Etiquette for MFA Grads

This is a rerun from last year, but since we're back at graduation season, I think it's worth another run:

Okay, I’m not really the official Miss Manners of the writing world. But for graduation season, I’d like to offer a few thoughts directed to new MFA grads who will now be navigating the mysterious world of Writing Biz on their own.

First, do not expect your teachers to keep in touch with you. They may adore you and your work, but their own writing (and life) is always going to be their priority. This does not mean that they aren’t interested in what you’re doing…just that, for the most part, you will need to be the one to keep in touch. (The teacher-student relationship is, of course, also structured around a certain power dynamic and it is plain wrong for a teacher to pursue a student after graduation [unless that student wins a Pulitzer, haha].) So think about which teachers were especially meaningful to you and your writing life, and think about how to stay connected with them.

Social media is a nice way to keep a casual relationship going with your professors, but if they (or you) don’t use social media, an occasional email/text is, it seems to me, welcomed by most professors. A few dos and don’ts on that occasional email/text:

DO reread what I said and take to heart that word: occasional. Don’t overdo it.

DO follow what your beloved professor is up to and acknowledge his/her publishing successes.

DON’T (ever) attach work you’d like to be critiqued (unless invited, which I'm pretty sure won't happen).

DON’T write only when you want/need something.

DON’T take it personally if your professor is too busy to respond to you immediately, or perhaps ever.

DON’T write only when you want/need something. (Oh, did I say this already? Hmmm…must be important.)

DO ask for letters of recommendation/blurbs if you need them and you have maintained a good relationship with your teacher…but DON’T imagine you can make this request for the rest of all eternity. DO understand that your beloved professor will be beloved by many students who will come along after you. DO imagine that perhaps you’ve got a couple of shots at this sort of favor. DON’T (ever) ask for any letters that are due in less than two weeks.

DO understand that favors go both ways. You are now an MFA graduate, a member of the writing community, and that means you are allowed (encouraged!) to use whatever power you may have to help the people who helped you…can you invite your teacher to read at your reading series? Is your journal looking for a contest judge whom you will pay? Did you write a glowing review of your teacher’s book on Amazon? Can you interview your teacher for a writing blog? DO send an email offering something to your teacher!

DO follow up with your professor with a thank you after he/she has helped you in some way, whether it’s a letter written or advice offered or a question answered or whatever. At this point, your professor is not required to help you and is doing so only from the goodness of his/her heart. Saying thank you is FREE!

DON’T forget that your professor is first and foremost a writer whose job was to teach you. Note the distinction. Once you have graduated from the program, your professor takes no responsibility for you (unless you win a Pulitzer). Sad but true: your professor may not want to stay in touch with you. This might feel like a rejection. But please be gracious. A good teacher will have given you the tools to you need to forge ahead on your own and find your place in the community.

***

I’ll also offer a suggestion that revolves around that word “gracious.” Maybe it turned out you didn’t like your program so much. I’m sorry. I really am. (I wish you would have joined us at the Converse low-res MFA!) But now that you’re “free” of all those “%$#$-ing” teachers who think they’re such “hot $#@$” it might be tempting to let loose on them, either in your writing or on social media or in scathing, tell-all articles.

Don’t.

I’m only offering my own views here, but it’s been my experience that our lovely writing community is a small-small-small-small world, not only in size (I promise I could play six degrees of separation with about any MFA grad and get to a mutual acquaintance) but it is also small in terms of pettiness, which means that people WILL remember that you were the one who trashed the program or your teacher on The Rumpus or in The New Yorker or wherever. (Also, no one will be fooled by your pseudonyms and the tricks you use to disguise people/places…remember what I said about six degrees of separation?)

And think about it: why would you trash the crazy-imperfect-infuriating-inspiring program you graduated from? Now that you’re out, you should feel invested in the success of the program: you want your fellow grads to win awards and bring prestige to your school because that will help you and your degree. When your book is published, you should want to return in triumph to your program, invited back for a reading or a class visit. You should want your name proudly listed on the website as a “famous alum.” The fact is, you are connected in some way to your MFA program for the rest of your writing life.

