something within her broke free.
With a wild cry she surged forward, wings beating the air like drums, lifting her off her throne and flying towards the men. She struck at them with furious pecks and claws, her feathers a white storm against the black of their jackets. The men cursed, stumbled, and fell into the snow. She tore at their hands until their weapons clattered to the ground, and at last they fled back into the forest.
When it was done, Leda collapsed into the snow, her body trembling, one wing bent and broken. Pain seared through her, yet she scarcely cared. Her family was safe. Never had she felt so loved, not even in the mansion of her youth with its warm fires and silver spoons. This family loved her not for beauty or money, but for her quiet heart.
The front door burst open. Eric and Daisy rushed into the night, the children clinging wide-eyed behind them. Eric dropped to his knees in the snow, his hands reaching to cradle her fragile body. Panic struck her, and she thrashed weakly, desperate to flee back to the lake’s safety.
“She protected us,” Daisy whispered, awe dawning in her voice.
“Unbelievable.” Eric said, eyes wide with shock, “Have you ever heard of a swan to do such a thing?
Darling clung to her mother’s skirts singing, “She loves us too.”
The goddess’ words rang through Leda’s mind: Only an act of true love may break my spell.
Her breath caught. Moonlight surged through her veins, spilling into every feather until they shimmered like shards of diamond. Her plumage was dissolving into the air like bits of snow and for the first time in centuries, moonlight touched her skin, not her feathers.
The peer feedback I found most useful was Alyssa’s encouragement to add depth to Leda’s family history, particularly her mother and father. She pointed out that mothers often leave an indelible mark on daughters, and that mentioning Leda’s mother could add another emotional layer. While my initial sketch noted that her mother died in childbirth, I had not considered how even the absence of a mother might shape Leda. I understand where Alyssa is coming from, and if I could add more pages to my short story, I would plan to emphasize that lack in her backstory. However, as we are limited to eight pages, the mother’s backstory will have to take a back seat for now…unless I get feedback to remove something next week that would leave room for it. I think it could do a good job of showing how her mother’s absence heightened Leda’s dependence on her father and made his eventual rejection even more devastating.
Another useful suggestion Alyssa gave was to clarify Leda’s father’s motivations. She asked whether his rejection and obsession with witchcraft accusations had roots in religion. That prompted me to sharpen his character as a devout Catholic lord who was both fearful of scandal and bound by reputation within the Church. This change strengthens his rejection of Leda, transforming it from a purely personal failure into a culturally and historically grounded one. His actions are not just cruel but also socially and spiritually motivated, which makes it more believable that he cut Leda out of his life.
Alyssa’s also gave a suggestion to expand more on why Leda cannot remember her original name, but can remember her father. She wondered whether Leda remembered him literally, or only the feelings associated with his betrayal. While I appreciated the insight, I had already given thought to this. Leda has lost proper nouns (names, places, dates) as part of the curse, but she retains emotional impressions and core memories. To me, this works symbolically, like an echo. Clarifying the distinction in the text risks breaking the dream-like quality I want to achieve.
Still, the most helpful part of the peer review process was receiving encouragement alongside constructive feedback. Alyssa’s enthusiasm for my sketch reassured me that Leda’s story came through as haunting, which is exactly what I intended. This validation gave me confidence, and her specific questions allowed me to uncover plot holes in my own writing.
Some of the questions went in directions I wasn’t planning to explore, but I understand why she brought them up. For example, developing the mother as an active figure in the story would add pages, so while it is good feedback, it’s just not feedback I can use. While her absence shapes Leda, I did not plan to weave her into the plot due to the page count. Not all feedback fits seamlessly into our plans, but I think it’s important to listen and learn from it where it can be applied. Still, the process was valuable because it reminded me that, as a writer, I need to weigh each piece of feedback carefully and adopt what improves the story and leave aside what isn’t necessary for the overall theme and narrative.
Part Two: Feedback I Gave
In providing feedback to Chris, I learned how crucial it is to balance historical detail with individual character development. Chris’s sketch of Neville was steeped in a well-researched WWI background, which gave the piece authenticity. However, I noticed that sometimes the historical exposition overshadowed the character Neville himself. While I do believe historical context can enrich a story (Like in Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children) I just don’t think that history should drown out the character’s voice.
I encouraged Chris to highlight Neville’s quirks, contradictions, and personal habits such as whether he had superstitions, nervous tics, or ways his aristocratic upbringing influenced daily choices. I love how small details can humanize a character or present an overarching characteristic, like always drinking tea before bed. This directly applies to my own writing with Leda. Although she is cursed, it is the little things (like retreating to the willow tree when she is angry or sad) that make her who she is.
When giving feedback, I tried to begin with respect for the strengths of Chris’s work. I praised his historical grounding, his authenticity, and the detail of Neville’s bond with his horse because I am a sucker for animals having roles in books. By encouraging him, I hoped to show that I valued the amazing thoughtfulness of research behind his sketch before suggesting improvements. Establishing that positive foundation allowed me to offer critiques in a way that felt constructive rather than discouraging.
