A piece of advice I've read several times in writing books and writing magazines is to wait before sending out one's work. I've read interviews with editors who complain that young writers in MFA programs don't ask them questions about craft or characters or style or plot, but instead ask about submission guidelines. These editors feel like the young writers they encounter really need to focus on honing their abilities before worrying about getting published.
This makes sense. Before feeling like I'm ready to put my work out into the world, I should really take a long time to work at it and get good. Absolutely. And yet, it's tough because so much hinges on getting published. If I had no other concerns, I think I'd be happy enough to spend the next few years simply honing my craft, working on applying all the lessons I learned in grad school, developing my skills more, and then sending out some amazing, polished work when I would be at a point of really being ready. But I do have other concerns, such as making a living. Right now I'm scraping by with two jobs. I'm busy all the time. I have stacks of freshman essays and developmental writing to grade. This leaves me little time to work on my own writing. But if I'm good enough to publish and can build up those credits, then I can land a better teaching job, where instead of teaching four classes at a part-time pay scale, I can teach maybe three at a time with a full time salary and benefits and the expectation that continuing to work on my own writing is part of the gig. So simply out of necessity, I feel like I have to send out my work in the hopes that some of it might be good enough already. Once I move up the career ladder, I can spend more time on my writing, but I have to spend the time on my writing first before I can move up the career ladder. It's a tough bind to be in.
So related to this point, I've been thinking about contests and submissions and so forth. I came across a fellowship the other day that is incredibly attractive and would be a life changing opportunity to land, the Stegner Fellowship through Stanford University. Numerous major writers were fellows there, so the prestige alone would be enough to make a CV more competitive. And the fellowship itself pays a stipend of $26,000 a year for two years with no teaching requirement or any coursework beyond a regular writing workshop and attending visiting writer events and such. The goal of the fellowship is really to provide a writer time to write and hone his or her craft. How perfect would it be to be selected for such a fellowship? But of course it's incredibly competitive. According to their website, they get about 1,400 applicants each year for the ten slots (five in fiction, five in poetry); that means fewer than one percent of the applicants land a fellowship. So my first thought is that there's no way I'm at the level where I'd stand a chance since I'm barely even published, and the $60 application fee is hefty enough that I don't want to simply throw that kind of money away on a dream. And yet . . .
I can't help thinking that maybe I could stand a chance at something like that. Who's to say that I wouldn't be one of the chosen few? I won a fiction contest before that was on a small scale but still against some strong fellow MFA student writers. I've received some handwritten notes complementing my fiction from some prestigious journals, including one that I rank in the absolute top tier. And my work is getting better all the time. If I take my two best, most polished pieces, my absolute highest quality work, and I do everything I can to make them as good as they can be, well, would I necessarily be in the rejected 1,390 applicants? Probably, but maybe not. There's always that chance that I would be one of the ten.
I think about one of my professors who won a prestigious contest for a story collection. How did he know he was at the level where he stood a chance of winning? He had published fairly widely by that point, but he was still a struggling writer, sending out his work and (I'm sure) still collecting rejections. Did he know that his stories were finally at the level where he would win? I'm sure he didn't. But he thought maybe he was there. Maybe that batch of stories would be selected that year. And he won.
So is it better to follow the advice to simply stop sending out work until I've improved even more and gotten that much better? Or should I aim high and try for dream fellowships and submit to dream journals? Each time I go over an old story, I see new ways to improve it, which means I'm getting better constantly, and the fiction I send out now is superior to what I sent out a few years ago, so probably if I wait longer, my work will be that much better next year or the year after. But maybe it's good enough now. But I won't know until I submit it and see what happens.
Will I risk $60 of the money I work two jobs to earn? Should I wait on something like that fellowship and apply next year when I've got one more year of experience under my belt and maybe a few more publication credits? I don't know. I haven't made my mind up about that one. My rational brain tells me not to waste the money. But if I always lived according to my rational brain's suggestions, I wouldn't be pursuing writing at all.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Further revisions
I have in front of me a story manuscript with many slashes and new words written in red pen as well as some others in blue. On my computer desktop is an open file with a copy of this story and the number "nine," as in the ninth saved draft. Now, I don't always save every new draft as I revise. I try to only save substantial changes as completely new documents. I like to be able to go back occasionally and see previous versions, but it seems excessive to save every adjustment as a new file. So, although this is now the ninth draft, it could well be the fifteenth or twentieth thirty-eight time I've reworked this story, and that's not counting all the drafts from before I separated the piece from the surrounding novel to see if it can stand up on its own.