Bitch and gossip privately, to your friends or at the AWP bar or Treman after you scope the scene to ensure your teachers are out of spitting distance. But always think twice and then twice again before going public about all the crap you endured while at your MFA program. (Unless we’re talking about something illegal or an abuse of power.)

In short, don’t burn bridges…until you win your Pulitzer.

***

EDITED to add these suggestions thanks to some helpful people on Facebook:

DON'T write your former professors to ask questions you can google, and definitely DON'T ask vast questions that cannot be easily and quickly answered (i.e. "how does self-publishing work and should I do it?").

DO offer this advice to your buddies who are still in the program...I'm guessing that this information will be even momre helpful earlier in the program, so you can plan your exit strategy.

***

You may not want to keep in touch with all or any of your former professors, and that’s fine. While many segments of the writing world run on blurbs and letters of recommendation and such, your former teachers are not (and should not be) the only source for acquiring those documents. You will move forth and build your own network of support, and memories of that horrible MFA workshop will fade in time, and maybe soon you will be the teacher opening emails from former students. But one last tip:

DO thank your teachers in the acknowledgements of your first book, and DO spell their names correctly. And if you’re one of my former students, DON’T send me a free copy: I will happily and proudly buy it!

Etiquette for Recent MFA Grads

Okay, I’m not really the official Miss Manners of the writing world. But for graduation season, I’d like to offer a few thoughts directed to new MFA grads who will now be navigating the mysterious world of Writing Biz on their own.

First, do not expect your teachers to keep in touch with you. They may adore you and your work, but their own writing (and life) is always going to be their priority. This does not mean that they aren’t interested in what you’re doing…just that, for the most part, you will need to be the one to keep in touch. (The teacher-student relationship is, of course, also structured around a certain power dynamic and it is plain wrong for a teacher to pursue a student after graduation [unless that student wins a Pulitzer, haha].) So think about which teachers were especially meaningful to you and your writing life, and think about how to stay connected with them.

Social media is a nice way to keep a casual relationship going with your professors, but if they (or you) don’t use social media, an occasional email/text is, it seems to me, welcomed by most professors. A few dos and don’ts on that occasional email/text:

DO reread what I said and take to heart that word: occasional. Don’t overdo it.

DO follow what your beloved professor is up to and acknowledge his/her publishing successes.

DON’T (ever) attach work you’d like to be critiqued.

DON’T write only when you want/need something.

DON’T take it personally if your professor is too busy to respond to you immediately, or perhaps ever.

DON’T write only when you want/need something. (Oh, did I say this already? Hmmm…must be important.)

DO ask for letters of recommendation/blurbs if you need them and you have maintained a good relationship with your teacher…but DON’T imagine you can make this request for the rest of all eternity. DO understand that your beloved professor will be beloved by many students who will come along after you. DO imagine that perhaps you’ve got a couple of shots at this sort of favor. DON’T (ever) ask for any letters that are due in less than two weeks.

DO understand that favors go both ways. You are now an MFA graduate, a member of the writing community, and that means you are allowed (encouraged!) to use whatever power you may have to help the people who helped you…can you invite your teacher to read at your reading series? Is your journal looking for a contest judge whom you will pay? Did you write a glowing review of your teacher’s book on Amazon? Can you interview your teacher for a writing blog? DO send an email offering something to your teacher!

DO follow up with your professor with a thank you after he/she has helped you in some way, whether it’s a letter written or advice offered or a question answered or whatever. At this point, your professor is not required to help you and is doing so only from the goodness of his/her heart. Saying thank you is FREE!

DON’T forget that your professor is first and foremost a writer whose job was to teach you. Note the distinction. Once you have graduated from the program, your professor takes no responsibility for you (unless you win a Pulitzer). Sad but true: your professor may not want to stay in touch with you. This might feel like a rejection. But please be gracious. A good teacher will have given you the tools to you need to forge ahead on your own and find your place in the community.

***

I’ll also offer a suggestion that revolves around that word “gracious.” Maybe it turned out you didn’t like your program so much. I’m sorry. I really am. (I wish you would have joined us at the Converse low-res MFA!) But now that you’re “free” of all those “%$#$-ing” teachers who think they’re such “hot $#@$” it might be tempting to let loose on them, either in your writing or on social media or in scathing, tell-all articles.