From there, I built my suggestions around the idea of keeping Neville himself at the center of the narrative. I asked questions about his habits, his voice, and his arc, aiming to spark ideas rather than dictate changes. I also connected his aristocratic background to my own conflicting feelings about privilege, to show that I was engaging with his themes personally, not just academically.
Chris’s response confirmed that he saw Neville as more of a “protagonist as witness” than as a fully fleshed-out personality. Even so, I think raising the question helped him clarify his own intentions, which is ultimately one of the main goals of peer review.
What I could do differently next time is tailor my feedback more to the writer’s stated goals. Because Chris views Neville primarily as a narrative lens, my focus on character quirks might not have aligned with his approach. In future workshops, I want to pay closer attention to whether my suggestions fit the scope of the story the writer is aiming to tell.
Part Three: Reading Challenge
While reading ZZ Packer’s “Brownies,” I was impressed with how strongly character choices and written behavior drives the story’s theme. The girls are shaped by prejudice, peer pressure, and their own personal worldviews, and it is their contrasting personalities that bring out the story’s themes. Characters like Arnetta and Octavia embody prejudice and aggression, while Daphne embodies quiet strength. Daphne’s carefully chosen but powerful words remind the reader that kindness (expressed not through loud or abrasive behavior, but through quiet thoughtfulness) can be just as impactful to a reader. This balance of flaws and strengths in each character shows how development and personality traits directly influence the plot and the reader’s interpretation of the world Packer created.
Thanks to Packer, every character in “Brownies” has their own voice. Even a quiet figure like Daphne reshapes the tone of the story with her gentle demeanor. This connects directly to how I am thinking about my own character sketch for Leda. Leda is defined by contradiction: she longs for human connection but fears rejection; she is frozen in time but has lived through history. Like Daphne, her quieter qualities should be as impactful to the reader to help the story flow.
Combining what I took from “Brownies” with the peer feedback I received, I see how deepening Leda’s personal details can better connect her character arc to the overall plot. Her eventual choice to embrace love and sacrifice herself will feel more powerful if the reader has already seen both her flaws and her quiet strengths.
The most telling attribute of Leda’s character is the name she adopts from the children. Her original name, lost to time, is something she cannot remember. When the children call her “Leda,” the name stirs something within her that she had not felt in a long time: belonging. The name was not gifted by curse or by fear; it is offered freely, and affectionately. By embracing it, Leda, both accepts her humanity and reclaims a sense of self that the curse took.
This is central to the story’s resolution. Leda’s acceptance of the name marks the moment she shifts from victim to hero. When she later risks her life to save the family, it is not in hope of release of a curse but in thoughts of love and loyalty. She has already accepted who she is: Leda, the swan-girl who they love. Ironically, it is precisely this act of giving and choosing to love them back to the death, which breaks the curse. So, the name “Leda” is not only her rebirth but also the symbol of her end as a swan.
Physical Description
Leda exists in two forms: a swan and a young girl. As a swan, she is white as snow, with black eyes that are sharp and watchful. As a girl, she has delicate features, soft skin, and brown eyes. Though she has lived for over two centuries, a curse has preserved her in the body of a thirteen-year-old child. The cruelty of the curse is that her youth remains untouched by time, making her both otherworldly and ghostlike to humans who catch a glimpse of her. Leda’s movements are elegant and limber, allowing her to slip in and out of sightlines with ease. She spends her time as a human in the forest and sneaks into the chateau’s gardens sometimes. She spends her time as a swan on the lake, watching over the chateau at night, as she has done for her entire life.
Personality
Leda is inward and observant, shaped by her solitude. She carries her pain, deeply aware of her own undoing, yet unwilling to let it harden her heart entirely. While she mistrusts humans due to her father, she is irresistibly drawn to them. Around the family who restored the chateau, she reveals tenderness, particularly toward the children. Though dreamy and contemplative, more watcher than participant, she shows courage and ferocity when needed.
Family History
Leda was once the cherished daughter of a Lord who owned the estate by the lake. Her father’s pride and expectations shaped her early childhood. During a snowstorm, a goddess came to the door seeking shelter. Leda, taught vanity and disdain, scorned the goddess for her appearance and turned her away. For this cruelty, she was cursed: each night beneath the rising moon, she became a swan. Her father, horrified by the transformation, accused her of witchcraft and spent the rest of his life hunting her through the forest. Bound to the enchanted lake, Leda endured centuries of isolation, her humanity turned into a phantom shadow.
Personal Conflicts
Leda’s greatest conflict is the tension between her longing for connection and her terror of it. She aches for human closeness yet believes herself as little more than a ghost, cursed and unworthy of love. Shame over the curse and grief over her father’s rejection weigh heavily upon her. She doesn’t even remember her true name. Her existence is divided: part swan, part girl, trapped between life and death. The curse preserved her body but not her peace of mind. Only when she learns that love is something she can choose to give, rather than something she must receive, does she begin to find peace.
