The greatest thing in this world is not so much where we are, but in what direction we are moving.
--O.W. Holmes
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| Interpretive Writing Intensive
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REGISTER NOW
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Only a few spaces left--don't wait!
Oct. 12-17, Oregon House
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What if this workshop fills?
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Registration is first-come, first-served, and we only have space for 15.
If your registration comes in after we've reached capacity, you'll be on our waiting list and, if you paid by credit card, we'll refund your registration fee. We'll notify you if a space opens up, *and* you will have first dibs on a space in the next Interpretive Writing Intensive.
Although the price might not be exactly the same (it depends on the where the next workshop will be), any discount you would have received for the October workshop will be applied to the next one.
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Want to Host a Writing Workshop?
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| We offer one, two, and four-day interpretive writing workshops. If you're interested in an on-site workshop, contact Judy by email or call 888/886-9289. |
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Have Suggestions for the where to hold the next Interpretive Writing Intensive?
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We're scheduling Interpretive Writing Intensives for 2010 and we're looking for your recommendations! Know of a great retreat setting? Let us know!
email
888/886-9289
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Map of Discovery
It was the last day of the mustn't-miss exhibit at my favorite museum. The museum's a two-hour drive, coordinating my family's schedule is worse than herding cats, and there's always that last-minute phone call just as we're about to step out the door, so by the time we got to the museum, it wasn't just the last day of the Very Important Exhibit, but the last hour.
 Out of breath from our dash across the parking lot and up the stairs, we breezed past the docent offering audio sets. No line and no rental fee; on another day, I might have accepted her offer, but the auditory program, keyed to numbered stations in the exhibit, would take longer than our remaining 58 minutes. Besides, I prefer reading to listening. I always start with a quick circuit to get my bearings, then dive into whatever looks interesting--or, since that usually includes everything, I dive in wherever it's least crowded.
Wow, there was a lot of stuff. Large exhibit cases hunkered against the walls like inverted vaults. Smaller cases were scattered with abandon in the middle. Parallel to the large exhibits, a bunched line of silent people adorned with headphones shuffled and stopped, shuffled and stopped, like a weird kind of peristalsis. My husband stood at the end of the line, since that seemed to be the beginning. I couldn't do that; it was too crowded, and I didn't want to wait. There weren't as many people along the other wall farther down and only a few milling around the smaller displays, so I headed there.
I spent the next twenty minutes banging between display cases like a pinball racking up points. I had no idea what I was looking at or why any of it was important. The sheer volume of artifacts was impressive; it was also overwhelming. Why were these things in the case lumped together? Why was this case near that one? The tiny labels listed the contents and sometimes a date, but no other clues.
My excitement dribbled away, replaced by frustration and the feeling that I'd been cheated: I could see the tiny number with its sound icon in the display case, taunting me with its promise of real information, real understanding, real story, if only I weren't such a ditz that I'd gotten here too late to "do" the exhibit the way the exhibitors wanted me to: in order, with voice-over narration.
Only twenty minutes, and I was exhausted. My feet hurt. I wanted to go home, or at least to the café, and not to the gift shop. "Who cares about this stupid exhibit?" whined my inner two-year-old. But my husband was still in line, peristalting his way past station number three. I told my inner brat to pipe down or there'd be no ice cream later, and continued wandering through the wilderness of random cases until suddenly, I saw it.
I knew immediately it was a map, though I don't know how I knew. More amazing was that I understood the map: I could have used it to find my way. I was absolutely delighted!
Maps--standard maps, carefully drawn by cartographers orienting to perfectly aligned compass roses--and I don't get along. If there's such a thing as "map dyslexia," I've got it. The maps I draw never have north at the top. When I look for a local address on Google Maps, I invariably put east on the left, but when I'm trying to figure out the best route from Colorado to Oregon and how close Vancouver is to Portland, west is on the left, where it's supposed to be.
The tiny label says it's a map from a Native American, that the maps they used were from the point of view of the person drawing the directions, unlike European maps. Eureka! I had one of those lovely flashes of insight that explained why "regular" maps are so difficult for me. This map, like the ones I draw, wasn't an anonymous, third-person representation of precisely measured land and its physical features. It was the story of that space, based on the experience and knowledge of the person who drew the map. The symbols were story portals: entryways into detailed information that the traveler needed. Instead of "start here, go north 1.3 miles, turn east onto Smith Road, end there," it's "the traffic's always a mess--the bike trail comes in at a weird angle, last time I was there I saw two near-misses--then hang a right just past the high school." This kind of map is like a personalized guidebook. The information comes from my experience (my point of view) but the story is paying attention to the traveler's point of view: the important things the traveler will see, hear, experience, and need to know along the way.
I laughed and pulled my husband from the line, insisting that he look. He didn't understand it at first, so I explained.
"Oh, it's a Judy map!"
"Yes, and look..." and as we laughed and talked and pointed, figuring out how this map worked and what made it different, a few people who had been milling about gathered 'round, and a few more who'd been standing in line wandered over, and pretty soon, we were all talking about maps and swapping stories about getting lost and remembering our first maps and--
And wow! In five minutes, we had a tiny map community. I wasn't tired any more. I wanted to learn more about maps and the way different cultures use imagery to communicate. I wanted to find more exhibits like this one.
The group shifted. Some people put their headphones back on and rejoined the line or wandered to other small exhibits. New people came in to see what the hubbub was about. "It's a map!" became a happy refrain.
I don't tell this story to criticize the use of audio tracks--in fact, I think they're an important and useful tool.
I tell this story as a reminder that interpretive writing is--and must be--nonlinear, without losing its integrity and organization as a story.
