Whores wanted!

A few weeks ago, I wrote what was arguably my greatest and most accurate Facebook status ever:

This revelation came from weeks of checking Craigslist every day for random writing gigs, in the futile attempt to find a winning combination that would allow me to quit my current job and throw myself into what I really love. Once in a while, I'd find something I could see myself doing, only to scroll down to the Compensation section to see: "no pay." Then I'd weigh out in my head if my time was worth the experience it would give me, much like I imagine a prostitute weighs the pros and cons before getting into a john's car. Oh, wait. Except prostitutes get paid. Whores do it for free.

But it's Craigslist, I reminded myself. Craigslist is shady; I shouldn't even be considering ghostwriting someone's shitty memoir for free, but I am, because there's nothing else. If only I had another place to look for writing jobs, a place that values writing and writers as indispensable members of society. 

So I started checking AWP and Poets & Writers: two sites that are routinely referenced as great resources during my twice-yearly writing residencies. These sites regularly post writing-related jobs from across the country. What did I find? More of the same.

Internship (Unpaid)
Unpaid
Unpaid
Unpaid

With a wider lens, a pattern emerged before me: what writers do isn't worth paying for. We're expected to work 40-60 hours per week, offering up our creative process and product, for nothing. And be grateful for the work. But how are we supposed to clothe and feed ourselves, get around or have a place to sleep? Apparently, these are just annoying and impolite questions that a whore doesn't deserve to ask.

This got me thinking about the music business: more specifically, about the musicians who are pissed about their songs being pirated online. How much of our shit do we writers give away for nothing, in the name of experience or recognition? Who decided that their art was worth millions, or billions of dollars, while I sit in front of my computer trying to piece together 10 different freelance jobs to make ends meet, lowering your standards and rate of pay to steal the job away from another struggling writer? If that doesn't make you feel like a whore, I don't know what would. And, just like in the world of prostitution, there's always a whore who will do it for less, or even for free in exchange for college credit.

In the end, all I can say is this: your work is worth paying for. Respect it and cherish it. Stop giving it away for free, because you're fucking it up for everyone else.

Fear = awesome.

The only time I can ever even think about updating this blog is after I've submitted a packet, in that golden few days where there is no urgency and my mind is slightly less harried than it is during the rest of the month. Needless to say, my packet is on its way to my fabulous mentor.

I wrote a little bit about fear in this most recent packet. It's such a pure emotion, when you think about it; every other thought and feeling takes a back seat if you're terrified. Your senses are heightened, and you are nothing but present in the moment. It is fear, I've decided, that was missing from last semester.

There's nothing scary, per se, about my mentor. In fact, she's lovely: caring and kind, supportive and positive. But ever since I saw her at the first residency and heard her read, I've been scared of her, in the way I was scared of my French professor from Marseille who made us read a novel a week and speak only French in class: I've never worked harder.

Just knowing that she is ridiculously well-read and an uber-close reader of student work had me anxious and terrified to work with her. I'd wanted to put her down first semester, but I'm glad I didn't. I wasn't ready. I had no idea where my story was going. Now, knowing that her eyes will be on my every word, I push myself further than I thought possible. I realized after our first phone conversation that her input was really going to help me, if I put in the work. That rush of organization that I talked about in my last entry was directly fueled by my fear of wasting this semester, and her time, with four more packets that got me no closer to my end goal. I was scared she'd figure me out and realize I had no idea what I was doing. Instead of faking it, I dug deep for the first time in years and did the hard work. And my stuff is getting good, guys.

This particular mentor also happens to be a total stickler on our craft essays (I'm going to take a moment to brag here). She's been known to send back essays to students for them to re-do. On our last phone call, she said one of my essays was "stellar" and a "model craft essay," and she was thinking of talking to the director of the MFA program about it; I guess they may make a packet of model essays to help students who are struggling with them. From this unexpected praise, I landed on the idea for my fourth semester presentation: a how-to session on craft essays. What new FUMFA'er wouldn't attend that, especially if it's titled "What the F%!# is a craft essay?

