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I’m writing from the end of my first semester.
Yesterday, during our last regularly scheduled class, we wrapped up workshopping personal essays, which have, by far, been my students’ best work.
The essays varied in topic and theme. One was about an alligator in grandpa’s pond. Another described a hearing test through the eyes, and ears, of a child. Another painted a vivid portrait of a friend named Rosa, complete with purple hair, pink Muck Boots, and a pet miniature horse.
(from left, back row) Buckie Buck, Eli Cranor, Jaxon Flores, David Palos Ornelas, Kaleb Young, Ben Stewart, Sara Cook, Morgan Lampirez, Madison Whorton-Mann (front row) Lydia Coy, Maggie Nash, Lizzie Bell, Hannah Cates-Franks, Sophie Love, Daniel Meek (not pictured) Ava Williams |
As I listened to the students read their work, one thing became evident: they’d gotten better — so much better — since the start of the semester. Each piece, durn near every line, was chock full of juicy, vivid details like “lemon-colored Lego people,” or “we woke up in piles on the floor.”
Specificity has been a sticking point, something I’ve tried to beat into my students’ brains. Why say yellow when you could say lemon-colored? Or what about using the word “piles” to describe how children cluster together at sleepovers?
I’ve dished out other maxims over the last four months, clichés like, “Show don’t tell,” and “Good writing has heart.” In some ways, I felt my coaching was pointless. I thought writing wasn’t something you could teach; it was something you learned, one line, one word at a time.
I now realize that writing is a communal activity. Writers write to be read, to share their innermost thoughts and memories with the world. How the world — or in this case, the other fifteen students in our Intro to Creative Writing Class — responds can have a profound impact on a young author. One misguided comment, one negative review, could cause a college freshman to put down her pen and never pick it up again.
Before every workshop, I feared the discourse might derail some of my students. I was especially concerned as we ventured into personal essays because there were no longer any characters to hide behind, no fiction to hide the truth.
With bated breath, I watched as my students stood before the class and bared their hearts, reading lines like: “Then one day there were sirens and uniforms that turned into suits and gavels that sent us to where all the dead kids that aren’t dead yet go.”
Hearing my students’ essays to me back to my freshman year. I remembered how important, how formative, college was for me. I'm proud to report that Arkansas Tech University is providing the same sort of experience for these students, as well.
Our post-reading discussions were lively and hit on personal, touchy topics, but nobody got their feelings hurt. We talked through the tough stuff, shared our differences, our thoughts on how to make each piece better. In short, my class, this group of 18-22-year-olds, comported themselves better than most adults I know.
Before taking this job, I’d heard horror stories about college students. I’d heard they were too sensitive, too anxious. You couldn’t teach them anything anymore, or worse, you couldn’t even get them to come to class.
As my first semester comes to a close, I’m here to tell you that that’s a bunch of boloney. The kids are all right. They’re better than all right. They’re kind, thoughtful, open-minded, and resilient beyond belief. They’re our future, and I, for one, am eager to watch their stories unfold.
| Books authored by Eli Cranor |
Broiler
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The troubles of two desperate families—one white, one Mexican American—converge rest in the ruthless underworld of an Arkansas chicken processing plant in this new thriller from the award-winning author of DON’T KNOW TOUGH.
Gabriela Menchaca and Edwin Saucedo are hardworking, undocumented employees at the Detmer Foods chicken plant in Springdale, Arkansas, just a stone’s throw away from the trailer park where they’ve lived together for seven years. While dealing with personal tragedies of their own, the young couple endures the brutal, dehumanizing conditions at the plant in exchange for barebones pay.
When the plant manager, Luke Jackson, fires Edwin to set an example for the rest of the workers—and to show the higher-ups that he’s ready for a major promotion—Edwin is determined to get revenge on Luke and his wife, Mimi, a new mother who stays at home with her six-month-old son. Edwin’s impulsive action sets in motion a devastating chain of events that illuminates the deeply entrenched power dynamics between those who revel at the top and those who toil at the bottom.
From the nationally bestselling and Edgar Award–winning author of Don’t Know Tough and Ozark Dogs comes another edge-of-your-seat noir thriller that exposes the dark, bloody heart of life on the margins in the American South and the bleak underside of a bygone American Dream. |
Don't Know Tough
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In Denton, Arkansas, the fate of the high school football team rests on the shoulders of Billy Lowe, a volatile but talented running back. Billy comes from an extremely troubled home: a trailer park where he is terrorized by his mother’s abusive boyfriend. Billy takes out his anger on the field, but when his savagery crosses a line, he faces suspension.
Without Billy Lowe, the Denton Pirates can kiss their playoff bid goodbye. But the head coach, Trent Powers, who just moved from California with his wife and two children for this job, has more than just his paycheck riding on Billy’s bad behavior. As a born-again Christian, Trent feels a divine calling to save Billy—save him from his circumstances, and save his soul.
Then Billy’s abuser is found murdered in the Lowe family trailer, and all evidence points toward Billy. Now nothing can stop an explosive chain of violence that could tear the whole town apart on the eve of the playoffs. |
Ozark Dogs
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In this Southern thriller, two families grapple with the aftermath of a murder in their small Arkansas town.
After his son is convicted of capital murder, Vietnam War veteran Jeremiah Fitzjurls takes over the care of his granddaughter, Joanna, raising her with as much warmth as can be found in an Ozark junkyard outfitted to be an armory. He teaches her how to shoot and fight, but there is not enough training in the world to protect her when the dreaded Ledfords, notorious meth dealers and fanatical white supremacists, come to collect on Joanna as payment for a long-overdue blood debt.
Headed by rancorous patriarch Bunn and smooth-talking, erudite Evail, the Ledfords have never forgotten what the Fitzjurls family did to them, and they will not be satisfied until they have taken an eye for an eye. As they seek revenge, and as Jeremiah desperately searches for his granddaughter, their narratives collide in this immersive story about family and how far some will go to honor, defend—or in some cases, destroy it. |
| Previous columns: |
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• Writing from somewhere between Little Rock and Russellville
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• Writing from the morning of my thirty-fifth year
• Writing on the day of the college football National Championship
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• I'm writing from the water
• Writing from my wife's Honda Pilot
• Writing from my office |
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