So I sit down with my marked up manuscript and go to type up changes. Although I only have a few marks indicated on my hard copy for the first sentence, I'm not satisfied with the sentence as I read it over. It's not bad, exactly. But it doesn't flow. It doesn't pop. It suggests a bit of what the story is about, but it doesn't resonate. So I start a new sentence. I begin with a new first word. I change the order. I try three short simple sentences instead of one complex sentence. I alter that again and try two simple, one complex, and a compound sentence. I fiddle and twist. I replace words that seem dull and lifeless with others that have multiple connotations. I consider the story's themes and try to insert phrases or terms into this first sentence that will subtly suggest the themes immediately, or if a reader doesn't pick up on them right away, they will be there on a second reading. I delete and rewrite. I add and subtract. I cut and paste. Finally, I'm a little bit happier. I think there's something reasonably decent there. I have a start to the piece that might encourage a reader to keep going, to think, "maybe this will be interesting; I want to see where this writer takes me."
Twenty minutes, and I have a stronger batch of sixty-four words. Now all I need to do is continue on to the other four thousand, nine hundred. And then return to these sixty-four to find I don't much care for them anymore.
So I sit down with my marked up manuscript and go to type up changes. Although I only have a few marks indicated on my hard copy for the first sentence, I'm not satisfied with the sentence as I read it over. It's not bad, exactly. But it doesn't flow. It doesn't pop. It suggests a bit of what the story is about, but it doesn't resonate. So I start a new sentence. I begin with a new first word. I change the order. I try three short simple sentences instead of one complex sentence. I alter that again and try two simple, one complex, and a compound sentence. I fiddle and twist. I replace words that seem dull and lifeless with others that have multiple connotations. I consider the story's themes and try to insert phrases or terms into this first sentence that will subtly suggest the themes immediately, or if a reader doesn't pick up on them right away, they will be there on a second reading. I delete and rewrite. I add and subtract. I cut and paste. Finally, I'm a little bit happier. I think there's something reasonably decent there. I have a start to the piece that might encourage a reader to keep going, to think, "maybe this will be interesting; I want to see where this writer takes me."
Twenty minutes, and I have a stronger batch of sixty-four words. Now all I need to do is continue on to the other four thousand, nine hundred. And then return to these sixty-four to find I don't much care for them anymore.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
I wish that I knew what I know now . . .
I've been thinking again about the old question of the value of the MFA, whether it's the best approach to becoming a writer or if other paths offer greater benefits. Although I certainly wouldn't say I regret getting my MFA, I think I would do things differently if I were to live the past several years over again with my current understanding and knowledge.
It's not that I wouldn't still want to go into an MFA program, take those classes, go through workshops, study for a comps exam, and all that. I would still want to do that. But I think I would have gained even more from the experience had I waited longer first. I remember reading a memoir by John Irving where he describes his experience studying under Kurt Vonnegut. Vonnegut told Irving that the lessons he was teaching were nothing that Irving couldn't discover on his own, but by studying them in an advanced program under the guidance of an established writer, the learning process could be streamlined. I think this is really the great benefit of a formal program, and yet I also think there is a lot to be gained through the trial and error of figuring things out for oneself. Finding the appropriate balance is the tricky thing.
When I finished college, I was twenty-two. I had a BA in theatre with a performance emphasis and no intention to actually become an actor, which is what I thought I wanted to do when I was eighteen. Instead, the four years of college had taught me that I was not a great actor, that instead my greatest talent was writing. Furthermore, I discovered that the most satisfying experience for me was writing. So I planned at age twenty-two to take a one year break from school and then go into grad school to study playwriting. A year later, I applied to a few playwriting MFA programs and made it all the way to first alternate in a good program, so if any of that school's first choice students declined their admission, I would be in; but, alas, they all said yes and I had to figure out what else to do with myself. I regrouped, considered my options and decided that what I really wanted to do, what would be a better fit for me anyway, was to leave behind the theatre and pursue prose writing. That had indeed been my first love.
But in my four years of college, although I took a playwriting course and many courses that involved writing essays, I had actually never taken a single class offered by the English department. I considered myself a serious reader and a good writer, but my credentials to go into a graduate program in English were limited. So I returned to school to fill in some of the gaps in my undergraduate course list. I took some literature survey courses and a creative writing workshop. Then, as I completed those, at age twenty-four I applied to graduate programs in English. I was admitted to an MA program with a creative writing emphasis and offered a TA position there. This seemed like the perfect fit. I could continue to fill in the gaps in my background by studying literature at an advanced level, but I could also work on my creative writing. Then, if I decided to continue on after the MA, I would be well prepared for an MFA program.
So I spent the next two years getting my MA. At this point I wouldn't really change anything. If I could do it over again, I'd probably keep things more or less the same up to this point in my life. But the next step I would do differently.
When I completed my MA, I wasn't burned out on school. I loved being a grad student and wanted to continue that life for a few more years. So I applied and was accepted into an MFA program. It went well, and two and a half years later, I had that degree. But doing the two Master's degrees back to back feels now like a mistake. I grew and developed as a writer during the first program, and I grew and developed in the second, and I continue to grow and develop now. But I think a lot of the growth and development I'm experiencing now on my own would have been useful a few years ago. Had I taken a break, say two to five years, after my MA, I could have taught composition, worked on my writing, and honed my skills on my own. Then, when I'd reached a point where I was far along--not necessarily as far as I could possibly go on my own, but something like that--I could have entered an MFA program. If I were a better writer when I began my MFA, I think I would have ultimately gained more from the experience. If I had more years of working things out on my own, the lessons of the formal program might have sunk in faster or clicked more readily.
