Telling Time With Andrei Tarkovsky

By Colin Sharp-O’ Connor

In his directorial manifesto Sculpting in Time, Andrei Tarkovsky took a firm stance against the predominant directorial tradition in film (at his time of writing in the 1960s) known as “montage cinema,” in which the continuity and rhythm of a film is ultimately the result of its editing, the way each shot is strung together. To him this approach was backwards. It was nonsensical to speak about time as a phenomenon arising from component parts because time is the fundamental element of film, and each shot only a length of its passage. Rather, proper editing was dictated by a quality of each shot that Tarkovsky called “time pressure.” Only by considering this particular quality, the felt experience of time in each shot, could the film be put together; or back together, for Tarkovsky seems to consider all parts of filmmaking after the shooting is done to be as much reconstruction as construction, piecing together the time already immanent in his material rather than building it artificially through cuts and rearrangement. The results of this bottom-up approach are evident even in Tarkovsky’s earliest films — the simple passage of time carries a weight and veracity undisturbed from shot to shot.

Writers have a particular flexibility when it comes to the passage of time. Since the medium has no inherent bond to it the way that film or music do, prose is capable of compressing years into sentences and drawing pages out of seconds. It can consider time historically or speculatively, as a series of snapshots or as broad, far-reaching strokes — its only limits are the imagination and linguistic dexterity of its author. With such a remarkably athletic medium, any writer working with time, which presumably includes most of us, might consider adopting Tarkovsky’s editing ethos.

The major difference between film and prose, at least in respect to creating a sense of felt time, is that a writer creates his sentences from scratch where the director or cameraman is stuck with the reality in his viewfinder. This both simplifies and complicates things; on the one hand it allows the writer complete control over the impression a certain timeframe makes, not only its actual length — if it spans minutes or only moments — but whether that time slips by unobtrusively or makes every word felt; on the other it demands the conscious consideration of these elements at every step of composition. This is true of directing also, but in prose it’s no less necessary to have a strong vision of the scene at hand while each sentence is written. A writer who neglects the immediate (daresay, cinematic) sense of being in a given moment has no foundation to build an impactful scene; the time pressure of his sentences will fit poorly and without intention. Conversely, a well-envisioned sentence is imbued with a kind of poetry, a sense of existence stretching beyond the words on the page. Good fiction, like good art in general, becomes alive in its own right when it can provide its reader with such a felt experience.

Why is Feeling Not Enough? A Defense for Poems That Open Doors

By Channa Goldman

I was seventeen years old when I read HOWL by Allen Ginsburg, and three billion firecrackers went off in my chest at lines such as: “I’m with you in Rockland/ where we hug and kiss the United States under/ our bedsheets the United States that coughs all/ night and won’t let us sleep”; or: “On the impulse of winter midnight streetlight small town rain.” The latter line I found so beautiful that I’d reread it every day for the next three years, and I still think about that image often. Now, as a twenty-year-old studying poetry at Purchase College, if you asked me what I think those lines mean, I could give you an answer. Or, I could be honest and cut the bullshit — and say I don’t really know, and I don’t really think it matters. I think the importance of Ginsburg’s work is in image, mood, and the emotion the poem evokes, rather than trying to discern some secret meaning.

In the analysis of poetry, it’s common to dissect a poem as one would an insect in biology, but instead of medical instruments, one uses poetic jargon to interpret the poem’s ‘meaning’— and too often, this results in the notion held by many that poetry is for poets— not everyone. Many people have told me that they don’t read poetry because they can’t understand the “meaning,”— as if there’s one secret message to be discerned. When discussing poems, I hear endless language all aimed towards articulating the ‘meaning,’ and too often, if you can’t articulate that exact meaning, you’re just made to feel like you’re missing something. Well, I say that’s not necessarily the entire aim of poetry.

Don’t get me wrong— some poems are written with the intention of readers deriving a specific moral or message, and of course that’s great. I am advocating on behalf of the poems that aren’t, and how we shouldn’t feel the need to read them and pick them apart for something that wasn’t intended. Poetry, like any art form, employs technical craft and skill. There are rules and practices which guide a particular form, and it’s not all random. But this shouldn’t deter the average person from deriving pleasure from reading poems. If at seventeen someone told me I ‘didn’t get’ HOWL, I probably would’ve cried. Ginsburg opened the door for me to fall in love with sound and language. It didn’t matter that I didn’t necessarily get ‘the message’. The feeling a poem evokes in the reader is as equally powerful.