My fear has also focused me so much that I'm finally noticing a pattern to my writing and what works best. This is the first time I've taken notice of any such thing, and I guess the first time I've really considered myself a writer, with habits and everything. Here's what I've found:

• I need nearly-deafening commotion to focus: a coffee house or other crowded place, for example. It's when I'm the most introspective. Though, in a pinch, solo piano radio on Pandora will do.
• For editing, I need complete silence.
• I used to think the afternoon was when I did my best work, but now I know it's late at night. My ideal routine: brew a strong pot of coffee at 10 PM and burn up the pages until 3AM, crash until noon and start again. I've realized this is my natural tendency, and there's no shame in not being a morning person.

In short: fear is awesome. Without even knowing it, and by just being plain intimidating to me, my mentor has taught me more about myself as a writer, and my story, than I ever thought I'd learn.

Oh, and DIBS on doing her intro this winter.

At last, a name.

After an entire semester of trying to get my footing with this whole "writing a novel" thing, the clouds are finally clearing.

The other night, after reading a little on craft and journaling for, literally, two minutes, lightning struck. I suddenly saw my novel coming together: the structure, the conflicts, the subplots...even a title, for chrissakes. In the half hour that followed the revelation, I mapped out my novel on index cards and stuck them up on my wall.

This got me to organize everything that I have sent out to my mentors thus far. Doing this led to the realization that that's all I've been doing: sending out packets. I haven't been thinking about this as a book. I've been thinking of it as separate homework assignments that I just have to get done. I didn't fully understand the immensity of the project I've undertaken until I deconstructed all of my packets and re-arranged them into some semblance of cohesive, linear order.

Fear has been a governing emotion since I began this program: fear of not getting accepted, fear of not being accepted by my fellow MFA'ers, fear of not having anything worth saying...you get the idea. I think I'd put off turning my packets into a novel for fear of all the stuff I would find missing. Having done the work, though, I have to say I'm feeling more confident than ever. I've broken the work down into sections, and I know how many pages each section must be. I can see where the holes are, and where I need to dig deeper. As usual, my fears were totally unfounded and served to do nothing but feed my procrastination.

I have another packet due at the end of this week. After computer disasters caused my first packet to be weeks late, this one is coming just on its heels. But that's fine by me. I have an outline, a structure, a name. And right now, that's all that matters.

Back in the world.

I've been home since this past Wednesday, but I'm still having trouble adjusting. Mostly to my super-comfortable bed and air conditioner, which made any attempt to go to work last week impossible. My boss told me to take a few extra days, so I "made the bridge," as the French would say, between Tuesday and Friday. Now, that's one hell of a bridge. I think the Frenchies would be proud.

The residency was about a billion times better than my first. Maybe it was the Island in bloom, or the fact that I actually socialized and got to know people (many professors and students alike thought this was my first residency). Whatever it was, I was glad for it. Both of my workshop leaders were outstanding; I learned a lot every morning, and I know I've improved both my writing and close reading. Halfway through the week, as I lay on my bed reading a Hemmingway short story, I turned to my (totally rad) roomie, Daisy:

Me: You know how they told us this program would ruin "reading for fun" for us?
Daisy: Yup. Did it happen to you?
Me: Just did. I'm barely paying attention to the story. All I keep thinking is "wow, what effective dialogue!"

In the past, I've had to read a story two, three times over to get to that level. So that's a big change.

My second workshop was when I had my mind blown wide open, in a good way. While we were discussing my story and its general lack of subplots, I realized that the non-fiction portion of the story had gone as far as it could. Now it's time for imagination to fill in the holes and make it worth reading. I had forgotten that I can take this thing wherever I want--or need--it to go. The freedom of it is exciting.

I got my new mentor, too. She's a faculty member I've had my eye on since last residency. I loved her reading, and she just seemed so serious about everything. Needless to say, she terrified me, but this time I decided to go and talk to her during mentor interviews. I'm so happy I got to talk with her and even happier to work with her this semester. I'm in the process of putting my current work in some semblance of order before sending it to her; she wants to read my stuff before I send new stuff. Pretty awesome.

This entry's been all over the place. I'll write more later, but it's lunchtime now at work.

Revisions

I've never really revised anything I've written. Not any more than a simple proofread before submitting it for a class or something. If I've written it just for me, I get it all out, put it in a drawer or an electronic file, and never think about it again.

