(The title of this post, incidentally, comes from the title of the Joyce Carol Oates short story I must’ve read at least — and I mean this, at least — ten thousand billion times in high school, as it seemed to be in every fiction anthology and textbook we used. I always wanted to love the story, as I tend to want to love everything related to Bob Dylan, but I remember always being mildly annoyed with it. This feeling of mild annoyance, combined with the actual words, makes this the perfect title for this entry. I should probably give the story another try: though it’s been an unmentionably long time since I was in high school, I have yet to read it for a ten thousand billion and first time, and admit I’d probably love it now.)

Where have I been is easy enough: Auburn, where I no longer live, having moved out of my apartment there last week. Empty apartments, incidentally, are always so eerie — so strange to have empty space where once there was so much, and, more importantly, where so much happened.  While where I have been is clear, where I am going seems, at the moment, murky: I know I am going to Kentucky, supposedly, though I’m stuck in Birmingham for the time being, as my things have apparently been held captive by a moving company who sees no need in transporting them to Kentucky, no matter how many urgent phone calls I make, or how close I come to tearing my hair out. Moving company, boo to you. I am moving beyond mild annoyance.

I am taking advantage of this extended layover, however, to move deeper into the editing and organizing process with the witch manuscript — 32 pages pushed through, as of this afternoon. And I’m putting the finishing touches on my classes for next semester, which is always exciting. This summer, I read Ken Bain’s What the Best College Teachers Do, a book about pedagogy that was more enlightening, exciting, intuitive, and helpful than all of other pedagogy books on my bookshelves put together. Bain’s ideas seem to gel well with Grant Wiggins’ and Jay McTighe’s ideas in Understanding by Design. I have to admit that my knowledge of backwards design is severely limited, though I have learned a great deal from Whitney Reed, my co-teacher in the Art of Writing Program at W.F. Burns, but I think (and Whitney, please correct me if I’m wrong) I can safely say that it has a lot to do with thinking of the big questions first — and what you want your students to be able to do/how you want them to think differently at the end of the class — and move backwards from there in designing your course.

This is an interesting theory to apply to a creative writing course, for me, at least, because it means, for me, an exploration of the creative process and the questions which lie behind it. The first question, of course, would be why? Which is nearly impossible to answer — the best answers I can come up with are because I have to and because I am driven to. Then, of course, what – what is this thing that you’re driven to tell? What story or mood or emotion or definition within you? The next question may be how – what form will this particular piece take? — and the answers here are myriad, up to the needs of the piece (though in the somewhat-artificial environment of the creative writing workshop, this question is answered for you, so you can learn the ropes of a form and use it as an answer on your own later). There’s always the oft-forgotten who, stressed so much in Composition courses but so little in creative writing — who am I speaking to? — which raises another why – why speak to them? — and what – what do I need to tell them? — and how – how to best speak? — of its own. And the where – what space does my work inhabit, where does it live, where do I want it to live?

The truth is that most of these questions can’t be answered, and that true understanding in a creative writing class might be learning how to live in the mystery, the not-knowing, and love it.