Don’t.

I’m only offering my own views here, but it’s been my experience that our lovely writing community is a small-small-small-small world, not only in size (I promise I could play six degrees of separation with about any MFA grad and get to a mutual acquaintance) but it is also small in terms of pettiness, which means that people WILL remember that you were the one who trashed the program or your teacher on The Rumpus or in The New Yorker or wherever. (Also, no one will be fooled by your pseudonyms and the tricks you use to disguise people/places…remember what I said about six degrees of separation?)

And think about it: why would you trash the crazy-imperfect-infuriating-inspiring program you graduated from? Now that you’re out, you should feel invested in the success of the program: you want your fellow grads to win awards and bring prestige to your school because that will help you and your degree. When your book is published, you should want to return in triumph to your program, invited back for a reading or a class visit. You should want your name proudly listed on the website as a “famous alum.” The fact is, you are connected in some way to your MFA program for the rest of your writing life.

Bitch and gossip privately, to your friends or at the AWP bar after you scope the scene to ensure your teachers are out of spitting distance. But always think twice and then twice again before going public about all the crap you endured while at your MFA program. (Unless we’re talking about something illegal or an abuse of power.)

In short, don’t burn bridges…until you win your Pulitzer.

***

You may not want to keep in touch with all or any of your former professors, and that’s fine. While many segments of the writing world run on blurbs and letters of recommendation and such, your former teachers are not (and should not be) the only source for acquiring those documents. You will move forth and build your own network of support, and memories of that horrible MFA workshop will fade in time, and maybe soon you will be the teacher opening emails from former students. But one last tip:

DO thank your teachers in the acknowledgements of your first book, and DO spell their names correctly. And if you’re one of my former students, DON’T send me a free copy: I will happily, happily buy it!

Social Media for Writers...Again!

 This timely article about writing and social media has been getting a lot of play today in my writer-world of Facebook, so I thought I’d share it over here:

"…So if you're a writer who worries as much as I do about online marketing, the best advice I can give you is to chill out and write the next book. To focus your energy on the one thing that's in your control: writing the best book you possibly can. Focus on editing each sentence to make it sing. Focus on helping your publisher craft a great hook and fabulous cover copy. 

"Spend your energy and time being kind to your colleagues, thanking your publishing team, and making new friends with no expectation that you will eventually use them to claw your way to the top. Before you Friend another writer on Facebook, make sure it's because you legitimately want to know them better and be part of their life and not because you're planning on sending them an Event invitation or a link to your book. If they're smart enough to write a great book, they're smart enough to see through that ploy…."

I couldn’t agree more! I learned from my days working at the Arlington Chamber of Commerce that sales is all about PERSONAL RELATIONSHIPS, not banging people on the head with a hammer or your brand/product.  Your customers—readers—do not view themselves as a nameless mass but as individuals. Treat them that way…and please be loyal to those who do likewise to you.

Read the rest: http://www.whimsydark.com/blog/2015/4/13/please-shut-up-why-self-promotion-as-an-author-doesnt-work

Tackling Po-Biz One Day at a Time

by Kim Roberts

Like most writers, I am plagued by a constant, nagging sense that I should be doing more of the administrative tasks needed to advance my career.

Recently, I was having coffee with Leslie and said something to her about the problem of  “doing Po-Biz.” I asked her, “You fiction writers don’t call it that—what do you call it?”

She looked up brightly and answered, “Crap.”

Which sums up how most of us feel, I’d guess—we know we need to do it, but it’s a chore. What do I mean by Po-Biz? It’s the part that feels most like work: applying for grants, fellowships, awards; sending out finished poems to journals, anthologies, competitions, presses; setting up readings; finding reviewers for our books.  It’s a big black hole: you can never do enough.

In the past, I’ve handled Po-Biz randomly, working up a head of steam and then sending out queries or applications in spurts—with long fallow periods between times when I tried to build up the energy to focus on administrative matters once again. This past January, I made a resolution to try a new tactic.

For the entire month, I did one piece of Po-Biz per day. I never did more than one thing, so it was never overly burdensome, and even small things counted. So one day I might merely send an email to a person who organizes a reading series, and the next day I might take on the larger task of sending a new book manuscript to a competition or applying for a residency at an artists’ colony. By the end of the month, I’d done an extraordinary 31 things.