It's not that I'm cocky and think my stuff doesn't need revision. In fact, I found out today exactly why I never look back: it's fucking scary. For some reason, I'm immediately humiliated by anything I put on paper, though moments before I felt like I had to put it there, somewhere. I assumed that a revision would just result in my cringing at a myriad of clichés and shitty syntax, a plot that goes nowhere. I assumed I would just have to throw it all out and start over. And I'm not a fan of starting over.

Tonight I did my first-ever, real revision. It was for my final packet (I know, I'm a bad girl). I took my first submission from this semester, way back in February, and made a lot of changes. For starters, I slashed it in half. There were so many parts where I was just writing out my real-life experience with a few name changes to people and places. It didn't fit the story, but I didn't know that at the time, since I had no clue what "the story" was going to be. I updated the voice and mindset of my main character, changed some events around and cut others, then went back and fiddled with minutiae here and there before sending into cyberspace.

Two things surprised me during this process.

1. The ease with which I gutted my own writing: I guess I'm not as sentimental as I thought. Turns out the only reason I was avoiding revising had nothing to do with "my precious words" and everything to do with not wanting to do the work. Once I dug in, I was deleting whole pages left and right, clearing the clutter. It felt good.
2. How much better it was when I was finished: At several points, I found myself saying, "Holy shit, you might actually be onto something. You might actually be able to do this." Suddenly, after months of stretching out this story and its characters, they began to seem real when I dove back in and started tweaking them. I never had a "bond" with my characters or stories before. All of my little vignettes that I wrote had nothing to do with each other, and after months of sending samples in the mail and not really touching them again, I forgot that I was writing one giant work. I was in denial. Tonight, as I drew on the "experience" of my character in the second and third packets to flesh her out in the revision, I could see her. I could see the story unfurling and began to respect it as something to cherish and mold, not something to stick in a drawer and feel mildly contented with. I truly improved it. It's hard to do that, to elevate your stuff to another level, and still feel stupid for writing it. Where the stupid was, a strange new confidence has rushed in.

I can't wait to get on the island and get feedback for my other packets. If I can look back six months and see how much my writing and story have grown, I can only imagine where I'll be by graduation.

I'm writing a fucking book.

Spelling/grammar

...are they no longer sacred?

Bidding good riddance to the Packet From Hell.

It's shorter than I wanted (by 3 pages), but it's done. DONE.

Now that it's signed, sealed, and on its way, I can reflect on the paralyizing fear I've experienced since April while trying to write this damn thing. After a glowing review of my second packet, I was stopped in my tracks. Looking back, I realize I was scared to let my mentor down, scared that the third packet wouldn't live up to the second. It became so late that I had to eventually sit down and push through this irrational paralysis and just...write. Write whatever came out of me, whatever part of the story that happened to be hanging around inside my head. In the process, I discovered that a) I'm not out of ideas and b) I can do this, and it doesn't have to be perfect or even better. After all, I can't learn if I don't try and make mistakes: a sentiment that sounds great on paper but is terrifying if you're a perfectionist.

I still have one more packet, but it's going to be a revision of my first one, which seems pretty crap at the moment. I was hoping to have written 100 pages by now, but I'll take 71. Especially since I've never written anything longer than a 10-page short story in my entire life. For now, though, I'm going to bask in the temporary relief that comes before actually sticking the packet in the mail and fearing the return.

A cool passage from The Packet From Hell.

"Sylvia Plath had become her favorite poet during her angsty, high school years. After that, much like a drug dealer, Sylvia always seemed to know when she was feeling particularly low and would start hanging around. Recently, Ellen had started The Bell Jar alongside Sylvia's personal diary entries. If it was physically possible to OD on a dead poet, she was going to find out." ~ me.


...is it douchey to quote yourself? 

Struggle Muscles.

I have barely been able to put pen to paper this month. Luckily, my advisor is totally rad and realizes that this sort of thing happens. I have an extension for my third packet, and my fourth will be a re-working of my first. So that's a relief.

But the thing that's been bugging me the most is why? Why did I churn out the first two packets with no problem only to hit the wall at number three? I brought this up in therapy yesterday. Apparently, I have very underdeveloped "struggle muscles."

I'll explain.

