Writer's teacher: Clara Obligado shares the keys to her legendary writing workshop
Clara Obligado , an Argentine writer living in Madrid since 1976, began coordinating a creative writing workshop in 1978 , she says, almost by chance. The proposal was a little exotic, a little unusual, a little daring. But the death of dictator Francisco Franco had opened the doors to almost everything, so why not get together to read and write?
She herself has told the story this way: "When I arrived in Spain as a philologist, I already really enjoyed teaching. I got together with a group of friends to write a book as a team, and naturally, I coordinated the work. Then, I was invited to teach small courses; finally, I was hired by a city council. When I was laid off, I had to register as unemployed, and I did so as a 'Writing Workshop.' And that's where the term appeared, which was incorporated along with mechanical workshops, dental prosthesis workshops, and similar things. That was more than 47 years ago."
Since then, her career as a writer has been built with books of short stories ( The Book of Wrong Journeys, Death Plays Dice and the recent Three Ways to Say Goodbye ), essays ( A Home Away From Home. Foreign Writing and the seven-times reissued Everything That Grows. Nature and Writing ) and novels ( Marx's Daughter and Don't Tell Him You Love Him ), among many others.
And alongside those meetings, which, in addition to forming the pioneering Clara Obligado Creative Writing Workshop , expanded to include the National University of Distance Education, the Círculo de Bellas Artes, and the Mujeres de Madrid bookstore, among other institutions, several generations of writers attended those meetings, whose names now appear in news about awards and releases.
A two-time member of the Clarín Novel Prize Honorary Jury , while she finishes editing her next book, dedicated to trees, Clara Obligado is having breakfast this morning at the La Ideal cafeteria while spending a month in Buenos Aires between interviews and, of course, writing workshops. And she says these things.
Clara Obligado's workshops are a celebration. A celebration of rigor, experience, and the joy of writing.
–Some people say it's impossible to learn to write literature. You've been coordinating a creative writing workshop in Madrid for almost 50 years. Is it possible to learn to write?
My daughter, Camila, compiled the entire workshop archive from the beginning and is analyzing it as part of a thesis that shows how writing workshops reached Europe through a multitude of exiles, from Argentina and elsewhere. We're talking about papers from the 1980s, when this was an idea held by established people, generally with a very patriarchal culture (it must be said), who believed that writing couldn't be taught. I remember a writer from those years who told me: "I don't believe in workshops." I replied: "Look, it's not a matter of faith. If we're going to believe, I don't believe in law either, and you're a lawyer, and I think what a lawyer can do is much more harmful, while literature will never hurt you." So I've had this debate ad nauseam: Can writing be taught? Are writers born or made? There came a time when I started to say, "All writers are born; obviously, writers are born. We'll see how it's done later." I consider my job a privilege. It's true that, at this moment and for many reasons, I could dedicate myself solely to writing. But I'm not going to do that, not even if I'm crazy. My life is what happens around a table talking about literature with people I really like. Now, the workshop has different groups led by Camila Paz, Valeria Correa Fiz, Javier Morales, and Nuria Barrios. We all choose a topic each year, and every class works on it, although each one does it as they see fit. Next year we'll talk about friendship.
Clara Obligado photographed in the Botanical Garden. Photo: Fernando de la Orden.
–When you started the workshops in the late 1970s, did you have any experience in this area from Argentina, or did you invent a method?
–One invents and doesn't invent. I brought Paulo Freire with me from here. Not only from reading his work, I had also studied literacy, and with Paulo Freire, I had learned to teach. In addition, I have a vocation for teaching, which my whole family also has: my grandfather taught, my uncle taught, my sister taught, my nephew teaches. It's something we're good at, but I'm talking about teaching in the sense of conversing, not pontificating, and Paulo Freire is not Sarmiento. With that experience, which marked me deeply, I started in Madrid. But, as I always say, I didn't arrive with a business plan. It just happened.
–How did you become the writing teacher you are today?
I don't know if I'm a master. I always consider myself a Basque pelota player. People throw a ball and I return it. I'm very good at returning it. Perhaps that's my efficiency: I can answer very quickly. On the other hand, I deeply believe in debate. I believe that what can save us is being able to speak, and sometimes quite forcefully, quite demandingly, regarding my own character, which can be authoritarian. So in each group, we work based on debate. Everyone thinks what they want, but we all respect each other. And literature is also a meeting point, and words are a bridge. I take from Freire the idea that words can change us.
–If the driving force behind the group's work is debate, what is the rationale behind that debate? Are all opinions always helpful to the reader of their text?
–I work with intermediate and advanced levels, meaning I work on book projects. The first thing is to interview everyone who applies for the workshop, and I form groups with people who, for some reason, I think could work well with me or with one of the other workshop leaders. I never take on people who want to work with me if I don't think they should work with me. Because the relationship is like a marriage, and I don't marry everyone. For me, delving into someone else's text is important work that straddles the edge of friendship. So, that would be the first step, the selection. Then, in class, we have a system that works well. People bring texts. Occasionally, they respond to something I propose, but I always tell them that obedience isn't a literary virtue. Everyone reads it aloud, and I ask for feedback. Everyone? No. I know who can respond well. In general, opinions don't coincide on everything, but they do show a common symptom. Finally, I open a discussion at the end in case anyone wants to say something, but I cut them off very quickly if I see that they're not contributing anything. So, I recommend that the author, if three people say something, think about it. I also write down what they say and give them feedback. But that feedback isn't up for discussion. Absolutely not. You can do whatever you want, of course. You can rewrite it, trash it, or say that my opinion is really bad.
From the first minute, there was a connection, a great deal of empathy, and well-aimed criticisms that I largely share. No one there asked "dumb questions," but rather intelligent interventions.