One advantage to this alternate route would have simply been financial. I didn't yet have a ton of debt when I finished my MA, and had I taken a break at that point, I could have survived handily on an adjunct's paycheck, paid off my student loans, and entered an MFA program perhaps with a little savings, whereas instead I added more debt throughout the second graduate degree that I'm only now beginning to pay down. So rather than easily surviving on my meagre adjunct's pay, I'm instead working two jobs. Furthermore, if I spent the latter part of my twenties studying writing on my own, submitting, improving, and working hard, and then I got the MFA in my early thirties, I think by the time I completed the MFA, I would be at a more advanced stage in my abilities, and perhaps I would already have enough publications and experience to more quickly land a better teaching job than I currently have or can expect to have in the next couple of years.
Maybe this is in part coming from a certain sense of dissatisfaction with my current situation. Perhaps in my early thirties, I'm looking back on my twenties and wishing I could go back and relive some of those experiences. Maybe it's merely that I'd rather be a grad student right now than a teacher, and if I had done things according to this alternate plan, I would now be entering into a grad program rather than having it my past. I'm not sure. And, of course, pondering these issues doesn't change anything. I am as I am right now and can't really change it. And maybe in a few years I'll look back at this time and consider it the perfect path for my life. But at the moment, I kind of wish I'd made some other choices a few years ago.
It's not that I wouldn't still want to go into an MFA program, take those classes, go through workshops, study for a comps exam, and all that. I would still want to do that. But I think I would have gained even more from the experience had I waited longer first. I remember reading a memoir by John Irving where he describes his experience studying under Kurt Vonnegut. Vonnegut told Irving that the lessons he was teaching were nothing that Irving couldn't discover on his own, but by studying them in an advanced program under the guidance of an established writer, the learning process could be streamlined. I think this is really the great benefit of a formal program, and yet I also think there is a lot to be gained through the trial and error of figuring things out for oneself. Finding the appropriate balance is the tricky thing.
When I finished college, I was twenty-two. I had a BA in theatre with a performance emphasis and no intention to actually become an actor, which is what I thought I wanted to do when I was eighteen. Instead, the four years of college had taught me that I was not a great actor, that instead my greatest talent was writing. Furthermore, I discovered that the most satisfying experience for me was writing. So I planned at age twenty-two to take a one year break from school and then go into grad school to study playwriting. A year later, I applied to a few playwriting MFA programs and made it all the way to first alternate in a good program, so if any of that school's first choice students declined their admission, I would be in; but, alas, they all said yes and I had to figure out what else to do with myself. I regrouped, considered my options and decided that what I really wanted to do, what would be a better fit for me anyway, was to leave behind the theatre and pursue prose writing. That had indeed been my first love.
But in my four years of college, although I took a playwriting course and many courses that involved writing essays, I had actually never taken a single class offered by the English department. I considered myself a serious reader and a good writer, but my credentials to go into a graduate program in English were limited. So I returned to school to fill in some of the gaps in my undergraduate course list. I took some literature survey courses and a creative writing workshop. Then, as I completed those, at age twenty-four I applied to graduate programs in English. I was admitted to an MA program with a creative writing emphasis and offered a TA position there. This seemed like the perfect fit. I could continue to fill in the gaps in my background by studying literature at an advanced level, but I could also work on my creative writing. Then, if I decided to continue on after the MA, I would be well prepared for an MFA program.
So I spent the next two years getting my MA. At this point I wouldn't really change anything. If I could do it over again, I'd probably keep things more or less the same up to this point in my life. But the next step I would do differently.
When I completed my MA, I wasn't burned out on school. I loved being a grad student and wanted to continue that life for a few more years. So I applied and was accepted into an MFA program. It went well, and two and a half years later, I had that degree. But doing the two Master's degrees back to back feels now like a mistake. I grew and developed as a writer during the first program, and I grew and developed in the second, and I continue to grow and develop now. But I think a lot of the growth and development I'm experiencing now on my own would have been useful a few years ago. Had I taken a break, say two to five years, after my MA, I could have taught composition, worked on my writing, and honed my skills on my own. Then, when I'd reached a point where I was far along--not necessarily as far as I could possibly go on my own, but something like that--I could have entered an MFA program. If I were a better writer when I began my MFA, I think I would have ultimately gained more from the experience. If I had more years of working things out on my own, the lessons of the formal program might have sunk in faster or clicked more readily.