Will this tactic bring me more professional opportunities? Hard to say. I may just get more rejections than usual. But I believe in putting my work out into the world. I can’t get opportunities if I don’t apply for them—and the more things I apply for, the more (statistically) for which I will be in the running.

And I found, surprisingly, that it was not too difficult to devote a month to the discipline of “doing Po-Biz.” I certainly felt virtuous every day. I’m thinking of picking another month and doing it again.

ABOUT KIM ROBERTS

Kim Roberts’s fourth book of poems will be released by Poetry Mutual this April. Fortune’s Favor: Scott in the Antarctic is a connected series of blank verse sonnets based on explorer Robert Falcon Scott’s journal about his race to the South Pole in 1911 – 1912. More information about the book, including a short video, can be found on her website: http://www.kimroberts.org. 

Survival Tips for AWP15!

It was a long tough winter for most of us, so could there be a better choice than to celebrate spring with an April trip to, um, beautiful Minneapolis for the big AWP writing conference?  There probably won’t be a blizzard while 10,000 writers descend upon the Twin Cities, but just imagining there might be gives us that whiff of tension and anxiety we writers thrive on.  Anyway, since the Big Event is coming up, it’s time for my annual list of helpful tips for dealing with the AWP conference, which will draw 10,000 bleary-eyed, name-dropping, crowd-scanning, black-clad, totebag-toting writers in desperate need of a drink and a blurb from Famous Writer.

How can you survive the experience and live to tell the tale?  Read on for my own conference survival tips, based on my past AWP experiences:

Wear comfortable shoes, at least most of the day. There’s lots of traipsing around long hallways and the long (sometimes uncarpeted) aisles of the book fair. It’s also inevitable that the one panel you really, really, really want to see will be in a teeny-tiny room and you’ll have to stand in the back…or sit on the floor; see the following tip:

Wear comfortable clothes, preferably taking a layer approach. Wherever you go, you will end up either in A) an incredibly stuffy room that will make you melt, or B) a room with an arctic blast directed at you. Bulk up and strip down as needed. Also, as noted above, the AWP conference staff has a knack for consistently misjudging the size of room required for a subject matter/speakers (i.e. Famous Writer in room with 30 chairs; grad student panel on Use of Dashes in Obscure Ancient Greek Poet in room with 300 chairs), so you may find yourself scrunched into a 2’x2’ square on the carpet; see the following tip:

To avoid being stuck sitting on the floor, arrive early to panels you really, really want to attend. If you are stuck on the floor, hold your ground with a big bag and/or coat to get yourself some extra space. Whatever you do, do not be nice and squeeze over…those panels can seem VERY LONG when someone’s knee is wedged in your ribs. (Any resulting bad karma will be worth it.)

If a panel is bad, ditch it. Yes, it’s rude. Yes, everyone does it. (Be better than the rest by at least waiting for an appropriate break, but if you must go mid-word, GO.) I can’t tell you the high caliber of presenters that I have walked out on, but think Very High. Remember that there are a thousand other options, and you have choices. The only time you have to stick it out is if A) the dull panel participant is your personal friend or B) the dull panel participant is/was your teacher or C) the dull panel participant is your editor/publisher. Those people will notice (and remember) that you abandoned them mid-drone and punish you accordingly (i.e. your glowing letters of rec will instead incinerate). Undoubtedly this is why I have never been published in Unnamed Very High Caliber Magazine, having walked out on the editor’s panel.

There are zillions of panels: When you pick up your registration badge, you’ll get a massive tome with information about all of them, and also a shorter schedule that’s easy to carry around. Take some time right away to read through the tome and circle the panels you want to attend on your master schedule. Then ditch the tome. Better yet, go to the AWP website now and scroll through the schedule tome and decide now where you want to be when. And best of all, use the “my schedule” planning feature on the online schedule to mark the events you’re interested in and keep that stored on your favorite technology (mine is a sheaf of printed paper…which may be smart since right now I’m too dumb to figure out how/where to re-access “my schedule”).  Anyway…no point waking up early on Friday if there’s nothing you want to attend. I checkmark panels I might go to if nothing better is going on and star those that I will make a supreme effort to attend. Give yourself a couple of options at each time slot so that if a room is too crowded, you have an interesting alternative.