–Are the texts also praised?
–They're all very good readers, and I don't work on flattery. I mean, they must come to the workshop already wounded. I say this jokingly, but they understand it's affectionate. But it's also hard. Sometimes they come with a text they're really proud of, and it gets shot down. The people who work with me don't come there so I can tell them how lovely you are. It's too expensive for that, and it's silly. They don't learn that way. And then we read a lot, too. Now, in the summer, we create a reading plan, and throughout the year we give seven lectures on those readings.
–How do you learn to read to write, Clara?
–That's what can be taught. To think and to think about yourself. And to think about your own text and to distance yourself. All of that can be taught. No one can teach you how to be a writer; that can't be taught. In the workshop, we do two types of readings. For example, at the beginning of the course, we do a type of reading of the city. We read urban planners or Martín Kohan. None of that helps you write, but it helps you think. Afterward, we dissect texts. Once, we wrote a text copying all of Borges's syntax but stripping it of its semantics. A fantastic exercise. One topic we discussed a lot is the idea of theft, of copying, and what the limit is. There's a book I really like by a Cuban writer named Ronaldo Menéndez called Covers. In Solitude and Company (Páginas de Espuma). Ronaldo is a very unusual guy; he lives in Madrid, and they asked him for texts for Iberia. He needed to make money and couldn't think of anything. So, for example, it would start with the beginning of "The Aleph." The whole sentence. And from there, it would go on and move on to something else. The book compiles all those texts. It seems to me that literature is there to be used. The thing is, using literature means knowing how to read very well. I mean, not so you can copy a character; that's nonsense.
–The first reaction to a comment is to defend the text itself. “What I meant to say is…” How do you handle that?
–It's forbidden. You can't answer; the text answers for itself. Only the first time, generally, I tell them: "Remember that this is the last and only time you'll be able to talk about your text, so say everything you want to say." Because, I ask them, are you going to accompany each copy of your book and explain it to the reader? What the text doesn't explain, the author shouldn't explain.
Clara Obligado photographed in the Botanical Garden. Photo: Fernando de la Orden.
–And what do they do in that situation?
–He explains what he meant, and while he's doing it, he feels ridiculous. So from then on, they listen and are grateful because, honestly, having 10 or 12 people who care about you, but aren't your friends, who are educated and who will honestly give you an opinion, is priceless. Plus, there's a curious effect. If I really like a text, I criticize it a lot too. If I'm not very interested or it's really weak, I mark some things up because they can't handle all the editing at once.
–How does reading others work for you, when you're also a writer? How do you manage not to try to transform everyone into another version of yourself?
–Well, I'm very dissociative. I'm, at this point, very trained for that. I can listen perfectly to the other person from the other side. And when I get confused, I clarify. I can say: "Look, this is a text that raises the issue of language. I'm particularly interested in it. So, I don't know if what I'm telling you, I'm telling you because I like it or because it's true. I love it." Similarly, there are texts that don't interest me at all, and yet, as the poet Pedro Salinas says in "La voz a ti debida": "I want to bring out your best self in you." I have a participant who works with a mixture of almost judicial language and irony. So, what do I do? Do I compare him to Pedro Lemebel? No. I compare him to himself. And my job would be to find readings that would accompany him. I read a lot and I tend to support my students with readings.
–How do you know that the reading, in which you find connections, will be visible to the student?
–It's their problem. It's not mine. I mean, I know this is your remedy, that it's going to do you good. Take it if you want, it's not my problem. But they have the tools to make that reading become a remedy, because sometimes it's just pure power and then the person doesn't have the capacity. We talk about it a lot. It's a very affable approach and at the same time very participative. Plus, they argue with me, and you can't believe they pay a lot of attention to me. No, they don't give a damn. Last year, a student said to me: "Are you aware that you've recommended 322 books this year?"
The questions were intelligent, informed, from people who (like any writer, always) were trying to solve their problems with words.
–No, not a chance. No. They push my buttons and I recommend books. Give me five minutes and I'll recommend you. That's why I'm more like a Basque pelota court than anything else. They attack me and I respond. If it goes well, I'm happy. If it doesn't go well, I'm happy too. And I change my mind. Then I tell them: "Look, I think I made a mistake yesterday or I came up with this other idea."
–It's expected that someone who attends a workshop for years will want to be a writer. Is the opposite true?
–I never force them. Never, ever, because I know the weight a literary career carries. Never. I have a student who is gifted. He's an impeccable reader, a lovely person, but he doesn't want to be a writer. So, I've told him many times: "If you don't want to, you don't want to." In any case, the workshop has a publishing house where we sometimes publish author's books and other times an anthology. This year we sold 800 copies in a single day at the Madrid Book Fair.
- Born in Buenos Aires, she was a political exile from the military dictatorship and has lived in Spain since 1976.
- She holds a degree in Literature and led the first Creative Writing workshops organized in this country, an activity she has conducted for numerous universities and various institutions and also works independently.
- In 1996 she received the Lumen Women's Prize for her novel La hija de Marx and in 2015 the Juan March Cencillo Short Novel Prize for Petrarca para viajeros.
Clara Obligado photographed in the Botanical Garden. Photo: Fernando de la Orden.
- He has published the anthologies Please Be Brief 1 and 2 , landmarks in the implementation of the micro-story in Spain, and the volumes of short stories The Other Lives, The Book of Wrong Journeys (which won the IX Setenil Prize for the best book of short stories of 2012), Death Plays Dice and The Water Library .
- He has published numerous essays, including A Home Away From Home: Foreign Writing , and, most recently, All That Grows: Nature and Writing.
Clarin