Non-poets can take from a poem what is meaningful to them, whether that be an image or turn of phrase. So you don’t talk about the pentameter of a poem, or its cadence, or how many lines are in a sonnet, or what the hell a sestina is. Should that prevent you from avoiding the form altogether? Is poetry just for poets? I think not. The power of poetry is something everyone can access in varying degrees, and anyone who tells you otherwise is simply missing the magic.

The Importance of Taking a Step Back

By Kris Rubertone

It’s no secret that writing in the heat of an emotional moment helps a writer understand her feelings. However, it’s only in revision that the writer can clearly gauge whether she has effectively evoked that particular emotional truth, and whether it has a similar effect on the reader. Does the language conjure again those deeply felt sentiments once the heat of the moment has passed? To lose that feeling and have to come back to it at a later time can be a very eye opening and beneficial experience for the writer.

I feel that both steps are necessary in creating an honest and raw piece of work. First and foremost, I believe that emotion is very important when it comes to creating art, and if one can capture it in the moment then there is no better time to do so. However, I think it’s very important to take a step back from your work once you’ve written it and let all that feeling settle. When you return to it, and you should, you’ll be better to pinpoint what works and what doesn’t. It’s easy to think of cliches and stereotypes, especially when you’re in a state where they’re basically all you can relate to as they are the first thing that pops into our heads when we are feeling certain emotions.

There’s nothing wrong with allowing yourself to relate to these cliches, but it’s more beneficial to return to the work in a controlled state of mind so you can manipulate them into something specific to what you’re feeling and expand on the feelings and thoughts you couldn’t wrap your head around so much when you first wrote your piece. Over time, you start to cool off and feel less of what you were feeling . Then you can be more clear minded to get a sharper idea of how you want your work to turn out.Just as well, when you do return to your work after having written the first draft and you’re in a completely different state of mind, this could be useful to go through your works and grasp emotions from another state of mind to expand and elaborate your piece. That way, it is not limited to one standalone emotion, but that standalone emotion can be supported by others to amplify its importance within the piece.

I think from the writer’s perspective and viewpoint the editing process is seen as something bad , and kind of nerve wracking – I can attest to this. But these are important steps in order to make your work better. When in a more placid state, my thoughts are all over the place. I end up just throwing whatever I’m thinking onto the page, and when I’m feeling better and good enough to return to my poem, I’m able to pick out the things that really matter and make sense and shape. Then I can change them into something more coherent and understandable for the reader, being able to really get into detail of the subject.

Usually, when I write poetry, it doesn’t take any visual form; especially if I’m in too emotional a state. So going back to my work afterwards allows me to find the shape my work is supposed

Yeah, I Didn’t Finish That One. It Was Too Long.

By Winnie Richards

Whether it’s a novel, a poem or a news article, you can bet  the longer it is, the fewer readers you’ll have. In our fast-paced, ever-changing world of technology, there is little appetite for the lengthy. Why would I read an entire news article when the headline tells me everything? Why would I read a nine-hundred page novel when fan-fiction can tell a hot, fast paced story in a few pages? Who needs a three page poem with big words and metaphors if I can use a pretty three line poem as my Instagram caption and get three-hundred likes.

It’s not exclusively our fault. As young Americans, we have severely weakened our ability to deal with ideas and images that take time to understand. The media we take in every day both dictates and reacts to our dwindling attention spans. Now if you’re an American, that sounds pretty offensive. But really it’s not! This anomaly isn’t a product of us becoming increasingly stupid. It’s exactly the opposite! With our access to knowledge expanding exponentially with every technological advancement, we are more equipped than ever to handle difficult issues and more content with complicated ideas. Our minds are capable of fantastic feats—our abilities with a thousand-page novel are the least of our worries! The fact is, it’s not about our ability at all: it’s about our desire. We simply don’t want to read a thousand-page novel or a book-length poem. We’ve moved on.