Someone will always ask a 20-minute question that is not so much a question but a way of showing off their own (imagined) immense knowledge of the subject and an attempt to erase the (endlessly lingering) sting of bitterness about having their panel on the same topic rejected. Don’t be that person. Keep your question succinct and relevant. Maybe even write it down first, before you start to endlessly ramble. And yes, if you are “that person,” everyone will mimic your annoying question to their friends in the bookfair aisle, and your career is over.

Don’t ever say anything gossipy on the elevator, unless you want the whole (literary) world to know it. Do listen up to the conversations of others on the elevator, and tell your friends what you’ve overheard over your offsite dinner, embellishing as necessary.

Same advice above exactly applies to the overpriced hotel bar.  Also, if you happen to get a chair at the bar, or, goodness, EVEN A REAL LIVE TABLE, hang on to it!!  People will join you if they see you’ve got a spot!  Famous people!  I mean it: the only reason to ever give up a table in the hotel bar is because the bar has shut down, you’ve consumed every bit of liquid in the clutter of glasses, and a beefy bouncer is headed your way.

Support the publications at the bookfair. Set a budget for yourself in advance, and spend some money on literary journals and books and subscriptions, being sure to break your budget. Do this, and then you won’t feel bad picking up the stuff that’s been heavily discounted or being given away free on the last day of the conference. But, please, do spend some money!

Just because something is free, you don’t have to take it. Unless you drove, you’ll have to find a way to bring home all those heavy books/journals on an airplane. Or you’ll have to wait in line at the hotel’s business center to ship them home. So, be as discerning as you can when you see that magic markered “free” sign on top of a pile of sad-looking journals, abandoned by the grad students with hangovers who didn’t feel like dealing with their university's bookfair table.

Try not to approach the table of each journal at the bookfair with this question:  “How can I get published in your journal?” Also, I recommend avoiding this one: “How come you didn’t publish my poem/story/essay/screed?”  Try instead: “What a beautiful journal. Please tell me more about it.”

It may be too late for some of you, but it’s inevitable that you will see every writer you’ve ever met in the aisle of the bookfair at one AWP or another…so I hope you were nice to all of them and never screwed anyone over. Because, yes, they will remember, and it’s not fun reliving all that drama as the editors of The Georgia Review gaze on.

Pre-arrange some get-togethers with friends/teachers/grad student buddies, but don’t over-schedule. You’ll run into people, or meet people, or be invited to a party, or find an amazing off-the-beaten-track bar.  Save some time for spontaneity! (Yes, I realize that I’m saying “plan” for spontaneity.)

Don’t laugh at this, but bring along Purell and USE IT often.  For weeks after, post-AWP Facebook status updates are filled with writers bemoaning the deathly cold/sore throat/lingering and mysterious illness they picked up at AWP.  We’re a sniffly, sneezy, wheezy, germy bunch, and the thought of 10,000 of us packed together breathing on each other, shaking hands, and giving fake hugs of glee gives the CDC nightmares.

Along the lines of healthcare, don’t forget to drink a lot of water and pop an Advil before going to sleep if (haha…if!) you’ve been drinking a little more than usual.

Escape! Whether it’s offsite dinners/drinks/museums/walks through park/mindless shopping or whatever, do leave at some point. You will implode if you don’t. 

This is a super-secret tip that I never share, but I’ll share it as a reward for those who have read this far:  there will be a bathroom that’s off the beaten track and therefore is never crowded. Scope out this bathroom early on. Don’t tell anyone except your closest friends the location of this bathroom.

Finally, take a deep breath.  You’re just as much of a writer as the other 9,999 people around you.  Don’t let them get to you.

*****

If you're interested, I will be reading at these two off-site events:

Friday, April 10

11:30am - 6:00pm

Minneapolis Convention Center: Room M101BC

The Third Annual HEAT Reading, HEAT: Hotter Than Hell, will take place at the Minneapolis Convention Center in Room M101BC (1st Floor). It is a free, fiery offsite event MC-ed by the fantabulous Antonia Crane. Indulge in our cash bar. Make your $5 contribution to VIDA (if you can). Win gift certificates to Powell's you can use online.