As a student, from kindergarten through college, I always did really well without really trying. I would get the concept, commit it to memory, move on, and ace the test. I never needed the extra practice or extra help. Meanwhile, other kids had to work for every A, stay after, practice on their own time. While I had it easy then, those kids were practicing skills I never needed. They were strengthening their struggle muscles.

It makes total sense. This is why I usually only do things until they are no longer easy and quit. I don't have practice in "pushing through even when it's hard." I quit the clarinet when sight-reading was no longer easy. I stayed away from sports and activities in which I wasn't naturally skilled. If it wasn't easy, and if I wasn't great at it, I didn't want anything to do with it.

Now, something that was so easy for so long--writing--is painfully stretching my struggle muscles into shape. This process is bringing out a lot of fear and insecurity: What if the words just stop? What if no one cares? I've never taken my writing this far, and the possibility of failure as I have never known it is stopping me in my tracks. But I have to press on, and see it all as simply practice for the next packet. This is not something I can just quit without consequence, and I'm tired of giving up when it's not easy anymore.

"I want MORE next time!"

Hearing that from a perfect stranger...I'd call it a successful first reading.

On Friday, Nicole picked me up from work and we headed down to CT. We stopped in to see my mom and freshen up then headed on down to New Haven for a little impromptu MFA reading.

First off, it was great to see everyone (including my summer residency roomie!). Living in Rhode Island and missing most of the FUMFA get-togethers, I forget that I belong to a whole community of writers. It was wild to see how very different each of our readings were, how each of our brains process and produce.

Since my stuff is super raw at this point, I wanted to keep it short; I don't think my reading was more than five minutes long. But it was a section of my book that I love dearly, and it was nice to have some feedback on it. A total shot in the arm.

With everything that's happened this month, though, writing new stuff has not come easily. I need to get my third packet in the mail so I can start my fourth, and I still have a long way to go. On top of that, there's financial aid stuff to do, and our save-the-dates. It's going to be a busy week, but if I can get it all done by Friday I know I'll feel a lot better. Wish me luck.

Validation

As I said in my last post, I was pretty worried about receiving my second packet back in the mail from my mentor. I was worried I had gone too far, or not gone far enough. Turns out all of that stress was for naught; he loved it. There were places where he wrote his reactions in capital letters, with exclamation points and everything. Good for the soul, to say the least.

One comment he made throughout was how different this submission was from my first. If it's possible, I'm pretty sure I used those first 25 pages to bury the lead. I was tiptoeing around the real meat of the story: the emotion, the work. I was scared of putting a lot of raw stuff on paper and being told I suck at doing so. But I guess I don't.

With this boost of confidence, I plan on making the next submission just as good. And putting his comments page up on my fridge when I get home.

Work Your Way Out

I've started therapy again. It's been about 7 years since I've done any intensive work on myself, and it shows...especially in my writing. What I mistook for lack of "the right words" or talent is actually pretty severe depression that has hijacked my brain, allowing only the most basic of day-to-day operations. This, of course, excludes creative thinking of any kind and doing anything good for myself. So, I'm back on the couch, Mondays at 5. I like my therapist so far, and hope to clear the mush and cobwebs from my brain quite soon.

In the meantime, I just have to keep writing. Even if it's crap, even if it lacks emotional connection: a problem which has spilled into every aspect of my life and onto the page. I'm in there, somewhere, and I'm working my way back.

My feral mind

Is it possible to lose words in one language if you're speaking another 40 hours a week? I feel like my English vocabulary is now a casualty of my French-language job and grow frustrated with my reliance on a thesaurus to clear the cobwebs and reminding me of words I've always known. I just hope my sub-par command of the English language didn't carry over into my second packet, which should be in the hands of my mentor now. Gulp. I'm pretty sure I crushed the craft essay, though it was strange to analyze my own mentor's book! Fiction-wise, for this submission, I plowed forward instead of revising--at my mentor's recommendation--and tried to get into the meat of the story. I'm worried, though, that I was either too cold or melodramatic with the emotional portions. Guess we'll see.

Besides that, I now have two ideas for other novels I would like to write...one of which may or may not involve a lesbian werewolf. It's sounding pretty awesome, so I'll write some and see where it goes. I always wanted to wait 10 years, write a vampire/monster book, and hit it big like someone always does every generation. Maybe this is my gold mine...