And so what? Who cares if no one wants to read Moby Dick anymore? It’s fine if no one can be bothered to read the whole Constitution, we know the gist of it. Right? But that’s where things get tricky. No matter how you try to get around it, some things just can’t be said in a headline. Some ideas take more room to expand fully, more patience to understand truly. Look, I can tell you that Captain Ahab just really wants to catch one special whale. There, the story’s done! But I promise you will never know what that image of the great white whale meant to him, why it haunted his every breathing moment, and what exactly it means for the life that each of us lives; how and why we are Ahab, and where and who is our whale.

If I were a politician, I could easily tell you that nowhere in the Constitution of the United States does it state that an individual has the right to privacy, and I wouldn’t be lying. Thus, you couldn’t really argue with me when I expunge Roe v. Wade. But, you’d never know that the Constitution’s penumbral rights outline an almost indisputable case for the government not to be allowed to infringe upon the privacy between a woman and her doctor.

Now I’m not saying that we all need to rush out and start reading the Constitution and Moby Dick cover to cover. But the point remains: some things can be fulfilled in a few pages, in a few lines, in a few words—and some things cannot. We must be prepared and open to handle both. It is a dangerous day when we close ourselves off to information, and to art, that comes to us in a challenging and unfamiliar form.

Does Content Matter?

by Amy Middleton

What convinces a reader to pick up a book? As writers, we are told that the opening line, in particular, is meant to pull them in and hopefully convince them to stay for a while. Being that it is the first thing any reader would read, it seems obvious that the opening line is the answer, but if you ask a graphic designer, you would probably get a very different answer. As both a writer and a designer, I am, of course, often in a stalemate when it comes to this question. The designer says that without a beautiful cover no one will even be willing to read the actual words. The writer says that if the words are beautiful even poor design wouldn’t dissuade a reader.

So what exactly is poor design? This might seem an intimidating question for people with little formal knowledge of graphic design practices, but really we all know poor design when we see it. In the example below, “Citilife St.Petersburg,” anyone can see that the cover is unreadable and overwhelming. The title of the magazine, for example, uses three different typefaces against a background of bright yellow and red, making the words even more difficult to read. The words of the heading are also distorted, or stretched. While it’s possible to distort words and use different types or bright colors on their own, the text is visually overwhelming when these elements are piled on top of one another. It is an essential skill of a graphic designer to know when a little bit of funky design crosses the line.


In the example “Billboard,” we can see how a good designer pays attention to where they employ different typefaces and distortions. Using a large, distinct typeface for the title of the magazine ensures it’s recognizable and readable. Variations in typeface are used for creating categories of subtitles and pull quotes, conveying a hierarchy of information. Distortion is used not to make the words on the page look any different from their original typeface, but to work with the cover photo. Just by that slight tilt, the words are cleanly working with the photo to create a more alluring and interesting design than if they were straight.


Subtle and clean cover design doesn’t mean boring, as many people worry. It is simply a good practice for readability. A good designer knows how to create a cover that is both interesting and polished, the perfect balance to convince a reader to actually pick up the book and open to the first page.

When it comes to enticing a reader to pick up a book or magazine, we will always judge it by its cover. Unless a reader is looking for a specific writer, the cover has to be visually interesting enough to get the reader’s attention. Obviously, content does matter, but good design is what inspires a reader browsing in the bookstore to pick up a book in the first place. There is no opening line good enough to convince a reader to read without a well designed cover because they need to open the book first.

Mapping Your Way to Complex Characters

By Cerissa DiValentino

The disorienting feeling you experience after finishing a novel wherein the characters feel like someone you know in real life demonstrates the power complex characters have over our emotions. As writers, we aim to immerse our readers so completely into the world we’ve created that they’re hesitant to leave it. Most importantly, we want our readers to feel an emotional bond to our characters because it means we did our job right. Written effectively, complex characters have the ability to sustain narrative urgency and continue to impress upon the reader long after they’ve finished the book.

To that end, the best plots are character-driven, and it’s through the tension between a character’s desires and their internal and external obstacles that the reader latches onto the story, aiming to figure out how this character is going to obtain what they so badly want. The reader loves to root for the underdog rather than the perfect cheerleader who has won Prom Queen three years in a row. Readers empathize with flawed characters living outside the limelight in hopes that eventually, through struggle, they’ll achieve their desires and shine.