One advantage to this alternate route would have simply been financial. I didn't yet have a ton of debt when I finished my MA, and had I taken a break at that point, I could have survived handily on an adjunct's paycheck, paid off my student loans, and entered an MFA program perhaps with a little savings, whereas instead I added more debt throughout the second graduate degree that I'm only now beginning to pay down. So rather than easily surviving on my meagre adjunct's pay, I'm instead working two jobs. Furthermore, if I spent the latter part of my twenties studying writing on my own, submitting, improving, and working hard, and then I got the MFA in my early thirties, I think by the time I completed the MFA, I would be at a more advanced stage in my abilities, and perhaps I would already have enough publications and experience to more quickly land a better teaching job than I currently have or can expect to have in the next couple of years.
Maybe this is in part coming from a certain sense of dissatisfaction with my current situation. Perhaps in my early thirties, I'm looking back on my twenties and wishing I could go back and relive some of those experiences. Maybe it's merely that I'd rather be a grad student right now than a teacher, and if I had done things according to this alternate plan, I would now be entering into a grad program rather than having it my past. I'm not sure. And, of course, pondering these issues doesn't change anything. I am as I am right now and can't really change it. And maybe in a few years I'll look back at this time and consider it the perfect path for my life. But at the moment, I kind of wish I'd made some other choices a few years ago.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
And Now For Something Completely Different
I'm getting another piece published, and this time it's something totally unlike what I normally write. I think of myself as a fiction writer, primarily as a novelist. I worked hard on one nonfiction piece that came together and is soon to be published. But I also wrote one poem that has recently been accepted for publicatoin. Apart from a handful of poems to fulfill a high school English class requirement, I don't think I've written any other poetry. But a couple of years ago, I had an idea for a poem and sat down and wrote it. It seemed halfway decent to me, but what do I know? I'm not a poet, and I don't read a lot of poetry, so I never bothered to submit it to journals or anything. Then this summer, I decided to pull it out and look at it again. I rewrote it and decided I might as well send it out. On the off chance that it got accepted somewhere, it would be nice to have an exra credit on my CV. Plus, unlike with my fiction, I didn't have much at stake in the submission process. If it got rejected, it wouldn't much hurt my feelings because I know I'm not a poet. So I sent it out, and it got accepted.
Of course, I'm thrilled to have one more thing published. This will be another credit on my CV, and publishing in multiple genres could help me get teaching jobs as it demonstrates that I am qualified to teach a mixed workshop course without completely alienating those writers interested in poetry. And when I looked over the poem again, I must admit that I think it's pretty good. The language is carefully chosen, there's a nice rhythm to it, and there's some alliteration that I think really helps the whole thing resonate. But having this piece of writing accepted while I'm still waiting for acceptances for my fiction, which I've worked much harder and longer on, leaves me wondering if I can draw any conclusions from this experience.
One thing that I've decided about this--one great, wonderful, positive thing--is that I do in fact have an ability to use language well. I've long felt that, as a writer, beautiful writing is not my specialty. I've read a number of stories in workshops over the years where I have greatly admired the writer's ability to put words together into beautiful sentences even when I didn't much care for the actual story the writer was telling. I've seen this same thing with published stories as well. Literary journals are full of beautifully written, boring stories (this is often what I think about when I hear criticism of MFA style writing). And while I admired my peers' abilities, I accepted that I wasn't so naturally gifted. But I've worked hard to hone my language skills. I try to pay attention to my diction and to the rhythm and flow of my writing, and I think my prose is much nicer now. So having a success in the world of poetry, which is so much more about one's ability to use language than it is to convey meaning or be clear, well, that tells me that I have been successful in developing my skills there. So, well done me.
But there's another conclusion I draw. I'm hesitant to bring this up because I fear it will seem derogatory and I don't intend it that way. I have admiration and respect for poets. I fully acknowledge that I am not one of them and apart from this one instance of dabbling in their field, I cannot do what they do. But the conclusion I draw is that it may actually be easier to get poetry published than to get fiction published. And what I mean by this is not that it's easier to write poetry or that the standards for poetry are less vigorous. I mean that purely from a numbers standpoint, there's more room for journals to publish poetry. I was glancing at a few journals the other day and counted up the different types of work. From my extremely limited survey I concluded that many journals publish in a typical issue perhaps four or five short stories, two or three essays, and twenty or so poems. This, of course, varies greatly. Some journals will publish dozens of stories. Others publish no nonfiction at all. But of those journals that publish both poetry and fiction, it is highly likely that while the number of pages dedicated to fiction in a given issue outnumber the pages of poetry, there are more actual poems than there are stories.
I also imagine (and again, this is pure speculation) that there are fewer poets out in the world submitting their work. Because it is something that many view as specialized and difficult and almost magical, many writers are reluctant to attempt poetry. But many of those same people assume they can write a story because it's the same kind of language they use everyday when writing e-mails. Any literate person knows how to write prose, so why not a piece of fiction? So I would guess that there are more aspiring fiction writers than aspiring poets in the world and more writers submit fiction than submit poetry. But even if I'm wrong there and the numbers are even, that still means that a journal could recieve a hundred poems and a hundred stories and find space in an issue to publish twenty percent of those poems and in the same number of pages only two or three percent of the stories. So while all of those poems may be wonderful, it's quite likely that some wonderful stories are rejected at the same time because there simply isn't enough space for all the good ones.