This is an incredible challenge. Stories are inherently linear; they have a beginning, a middle, and an end. This paragraph builds on the previous paragraph and the previous page, all the way back to the headline up top. It's much harder to write so that the story of the entire exhibit builds coherently no matter where the visitor begins, or ends, or wanders in between.
The medium we use to convey the story affects sequence and linearity, too. We're used to creating a story with a particular medium in mind--spoken (voice-over narration, for example), displayed, printed, electronic, live or recorded performances. A sequence that works well in one medium may not work at all in another, even if both are trying to convey the same story.
Two false assumptions undermined the effectiveness of the Very Important Exhibit: first, that everyone would go through the exhibit in a predetermined sequence in a predictable amount of time equal to the time it would take to listen to the audio for each spot; and second, that everyone would listen to the audio.
It's possible that the linear audio program built a powerful story, thrilling as well as informative, but I can't know that, because I didn't use the headphones. The exhibit labels--except for one humble scrap next to the map--were inventory lists and date stamps, not tidbits of story to guide me toward greater understanding.
When we force visitors to march in order, we disempower them. We deny them the possibility of serendipitous discovery. We prevent the joy of unexpected connections, connections that we, the writers, cannot predict or control--connections that may turn out to be a visitor's most significant experience in the entire program.
As interpretive writers, we must be like the American Indian who drew that map. We start in the center, which is the place we begin (though it might not be the beginning of the story). We observe everything around us, above us and below us. We write the major landmarks; we note that if you go this way, you will hear the waterfall and if you go that way, you'll be in the waterfall.
We take a step or two and stand in a different center, farther into the story, and observe again, write again.With each step, at each new center, we can choose to go only one direction--the linear approach--or we can remember we're in a sphere and can travel in any direction that appeals to us--and we can come back to this center and try other directions, too. Our awareness of our visitor's point of view guides our decisions: as we stand in the centers and observe, we are standing where our visitors will stand, and we must consider all the choices and possibilities.
We have to break the story into chunks that stand alone and work together. An individual chunk (each center and its sphere) has a linear aspect--each has a beginning, middle, and end--but they aren't pearls strung one after the other on a necklace. They're diamonds sparkling at the intersections of a dozen, a hundred, a thousand quivering strands. If we do our job right, if the concepts in each of those gems are part of the same story, their precise sequence won't matter.
By creating a cohesive nonlinear story, we are inviting visitors to explore instead of demanding that they follow only where we lead. Each story gem--discovery cart, video, exhibit, program guide, audio segment--is an entry point to the larger interconnected story web. No visitor is excluded because of time constraints or learning style. Visitors travel from gem to gem, building the story in ways that work for each of them.
This is the kind of journey that leads to memorable discoveries--discoveries that become the stories our visitors share down the road--stories that become the map that lets them, and those who've heard their stories, return time and again.
Have a comment or question? email me
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The Interpretive Writing Intensive is coming to Oregon House October 12!
Register three or more people together and
save $50 per person!
Join us for an ALL INCLUSIVE, 4-day/5-night workshop at beautiful Oregon House in Yachats, Oregon.
This highly interactive workshop is designed for interpreters who write. If you struggle with writing--if you wish your writing were more powerful, persuasive, and effective--if your creativity and efficiency could use a boost--if you want your writing to make a difference--then this is the workshop for you!
Arrive by Monday evening, October 12, 2009;
Workshop 9:00 am to 4:30 pm Tuesday through Friday;
Depart Saturday morning, October 17, 2009.
All Inclusive Price includes the workshop, lodging (5 nights) at Oregon House, and snacks and meals from Monday evening through Friday night.
Group Discounts: Register three or more people together and save $50 per person.
All Inclusive Price: $1490.00
Save $50 per person when you register three or more people together!
REGISTER TODAY!
Register online or call Judy at 888/886-9289.
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The Interpretive Writing Intensive covers applying interpretive principles to writing--
and much more!
Freeman Tilden said interpretive writing should be "concise, focused, inspirational, and engaging." Lofty goals for any writer!
But not to worry--during the Interpretive Writing Intensive, we'll guide you through the challenges. You'll learn:
- What makes interpretive writing interpretive;
- How to create writing that connects with the reader;
- Techniques for strengthening language, including pacing, language use, and word choice;
- Strategies for organizing;
- How to write for any length or space;
- How to write for different media, different audiences, and different uses;
- How to write for maximum impact;
- How to write even if you think you can't;
- How to take your writing "off-site";
- Humble punctuation;
- Accessing--and improving--creativity (or, the Muse will visit if chocolate is involved);
- Dealing with writer's block (or, how to get the Muse to visit if you're out of chocolate);
- and MORE.
To ensure a quality experience with plenty of individual attention, workshop size is limited to 15 people. Registration is first-come, first-served.
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- 4-day workshop, all workshop materials and handouts, one thirty-minute individual consulting session, instructor review of one previously submitted writing sample;
- Lodging* at Oregon House from Monday evening through Saturday morning, Oct. 12-17, 2009;
- Meals and snacks from Monday evening through Friday evening, Oct. 12-16, 2009
All-inclusive registration: $1490.00 per person
- Register three or more people together and save $50 per person.
*Lodging is shared room; single premium available, please inquire for pricing.
For more details, including cancellation policy and payment options, please visit our web site.
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Please don't hesitate to contact me by phone (888/886-9289 or 970/416-6353) or email or through our web site if you have questions or need more information. I hope to see you in October at Oregon House!
Sincerely,
Judy Fort Brenneman
Greenfire Creative, LLC
P.S. Can't make it but know someone who might be interested? I'd be grateful if you'd forward the information. Thanks!
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