As a helpful tool in crafting complex characters, I suggest character mapping. Start by looking at your central character and asking the question: what is it that my character really wants? After you have come up with an answer, ask yourself: what are the obstacles in my character’s path (both internal and external). Next: what are some ways my character can achieve their desires despite these obstacles? Once you have an outline of what your character desires, what obstacles they face and how they are going to persevere, you already have a plot in the making and you’re ready to start writing.

For example, in Courtney Maum’s Costalegre, the novel follows Lara, a fifteen-year-old girl who is constantly neglected by her mother, but deeply desires to be cherished by her. Lara is a developing artist living on the island of Costalegre with a group of outcast artists her mother has rescued from Europe at the start of Hitler’s regime. Throughout the novel, it’s obvious to the reader that Lara wants her mother to appreciate her artwork as she does the work of the artists she has rescued. Lara’s perseverance to become a skilled artist, thinking that her mother might pay her more attention if she is more talented, breaks my heart and makes me feel closer to her. As the reader, I am instantly drawn to Lara’s inner conflict and feel her desire for motherly love as if it is my own. As the character who is dismissed by others throughout the novel, she becomes the reader’s entire focus because we wish for her to achieve her desires as much as she does.

People are constantly searching for something that will make them feel more alive, more aware, or in other words, simply more human. We fall in love with characters that emulate all human behavior, including flaws. Characters that desire more than what they have and go against the general grain of society to achieve it, make us root for them. When Lara takes off on a horse despite the oncoming storm because she wants to prove to the adult artists that she has her own agency, we are rooting for her with our fists high in the air. If your characters are as multifaceted as you are human, the reader will find those characters more enticing than any typical, popular cheerleader.

Writing 101 for Struggling College Students

By Savannah Lopez

Have you ever compared yourself to your peers and felt discouraged?  Do you sometimes find it hard to stay inspired? It’s okay, we’ve all been there.

I’ve been in college for almost six years and it wasn’t until 2017 when I realized I wanted to become a creative writing major.  I transferred to Purchase College in 2018 and commuting back and forth makes me feel behind. There’s times my peers would want to host a workshop outside of class and I can’t attend because I live over an hour away.  Or, me not being able to meet with the Writers Club because they meet late during the week. These are opportunities to improve my writing, and I have to miss out.

There are also times I read my peers work and think, damn this is so poetic, how can I compete with this?  I would also sit in class listening to discussions about authors like Jane Austen and Toni Morrison (at the time I had no clue who these legends were) and I would awkwardly smile and shake my head up and down like Wow I’m so lost.

When you’re feeling overwhelmed or discouraged it can be hard to get that confidence and inspiration back, but not impossible.  Here are some tips on how to fix that:

  • Never compare.  We’re human, so we’re bound to have thoughts of not being as good as someone else but it’s crucial to remember that in five years, that person will be long gone, doing his or her own thing.  Realizing this has helped me gained confidence in my writing. Your dedication and performance determines how far you go in life, not your peers. How far will you push yourself to succeed? I’ve had to ask myself, Savannah are you going to watch another episode of Friends or start brainstorming ideas for your short story?  As a result, I’ve saved myself a lot of stress by starting my work early and getting it out of the way.  If you leave it for the last minute, the pressure of getting your work done will increase the chances of mistakes and submitting poor work.
  •  Keep a planner handy and start using sticky notes.  Having your life together will make you feel in control. Use a planner to jot down ideas, to-do lists, and assignments. I place sticky notes around my room to give myself reminders about a meeting I have or even something positive like, “You are worthy and resilient.” I also plan my week out in my planner so I know exactly what I have to do each day.  Writing is not something that can be rushed. Try writing a page a day and always carry around a small book for new ideas. It’ll help you not feel so overwhelmed.
  • What motivates you?  An easy way to stay inspired is to do things you enjoy.  If long nature walks or car rides inspire you to write beautiful scenery details, then go more often.  I first started writing in high school because it helped be cope during dark times. I even gave myself closure sometimes.  I think if you’re ever feeling angry or hurt, you should immediately write those feelings in your notes on your phone or a notebook.  These raw, powerful feelings can end up turning into an amazing poem or short story. 
  • Remember self-care.  Your wellness is important. If you’re feeling too overwhelmed with life, take a personal day. Put on a face mask and unwind to some Alicia Keys.  I love to buy my favorite cookies, snuggle with my pets, and binge watch The Walking Dead.  It’s okay to skip class occasionally, but make sure to stay on top of what you have to do so you can avoid falling behind.