Character Sketch Questions
Does your character have a birthmark or scars?
No. The curse erases every trace of time or injury, leaving her skin flawless. The goddess’s cruelty included freezing her forever in her youth.
Where does your character go when she is angry?
She retreats beneath the willow tree at the water’s edge, hidden behind its curtain of branches.
What is her biggest fear? Why?
Her greatest fear is to be seen as she truly is and rejected, just as her father once rejected the curse. She would never reveal herself on purpose to the family she watches, because their rejection would wound her as deeply as her father’s betrayal had.
When has your character been in love or suffered heartbreak?
She has never known romantic love. Her first heartbreak was her father’s betrayal and his decision to hunt her, rather than try to save her from the curse.
The Rewrite:
There was a screech from up the stairs.
He dropped the grocery bag and sprinted when another three hard thumps rattled the ceiling after the scream. He could only imagine what she’d found lurking upstairs. By the time his feet met the landing it was too late for him to swoop in and save her. He skidded to a stop and stared in shock.
Steam rolled out of the open bathroom door like swamp fog and a black snake writhed in the bathtub at his wife, jaws wide open. She had her feet pressed on either side of the tub, her painted toes digging into the porcelain as she looked down at her foe.
“Stay back,” she said, calmly.
She was barefoot, her hair damp around her shoulders, as if she’d just started to shower when the snake showed up. Her eyes were bright, clever, and focused. Then she stomped once, clean, her heel pinning the snake's skull against the white of the clawfoot tub. The animal coiled reflexively, but she stayed hard and firm, then the slithering devil went slack from the pressure.
She laughed, laughed.
Then she picked a strand of hair from her mouth. “It came for me right out of the ceiling," she pointed at a crack in the old wooden panels above her head, still grinning, as if the snake had been a trial and she’d passed.
He reached for her, helping her back onto the floor. Then he put his hands on her shoulders, steadying them both while the faucet dripped overhead. She was so brave, so witty, and everything he never knew he needed.
(Rewritten from page 117 of 100 years of the Best American short stories)
Explanation:
I re-routed the story through action, aligning with my preference for adventure, emotion and suspense in my own writing. Lev Grossman argues that well-written genre fiction isn’t mere escapism; its immediacy and plotting help readers read real human problems “in transfigured form” (Grossman, 2012). By focusing on the threat, her decision, and the aftermath, my rewrite aims for the clarity that Grossman praises with sentences that help loosen the plot rather than slow the story for less clarification.
Personal Writing Goals:
I want to write across genres! Fantasy, adventure, romance, and even poetry–I am seeking writing in a way that balances swift, compelling plots with the emotional depth I love. I imagine stories filled with clever protagonists, the classic loyal companions, and high-stakes quests, all carried by cinematic-esque action. Grossman mentioned that many contemporary literary writers borrow freely from genre, which only continues to motivate me to pursue hybrid writing. I can have writing that is accessible and fast-moving, yet still attentive to imagery and theme. This course will help me strengthen my writing, while testing whether each scene I write can hold tension and deliver a payoff. I hope to be published with shorter pieces in magazines that welcome young adult fiction. I also want to start querying my finished work to agents in the next three years as I work on my MFA.
Resources:
Groff, L. (2015). At the Round Earth’s Imagined Corners. In L. Moore & H. Pitlor (Eds.), 100 years of the Best American short stories (pp. 116 - 117). Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.
Grossman, L. (2012, May 23). Literary revolution in the supermarket aisle: Genre fiction is disruptive technology: How science fiction, fantasy, romance, mysteries and all the rest will take over the world. Time. https://entertainment.time.com/2012/05/23/genre-fiction-is-disruptive-technology/
Recently I've been reading through Dan Lawrence's "Digital Writing: a guide to writing for social media and the web". I'm currently on chapter 3, which focuses on writing for the web in general. Lawrence's discussion captivated me, but I found myself gravitating towards section 3.12 - Content Writing.
Content creation has swept the nation (maybe more accurately its ensnared the entire planet). 3.12 discusses and dissects the emergence of 'content writing' from within the larger, older discipline of digital writing. I like Lawrence, hold firm that effective content generation is primary way we hope to capture and audience's attention online. Content creation opens up avenues for creators large and small. The never-ending stream of new content feeds the classics economic model of supply and demand. The only issue in the digital space is that the supply often far outweighs the demand. There is so much out there, that no single person could ever consume all the content on the web. It's probably safe to say a single person couldnt handle the amount of content added to the web in a single day. Content creators have to stay on top of trends in order to capture the fleeting attention spans of users.
It's readily observable. We can see major corporations like Wendy's using colloquialisms and slang in their social media posts in order to engage with the segment of their clientele that inhabits those digital spaces. Wendy's doesn't need to push coupons on Twitter, it needs to push memes. When creating digital content and content for the web, creators have to be willing to meet their audience at the audience's level. Content creation has changed the way we think, interact, and purchase products and services.