It's possible (or likely) that I have no idea what I'm talking about and this is all wild speculation, but I'd guess that on a whole it is statistically likelier to have a poem accepted than a story. Once again, let me emphasize that I don't intend to show disrespect for poets and what they do; however, when I finally get a story published, it will feel more significant to me than having this poem published.
Of course, I'm thrilled to have one more thing published. This will be another credit on my CV, and publishing in multiple genres could help me get teaching jobs as it demonstrates that I am qualified to teach a mixed workshop course without completely alienating those writers interested in poetry. And when I looked over the poem again, I must admit that I think it's pretty good. The language is carefully chosen, there's a nice rhythm to it, and there's some alliteration that I think really helps the whole thing resonate. But having this piece of writing accepted while I'm still waiting for acceptances for my fiction, which I've worked much harder and longer on, leaves me wondering if I can draw any conclusions from this experience.
One thing that I've decided about this--one great, wonderful, positive thing--is that I do in fact have an ability to use language well. I've long felt that, as a writer, beautiful writing is not my specialty. I've read a number of stories in workshops over the years where I have greatly admired the writer's ability to put words together into beautiful sentences even when I didn't much care for the actual story the writer was telling. I've seen this same thing with published stories as well. Literary journals are full of beautifully written, boring stories (this is often what I think about when I hear criticism of MFA style writing). And while I admired my peers' abilities, I accepted that I wasn't so naturally gifted. But I've worked hard to hone my language skills. I try to pay attention to my diction and to the rhythm and flow of my writing, and I think my prose is much nicer now. So having a success in the world of poetry, which is so much more about one's ability to use language than it is to convey meaning or be clear, well, that tells me that I have been successful in developing my skills there. So, well done me.
But there's another conclusion I draw. I'm hesitant to bring this up because I fear it will seem derogatory and I don't intend it that way. I have admiration and respect for poets. I fully acknowledge that I am not one of them and apart from this one instance of dabbling in their field, I cannot do what they do. But the conclusion I draw is that it may actually be easier to get poetry published than to get fiction published. And what I mean by this is not that it's easier to write poetry or that the standards for poetry are less vigorous. I mean that purely from a numbers standpoint, there's more room for journals to publish poetry. I was glancing at a few journals the other day and counted up the different types of work. From my extremely limited survey I concluded that many journals publish in a typical issue perhaps four or five short stories, two or three essays, and twenty or so poems. This, of course, varies greatly. Some journals will publish dozens of stories. Others publish no nonfiction at all. But of those journals that publish both poetry and fiction, it is highly likely that while the number of pages dedicated to fiction in a given issue outnumber the pages of poetry, there are more actual poems than there are stories.
I also imagine (and again, this is pure speculation) that there are fewer poets out in the world submitting their work. Because it is something that many view as specialized and difficult and almost magical, many writers are reluctant to attempt poetry. But many of those same people assume they can write a story because it's the same kind of language they use everyday when writing e-mails. Any literate person knows how to write prose, so why not a piece of fiction? So I would guess that there are more aspiring fiction writers than aspiring poets in the world and more writers submit fiction than submit poetry. But even if I'm wrong there and the numbers are even, that still means that a journal could recieve a hundred poems and a hundred stories and find space in an issue to publish twenty percent of those poems and in the same number of pages only two or three percent of the stories. So while all of those poems may be wonderful, it's quite likely that some wonderful stories are rejected at the same time because there simply isn't enough space for all the good ones.
It's possible (or likely) that I have no idea what I'm talking about and this is all wild speculation, but I'd guess that on a whole it is statistically likelier to have a poem accepted than a story. Once again, let me emphasize that I don't intend to show disrespect for poets and what they do; however, when I finally get a story published, it will feel more significant to me than having this poem published.
Monday, June 22, 2009
What It's About
I've been thinking recently about the difference between craft--that is being able to convey things well and interestingly through good diction, style, structure, etc.--and actually having something to say. In particular I was reflecting on the benefits of studying writing in a formal program and what one learns there compared with what one doesn't learn there. I feel that my experience in graduate school was useful in developing my craft abilities as a writer. I have no doubts that I am a better writer today than I was five years ago. And, in a strange way, writing is harder for me today than it was then because I know of so many various factors to pay attention to now (when I'm rewriting, I can spend a couple of hours and only get through a paragraph). I've studied craft and, I think, become a decent craftsman.