...Or, much more likely, this idea is merely my feral mind resisting routine and structure. It's like Natalie Goldberg explains in Writing Down the Bones: writing is a practice, a form of meditation. And just as my mind wanders when I try to clear it for meditation, so it does when I try to focus on one idea for a novel. First, I think I need a new computer, or a desk, or a space outside my house. And then the familiar doubt creeps in that my focus is in the wrong place, that I'm writing the wrong story.

But if "write the story you're afraid to tell" is to be my guidepost, I know this is the story I'm meant to tell at this point, werewolves be damned.

Out of me

I've never been much for revision. Before a random Google search found me an awesome MFA program, I never thought anything would come of my writing, except perhaps some personal peace of mind. I wrote when I had a story in me, a story that was driving me crazy as it wrote itself in my head. Short of that, there wasn't much routine to my writing. Then I would save it, or delete it; either way, I wouldn't really think of the story much again, once it was out of me.

Last week, my mentor e-mailed to let me know he had received my packet of fiction: my first 25 pages in the journey towards a manuscript. Honestly, the e-mail scared the hell out of me. It reminded me that I hadn't sent some 10-page short story out into oblivion as I am so wont to do. No, quite the contrary: in a week's time, those 25 pages will come back to me: appraised my an incredible author, marked and possibly unrecognizable. But all of this scares me less than the simple fact that those pages, and this story, are nowhere near "out of me." I can't just shove them in a drawer and start a new story, like I usually do. This is the big one, the one I've been afraid to tell for 4 years now. And I'm suddenly up against the reality of that.

Of course, it's also thrilling to feel this big story swirling inside me and figuring itself out, coming from different corners of my consciousness and connecting in ways I didn't know it could. I'm happy that there's so much more to say. I just hope it's worth saying.

Now what?

So, I put my first MFA writing packet in the mail today for my mentor; I guess I'm really doing this. I worked on it all Friday night and until 5 a.m. Saturday morning, thanks to some awesome coffee my sister brought back from Nicaragua. (Note to self: get coffee maker.)

But now, having expended my energy in pushing out the final pages and craft essay, I'm feeling blocked about where to go next. So far, I have two "sections" to my novel--as of now, I'm calling them A and B to not confuse myself or mentor. I would like to work in a third (C), so I guess I will start a new section this time around instead of pushing forward on A & B before I get any feedback. I already know part C and the later events in B are going to completely morph A into something different, but I won't get into that messy business until April or May.

Despite all of these ideas, and only 25 pages in, I'm already scared that I won't have enough to say for an entire novel, though I can feel it all swimming around in my head. So I'm going to let it all marinate and do my craft essay first this month. Maybe it will give me some good ideas for this new section I'm starting.

Another thing to work on this month is getting some of my stuff published, once it's up to par. I didn't want to say anything before I received news, but I've submitted one story of mine that's "done" for consideration at a literary magazine called The Splinter Generation (thanks, Reuben, for your recommendation!). It's the first time I've ever submitted anything, and I'm excited for any outcome. Whether it's a rejection letter or--gasp--publication, it means I'm a writer. It means I'm in the game.

Best of luck to other newbies out there submitting their first packets!

...and then life happened.

So, my first packet may be a little late. I've talked to my mentor, and he's fine with it. Of course he is; he's awesome. But I'm disappointed.

I hit my "life limit" this week when my partner got into a car accident. She's fine, but my car isn't. It was the other driver's fault, so either way it's all paid for, but bureaucracy overwhelms me. There isn't much that has to be done, but just the thought of doing it makes me want to hide under the covers until spring.

Luckily, I have tomorrow off: the beauty of working in a school (even if said school is another piece of the pressure and stress right now). The game plan is to land myself a rental car and finish up the final few pages of my packet and craft essay. If I can get it in the mail by Thursday, I could still make my "first week of February" deadline.

On a sidenote: I'm worried that this blog is just going to be self-conscious rants about how little faith I have in myself. Something about writing brings out that "I'm not good enough" side of me. But being this scared means I'm on to something important, I think.

"All the cool kids are doing it."

Peer pressure and a moment of I-have-no-clue-what-to-write-next-or-if-any-of-this-matters brings me to a new blog post today.

