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.