Nothing is too big for you to overcome.  You must believe in how awesome you are and, in your ability, to make your goals happen.  You’ve come this far, keep going!

Writing as Medicine

By Ingrid Kildiss

Its 3:30 pm, I’m sitting in class and my mind is racing. There are at least two more hours until my professor lets us out of class, but I can’t sit still. I’m anxious about the argument I got into with my mom this weekend, all the work I need to do, and the mess I left in my apartment, but I’m determined not to leave class. I open up a blank page in my notebook and write. While it’s not easy to write about the things that make me anxious and uncomfortable, it is much much better than remaining in an anxious mindset for the rest of class and risking spiraling into a terrible mood or leaving in the middle of a lecture.

Journaling and creative writing can be helpful in dealing with the potential trauma, stress, and anxiety of school and everyday life. In 1997, the American Psychological Society along with James Pennebaker published a study titled “Writing About Emotional Experiences As A Therapeutic Process,”  in which they argue that individuals who wrote about emotional or traumatic experiences for as little as fifteen to thirty minutes a day for three to five days experienced significant mental health improvements. Self-reports from subjects of this study identify the mental health improvements as being a reduction of stress as well as a reduction of depressed feelings. Many subjects (who were also students) noted an increase in grades in their self-reports. It’s likely that by writing, these young people confront and process tough emotions instead of ignoring them.

So, if you’re ever having a day where you just can’t shake off that anxious feeling, or you feel a bad thought escaping from where you left it last, consider sitting down for fifteen minutes to write. If starting is something you have trouble with, there are plenty of online resources and prompts. My favorite way to start is just to write stream of consciousness. This way, I often find my way to the issues that linger in my subconscious and address them by putting them to paper. Afterward, I tend to feel soothed or lighter. Even that small act can make a huge difference in your life and mental health. And if you’re committed to writing every day, you can find the path to conceits for stories or just to develop a practice of self-care!

Writing People We Know

By Elana Marcus

In the 2015 Noah Baumbach film, Mistress America, college freshman Tracy meets her stepsister, Brooke, for the first time. Inspired by Brooke’s eccentric personality, Tracy writes a short story about her to submit to the school literary journal. After Brooke discovers the story, she is enraged. A whole interrogation scene follows where essentially every character in the movie yells at Tracy for what she’s done. Tracy breaks down in tears. Brooke threatens to sue. After watching this film, I found myself thinking deeply about this issue of writing people we know and the risks we take in doing so.

Anyone who writes fiction has probably found herself in Tracy’s position at some point. There have been many times where I’ve met someone and thought about fictionalizing them. But then the questions arise: is it okay for me to do this? Would it be considered stealing if I write about this person without permission? Will the person be mad at me if they find out that I’ve written about them? Is this immoral? It’s not like we can just walk around town with a disclaimer taped to our foreheads that reads: anything you say or do in my vicinity may be used in a story.

I think it’s safe to say that most (if not all) writers draw inspiration from their lives. It would be nearly impossible to create every single element of a story solely from the imagination, and a story should have some element of emotional truth. It isn’t so much a question of whether it’s okay to write about actual people, but when it is acceptable .

This past February, I was part of a small group of students who met at Purchase with novelist Elif Batuman, whose 2017 novel The Idiot sees the author drawing heavily from her own personal experiences in college. At the meeting, I asked her about the experience of writing characters based on people she knew. She answered that she started writing these characters long after she knew them, and she felt that waiting to write them was helpful. I’ve received similar advice from former teachers, who have said that waiting a while to write about people you know can better help you write them as characters and better analyze the circumstances under which you knew them.

Writing about people who are currently a part of our lives can certainly be a challenge. It could be easy for a writer to hold back when writing these characters because they don’t want to hurt the person’s feelings or risk potential conflict. But the details that are being held back may be the most compelling traits of this character. I once made a short film that was inspired by a friend of mine who had a habit of being late and unreliable, and a mutual friend approached me about it, saying that it might hurt her feelings. My friend ended up being completely okay with it, but it did force me to think more about whether the projects I work on could hurt the people I care about. In certain cases, waiting to write about someone could be beneficial. If you end up losing contact with this person or don’t see them as often, you most likely won’t have to worry about causing conflict and can feel less restrained in how you portray this character. Writing people we know may also feel uncomfortable, much like running into someone you dreamt about the night before. It can feel awkward, and this could also cause you to hold back when writing the character. I have written stories inspired by people I knew in my past and people I am close to now, and thankfully it’s worked out well for me in both cases. But I have also felt uncomfortable doing so and had trouble seeing the person as a fictional character.