The time's ticking down until the first week of February when my first packet is due. As always with me, I'm white-knuckling in these final days after not pacing myself well for the past few weeks. It's my first packet, though, so I'm going to crank it out as I always have when a deadline looms and try to do better next month. It's been a learning experience. Also: thank goodness for snow days.

At this point, I've got nearly 17 pages done out of 25-30. I think it's going to be closer to the 25-end this time around, plus the 5-page craft essay which I plan to do this weekend. Still have no clue how to write one, but that's what Google is for.

Speaking of Google, it's my best friend lately. I'm writing about France, and it's really helping me fill in the details. I think that's another major reason in my dragging pace; I'm nervous about inaccuracies. Why didn't I just pick some silly romance story set right here in Rhode Island? That would've been much easier. But I guess this isn't about telling the easy story anymore. And I haven't written ANYTHING about my time in France, save for journal entries while I was there. I'm scared, but I think I'm supposed to be.

I know what the climax of this story will be, and I'm avoiding it like the plague since that's the stuff I'm scared to write. Instead I've been fleshing out the two other side stories and character relationships, which I guess is just as important. Next month I'll start tackling the tough stuff.

I'm scared my mentor is going to send it all back and say, "What's the point?" But scrapping everything wouldn't be the end of the world. I'm also pretty sure there's a damn good story here, so I'm going to keep on writing until I find it.

Good luck to everyone else in finishing up your packets!

The devil's in the detatils.

I’ve got about six pages done for this month’s submission: only 19-24 pages to go before the end of January. I didn’t write all weekend and feel like a failure, but I plan on getting a big chunk done Wednesday night while Nicole is at work.

There’s something quite scary to me about working on such a big thing. I think that—compounded by the fact that I’ve never had any sort of writing routine—is why I avoided it all weekend when I had so much time on my hands. I mean, I washed dishes and cleaned the apartment instead of writing. You know there’s something going on.

I was scared that it, my story, would swallow me up and not let go of me. I was scared that I would hit a wall and not have anything left to say. I was scared that I would get all the way to the end and realize it was shit and have to start over. So I just didn’t start at all. I need to stop being so afraid, but when you’re a “big picture” person, the details can be kind of terrifying. I mean: where is this story going? What’s the climax going to be? Should it be darker? How will I end it? I’m sure these are normal questions that I don’t need to answer any time soon, but they’re driving me bananas.

The six pages I do have are pretty solid. I showed the first two to a friend of mine who also lived in the little French city where my story takes place, and she said she could see everything clearly. I hope it’s the same for people who haven’t lived there.

On top of the novel, I also want to get one of my short stories to a place where I can try to submit it, or at least bring it in July for the workshop and then re-work it and try submission afterwards. So I have ideas for that kicking around in my head alongside the novely stuff. There’s also a piece of me that’s not entirely convinced that my short story shouldn’t be part of my novel, but I don’t know if I can pull of something so dark.  Oh, yeah, and then there's the craft essay to do.

So that’s where I’m at. Pardon my neuroticism. Hopefully my inaction will make you all feel much more accomplished in your progress this month :)

New Journey, New Blog.

I just finished my first residency on the way to receiving my Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Fairfrield University, and it seems my fellow MFA'ers are overwhelmingly fond of Blogger. In an effort to keep up with them and also let them know how I'm doing in the writing department, I've decided to create this blog. It'll be just for my struggles and (hopefully a few) triumphs as I work towards my first completed manuscript.

I've never even tried to write a novel before. The closest thing would be a murder mystery I wrote in sixth grade: The Murders of (on?) Mirror Lake. Damn, I was proud of that thing. Sure, it was totally predictable (spoiler alert: the next-door neighbor who seems really nice...isn't! Dum dum dum!), but it had chapters. Somehow, my eleven-year-old self was perfectly comfortable in long fiction. Since then, however, I've been strictly short, if not flash. I went in to the residency thinking I'd do a collection of short stories. But as I got feedback from my workshops, all I heard was "we need MORE from this story." I realized that what I thought were short stories all these years were actually 10-page summaries of novels. This leaves much to be desired, as you can imagine.

So, I'm off to Novel Land, a country I know little to nothing about. But if my sixth-grade, Catholic school self wasn't afraid, why should I be now?

Guess I should go try to write a few pages on my actual manuscript now that I've blown an hour creating this thing. Cheers!