"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.