Here’s my advice: if you’re inspired by a person and you want to write them as a character, give it a shot. See what works best for you. If writing about a person you know is working well for you, go with it! If you’re finding it difficult, let some time pass and try again in the future. You’ll have a different perspective on this person by that point and that could make the process of writing them clearer. Also, change enough about them so that the character on the page becomes distinct. I once heard that if you’re writing real-life people as characters, change at least one detail about the person’s physical appearance. This will allow you to see this person as the character you have created, rather than just a total imitation of the person who inspired you. Seek to use this person to create rather than imitate; they are just a jumping off point for the character you are creating.

The Sliding Razor: Effects of Sensory Imagery in Writing

By Shannon Magrane

Sensory imagery, by definition, is an element of writing in which the five senses (sight, taste, touch, hearing, and smell) are described in order to make your readers feel what your characters are experiencing. By evoking a sensory reaction, the writer enables the reader to be part of the characters’ physical experience. It has long been said that bad characters cannot carry a good plot, but good characters can carry a bad plot, so it is essential that the reader be connected to the characters above all. As such, the writer must make it as easy as possible for the reader to empathize with them. If the writer successfully achieves that, then they tie the reader’s emotions to those of the characters, and invest their audience completely in their story from beginning to end.

I understood this concept only on a basic level when I first started writing fiction seriously, much the same way you understand a recipe from reading and memorizing it, but not actually seeing or cooking the dish. It did not fully hit me how effective it could be in practice until reading “I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream,” a 1967 short story by Harlan Ellison. In Ellison’s tale of a nightmarish future, one of only five humans left alive on Earth tells the story of how they spend the rest of their lives imprisoned, immortal, and tortured by the supercomputer that ended the world in the first place. This computer’s name is AM. He can think. He can reason. And he can feel…but the only thing left for him to think and reason and feel is how much he hates humanity.

This was the story that fully opened my eyes to the true potential of sensory imagery to reach inside the reader and fill them to the brim with emotion. Note your reaction to lines like, “AM said it with the sliding cold horror of a razor blade slicing my eyeball,” or, “The pain shivered through my flesh like tinfoil on a tooth.” The latter set my teeth on edge and made me taste metal. I was horrified, I was afraid, I was in the shadow of pain, but at the same time, I was amazed, fascinated, downright inspired.

Ellison’s use of language and intimate sensory imagery made me feel as though I were experiencing every pain the characters endured, an experience that no other writer had managed to evoke until that point. I sought to explore more of this skill, of how to make the words flow so fluidly and so vividly, digging deep as I could into the depths of what a person can feel. Such brilliant details can make another world or an alternate reality entirely tangible to the reader, no matter how wild or unfamiliar it is. It is these evocative details that a reader can recognize through the sensations of their own body, thereby becoming fully immersed in the people and in the world that the author has created. For an author who wants to create this re-familarizing effect in his or her audience, such details are essential to include.

Sensory imagery, of course, can and should be used to conjure other emotions besides fear. Though it feels like common knowledge, all five senses must be considered to get the full range of the sensation you are trying to convey. Think: do you have a headache, or is a jackhammer relentlessly pounding at the crevices of your brain? Are you happy, or did a fierce electric current just shoot through your veins? Are you disgusted by something, or does your skin crawl as though you’ve been dunked headfirst into cold bile? Which set of words makes your body react as you read? Which can you connect more to? And, quite simply, which sounds more interesting?

A writer should look into their own memories, their own experiences, to project onto their characters and narration. But when you do, focus less on the emotion that is being felt and focus more on what is going through the body as it is happening: over the skin, piercing the eardrum, holding the organs and muscles inside. All the little details of what you feel are valuable, and can deeply enrich a story. Above all, as a writer, you must show, not tell, and use of sensory imagery is an incredibly effective way to do that.

Image: SugaryAshes. I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream. Drawing. DeviantArt.