However, one thing that isn't really addressed, and I don't know if it's possible to address, in an MFA program is content. It's great if one can write well, but if one has nothing to say, then what's the point? And I think that's one of the problems I'm encountering at the moment. I feel like I can write well (of course I've still got more to learn and more developing to do, but basically I write well), but I'm increasingly unconvinced that at age thirty I have anything worth writing about. When I start to develop the ideas I have, I usually become excited about a new prospect and start to think through the implications of the idea only to become discouraged because it's nothing very original or different. Now I don't think this is strictly a problem that I have. I think most writers probably have this basic problem. Great writers have been producing work for so long, how can we, now, add anything new to the discussions? That isn't necessarily a problem. Approaching something old from a new angle can work. Or even doing something old, but doing it well, can be solid. The problem for a young writer, though, is that sometimes the ideas that seem fresh are actually old. Or if I recognize that an idea is old, but I think I can still do it well, that might not be enough. Why would an editor want to publish some old idea from some young nobody? I recently received a very nice letter accompanying a rejection. The letter said that my story was well written, but essentially takes on an old idea and adds nothing new. And I couldn't disagree with their critique.
I read a blog today about a similar issue, and that is whether one gains better experience from the "real world" than from the academic world. In essence, that's part of my concern. I'm thirty years old. I spent my entire childhood up to age twenty-two in school. Then after only a short break, I returned to school for almost the entire remainder of my twenties. Now I'm out of school as a student but still in that world as a teacher. Most of my life experience is from that world. I like that world. It's a good world. But it does leave me feeling limited in my understanding of humanity. When I interact with my students, who are largely from very different socio-economic, cultural, and intellectual backgrounds than me, I feel perplexed by their attitudes and behaviors. Likewise, I feel that I might not be able to properly imagine other situations and lives. I've heard that a writer doesn't need any real experience because it's all about imagination, so the great writer has learned everything they need to know about humanity by age seven or so, and from then on it's a matter of making up stories. This contrasts with the other view, that a writer would be better off spending years on a failed marriage than on an MFA. My sensibilities lean toward the imagination camp, and yet I'm not sure if that actually works.
The difficulty for me is that I fear my own views of the world, or something about the way my mind works, might be different enough from the average that my work doesn't quite resonate with others. On more than one occasion I've written fiction where characters were created from my understanding of how people think and act, and the reaction of my readers was puzzlement as to why the character acts and thinks as he does. Or I've had the reverse experience as a reader, where I read a story and find the motivations of the characters completely baffling, but the others around me see those characters as everyman types that anyone can relate to and understand. Maybe it's a matter of life experience, that I simply haven't done enough to understand the world around me as much as I'd like to. Sometimes I think that the best plan of action would be to sort of set aside the immediate goals of publication and so on and to simply live life for a while longer to try to come up with something worth writing about. I could continue to work on my craft to keep my skills up, but maybe I simply won't have any stories worth sharing with the world for another ten or twenty years, if then. I don't know.
The downside of a plan like that is that, essentially, I've never felt that I was very good at living life. Many of the basic experiences that people have and that then produce the inspiration for good writing are beyond my experience or understanding. And I don't know that there's any way to have those experiences merely for the sake of having them. I don't think life works that way. When I was younger, I sort of attempted such a thing. I had never really dated before, and I suspected that it would not be a good idea to date this one particular girl who was interested in me. However, part of what convinced me to do it was that it would provide good life experience for me as a writer. The relationship ended as I always knew it would. I've long felt that the anxiety of the experience while it was happening followed by the depression when it was over was plenty of reason to avoid the experience to begin with and I should have followed my rational brain that told me not to do it. But at least I now had this life experience that is a rite of passage for most people. I had experienced a young romance and could now write about it. But it turns out, the way I experienced that was not similar to how most others experience such a thing. I wrote about it, and people felt like my character was an enigmatic freak.
I don't know that there's any way to overcome this obstacle. My inclination is to hope that continued living will somehow magically transform me into someone with greater understanding and more significant ideas to put into my writing, but I also suspect that there's a lot of truth to the notion that one learns the essentials by age seven, and somehow I just never quite learned them the way others do.
However, one thing that isn't really addressed, and I don't know if it's possible to address, in an MFA program is content. It's great if one can write well, but if one has nothing to say, then what's the point? And I think that's one of the problems I'm encountering at the moment. I feel like I can write well (of course I've still got more to learn and more developing to do, but basically I write well), but I'm increasingly unconvinced that at age thirty I have anything worth writing about. When I start to develop the ideas I have, I usually become excited about a new prospect and start to think through the implications of the idea only to become discouraged because it's nothing very original or different. Now I don't think this is strictly a problem that I have. I think most writers probably have this basic problem. Great writers have been producing work for so long, how can we, now, add anything new to the discussions? That isn't necessarily a problem. Approaching something old from a new angle can work. Or even doing something old, but doing it well, can be solid. The problem for a young writer, though, is that sometimes the ideas that seem fresh are actually old. Or if I recognize that an idea is old, but I think I can still do it well, that might not be enough. Why would an editor want to publish some old idea from some young nobody? I recently received a very nice letter accompanying a rejection. The letter said that my story was well written, but essentially takes on an old idea and adds nothing new. And I couldn't disagree with their critique.
I read a blog today about a similar issue, and that is whether one gains better experience from the "real world" than from the academic world. In essence, that's part of my concern. I'm thirty years old. I spent my entire childhood up to age twenty-two in school. Then after only a short break, I returned to school for almost the entire remainder of my twenties. Now I'm out of school as a student but still in that world as a teacher. Most of my life experience is from that world. I like that world. It's a good world. But it does leave me feeling limited in my understanding of humanity. When I interact with my students, who are largely from very different socio-economic, cultural, and intellectual backgrounds than me, I feel perplexed by their attitudes and behaviors. Likewise, I feel that I might not be able to properly imagine other situations and lives. I've heard that a writer doesn't need any real experience because it's all about imagination, so the great writer has learned everything they need to know about humanity by age seven or so, and from then on it's a matter of making up stories. This contrasts with the other view, that a writer would be better off spending years on a failed marriage than on an MFA. My sensibilities lean toward the imagination camp, and yet I'm not sure if that actually works.
The difficulty for me is that I fear my own views of the world, or something about the way my mind works, might be different enough from the average that my work doesn't quite resonate with others. On more than one occasion I've written fiction where characters were created from my understanding of how people think and act, and the reaction of my readers was puzzlement as to why the character acts and thinks as he does. Or I've had the reverse experience as a reader, where I read a story and find the motivations of the characters completely baffling, but the others around me see those characters as everyman types that anyone can relate to and understand. Maybe it's a matter of life experience, that I simply haven't done enough to understand the world around me as much as I'd like to. Sometimes I think that the best plan of action would be to sort of set aside the immediate goals of publication and so on and to simply live life for a while longer to try to come up with something worth writing about. I could continue to work on my craft to keep my skills up, but maybe I simply won't have any stories worth sharing with the world for another ten or twenty years, if then. I don't know.
The downside of a plan like that is that, essentially, I've never felt that I was very good at living life. Many of the basic experiences that people have and that then produce the inspiration for good writing are beyond my experience or understanding. And I don't know that there's any way to have those experiences merely for the sake of having them. I don't think life works that way. When I was younger, I sort of attempted such a thing. I had never really dated before, and I suspected that it would not be a good idea to date this one particular girl who was interested in me. However, part of what convinced me to do it was that it would provide good life experience for me as a writer. The relationship ended as I always knew it would. I've long felt that the anxiety of the experience while it was happening followed by the depression when it was over was plenty of reason to avoid the experience to begin with and I should have followed my rational brain that told me not to do it. But at least I now had this life experience that is a rite of passage for most people. I had experienced a young romance and could now write about it. But it turns out, the way I experienced that was not similar to how most others experience such a thing. I wrote about it, and people felt like my character was an enigmatic freak.
I don't know that there's any way to overcome this obstacle. My inclination is to hope that continued living will somehow magically transform me into someone with greater understanding and more significant ideas to put into my writing, but I also suspect that there's a lot of truth to the notion that one learns the essentials by age seven, and somehow I just never quite learned them the way others do.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Acceptance
I finally got an acceptance this past week. For the past couple years, I've been submitting to magazines. Since my main interest is in the novel rather than shorter pieces, I don't have a lot that I've been sending out. I've written a handful of stories over the past decade or so, but only one of them do I consider to be very good. I have a chapter from a novel that I feel works as a short story, so I've been submitting that for a few months. And I had one other piece, a personal essay I began writing in the nonfiction class in grad school, that I felt pretty decent about. The essay had received perhaps the best feedback of anything I ever brought into workshop, and following many revisions, it seemed strong. When I started sending it out, I quickly got hand written notes on my rejection slips. One journal even sent me a full letter with a critique of the piece, explaining why they didn't feel it was quite right despite being strong writing. I continued to rewrite the piece and resubmit, rewrite and resubmit. More notes, but no acceptance. Then a few months ago I was going over the piece again and just felt like it wasn't coming together. I saw new problems I hadn't noticed in past drafts, but I couldn't figure out how to solve the problems. So after a couple years of submitting it, I retired the piece. I felt like it was generally strong but not quite working, and I didn't know how to fix it. Those journals where the essay was still being considered sent me rejections, and I stopped thinking about it.
Then this past week I got an e-mail that a journal wants to publish it. This was the only journal I had not heard from; they had been considering the essay for nearly a year. Of course I was thrilled to finally have a piece accepted. But there was also ambivalence there. After all, this was a piece that I already decided wasn't working. Did I want it published at all if I'm not quite happy with it? For a moment I considered sending a reply to the journal, saying I'd rather pull it from consideration. But I couldn't. The editor wrote that she enjoyed the piece and it stood out from the stack of submissions. Maybe I'm simply too critical about it when I feel it's not working. And, ultimately, I need to get published.
On the one hand, having my work published is a great boost to the ego. No matter how many times my mom says I'm a good writer, it's nice to get some affirmation from another source. But beyond that, I need to get published for the sake of my career. I'm now finishing the last weeks of my first year as an adjunct teacher. There are definitely things I like about the teaching, but on a whole it can be frustrating and I feel that I can't do it forever. I can't work with beginning students for the next thirty years. I'll burn out. But in order to do something else, to teach creative writing, I need to publish. And to increase my chances of publishing, it's useful to be published. Having the stamp of approval from one editor could tip the balance in my favor when my work is being considered by another editor. So, of course, I wrote back saying I'd love to have my essay published.
And maybe it's better than I think it is. Maybe I'm looking too critically at my writing and seeing flaws that others won't notice or that aren't necessarily even there. But the bottom line is that I have two options. One: have it published, get the credit on my resume, possibly boost my chances of publishing more, and increase my credentials for full-time teaching positions. Or two: let the essay sit untouched on my computer.
So I'm getting published.
Then this past week I got an e-mail that a journal wants to publish it. This was the only journal I had not heard from; they had been considering the essay for nearly a year. Of course I was thrilled to finally have a piece accepted. But there was also ambivalence there. After all, this was a piece that I already decided wasn't working. Did I want it published at all if I'm not quite happy with it? For a moment I considered sending a reply to the journal, saying I'd rather pull it from consideration. But I couldn't. The editor wrote that she enjoyed the piece and it stood out from the stack of submissions. Maybe I'm simply too critical about it when I feel it's not working. And, ultimately, I need to get published.
On the one hand, having my work published is a great boost to the ego. No matter how many times my mom says I'm a good writer, it's nice to get some affirmation from another source. But beyond that, I need to get published for the sake of my career. I'm now finishing the last weeks of my first year as an adjunct teacher. There are definitely things I like about the teaching, but on a whole it can be frustrating and I feel that I can't do it forever. I can't work with beginning students for the next thirty years. I'll burn out. But in order to do something else, to teach creative writing, I need to publish. And to increase my chances of publishing, it's useful to be published. Having the stamp of approval from one editor could tip the balance in my favor when my work is being considered by another editor. So, of course, I wrote back saying I'd love to have my essay published.
And maybe it's better than I think it is. Maybe I'm looking too critically at my writing and seeing flaws that others won't notice or that aren't necessarily even there. But the bottom line is that I have two options. One: have it published, get the credit on my resume, possibly boost my chances of publishing more, and increase my credentials for full-time teaching positions. Or two: let the essay sit untouched on my computer.
So I'm getting published.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Writing = Meaning
I just read somebody else's blog about the sense of meaning that comes from writing, which is something I was recently thinking about as well. If you subtracted writing from my life, then I'd still have a reasonably full existence. I work plenty. One of my jobs is easy and sometimes even a bit fun. The other is often frustrating but also often rewarding. If I were to teach for the next thirty years, I'm sure I'd have what most people would consider to be a full life and maybe I'd even make a difference in the lives of some of my students. But I don't think it would really be worth it.
I was thinking the other day how tough it is to find time to write and how, despite writing and submitting my work for years, I have yet to make much headway into publishing my fiction. It occurred to me that I often feel frustrated with my schedule since I work two jobs and then think of writing as being my third job. I feel a certain amount of pressure to keep at it, but then when I write I think how I should really be grading papers instead. So the thought crossed my mind that maybe the best course of action would be to ease up on the writing, to put it way on the back burner and just think of it as more of a hobby that I fiddle with occasionally, but to face the reality that I might not ever get anywhere with it. But that thought was too depressing to consider for long. Writing is what gives my life meaning. Without it, I just feel like I'm some schlub who fills his time working a job that doesn't make a whole lot of difference to the world. There's nothing wrong with that kind of a life if a person is satisfied with it, but it isn't what I want. It would be easier, certainly, but what would be the point? What's the value of a life like that? I don't know. I'm sure many people are content with that type of life, and I can imagine there's plenty of pleasure there, but I don't know . . . it just seems pretty empty to me.
I was thinking the other day how tough it is to find time to write and how, despite writing and submitting my work for years, I have yet to make much headway into publishing my fiction. It occurred to me that I often feel frustrated with my schedule since I work two jobs and then think of writing as being my third job. I feel a certain amount of pressure to keep at it, but then when I write I think how I should really be grading papers instead. So the thought crossed my mind that maybe the best course of action would be to ease up on the writing, to put it way on the back burner and just think of it as more of a hobby that I fiddle with occasionally, but to face the reality that I might not ever get anywhere with it. But that thought was too depressing to consider for long. Writing is what gives my life meaning. Without it, I just feel like I'm some schlub who fills his time working a job that doesn't make a whole lot of difference to the world. There's nothing wrong with that kind of a life if a person is satisfied with it, but it isn't what I want. It would be easier, certainly, but what would be the point? What's the value of a life like that? I don't know. I'm sure many people are content with that type of life, and I can imagine there's plenty of pleasure there, but I don't know . . . it just seems pretty empty to me.
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