The Breakdown:

DOORS OPEN AT 11:30AM.

READERS READ FOR 4 MINUTES EACH, FROM THE TOP OF THE HOUR UNTIL QUARTER OF THE NEXT.

RECESS (15 MINGLE MINUTES)

"LET'S DO THE TIME WARP AGAIN" UNTIL 6 PM.

FOUR PM

Leslie Pietrzyk

Anna Leahy

Ben Tanzer

Janée J. Baugher

Robin E. Black

Bonnie West

Jane Neathery Cutler

***

April 10, 2015

6:30 PM ~ 8:00 PM

Sponsored by The Sun Magazine

Open to the public

Minneapolis Central Library

Pohlad Hall

300 Nicollet Mall, Minneapolis, MN

With:

Sy Safransky

Krista Bremer

Joe Wilkins

Leslie Pietrzyk

The Writing Life: What It Really Takes

I’ve never published this little essay, and the end of the semester vibe in the air has put me in the frame of mind to think about my ancient life and a particular teacher I remember very well. And it’s always a good time to think about how to navigate the writing life, and how talent is perhaps the least of what is needed for a successful journey.  

TOUGH LOVE

            When I grew up, in Iowa, no one made a point of encouraging my dreams the way parents and teachers are expected to now. When I was ten, watching my first summer Olympics, I announced, “Someday I’m going to be in the Olympics.” Parents, mildly amused: “Oh, really? What sport?” Me, knowing the dog paddle was my only stroke, my cartwheel veered unpredictably, and that I always came in third-to-last in gym class races: “The javelin.” Parents: “You can’t throw a ball, and now you want to throw a spear?”

            That ended my short-lived non-career as a javelin thrower. Instead I chose the writing life, with its constant, familiar, onslaught of rejection, wanting—desperately—only one thing: to be a writer, a real, published writer, with books.

            Senior year in college I ended up in a poetry writing class, taught by a poet: Mr. Metaphor.

            Mr. Metaphor was a hot-shot around the English Department because he was young and vibrant and had recently published his first hot-shot book of poetry. My poetry had been tolerable for high school, but now I was at Midwestern U, and here, I could see that my angsty poetry was pretty lousy. No matter, because I was focused on fiction. My plan was to go to grad school for an MFA and then write novels.

            To apply to grad school, I needed letters of recommendation. My fiction professor had agreed to write on my behalf, but I needed another letter. Why not from this hot-shot poet who had taught at one of the schools where I was applying? So one day after we shredded apart someone’s poem in class, I approached Mr. Metaphor to ask if he would write a letter for my MFA applications. The look of horror—think Edvard Munch—was immediate, so I quickly added, “I’m applying in fiction. I’ll bring you my stories to read,” and the relief left him barely able to speak, as he weakly nodded yes.

            On Friday, I handed him a tidy little folder of my best work.

`           On Monday, I spent an anxious hour as we slashed through another student poem, and after class, I went up to him, spouting something chipper, like, “So, did you read my stories?”

            He was tapping a stack of papers against the desk, and without looking at me he said, “I read them.” Tap-tap-tap. “I read them,” he repeated, “and I can’t write you a letter. You’re not good enough. You’ll never be a writer.”

            That long frozen moment. I think I counted a hundred between each beat of my heart, my only thought of escaping before he saw me cry. Not that there was much chance of that, actually. Messy emotions seemed to me then as suspect as self-esteem—something beyond control, something unwanted and frightening, best corralled onto the blank page, if even there.

            So my stupid, polite, good-girl, Iowa upbringing kicked in and I thanked him. Honestly. “Thank you,” I said to Mr. Metaphor. Those exact words, spoken primly, exactly, without irony or anger. My parents would have been proud.

            Then I left the room.

            I don’t remember the rest of that class, except that I got a B+.

            I found someone else to write my final letter of recommendation. I went to graduate school and got my precious MFA. After graduate school, I wrote—I wrote stories and a novel that didn’t get published, and another one after that, that also didn’t get published. Always, in the back of my mind, burning like an untended fire, was this thought: “I’ll show you, Mr. Metaphor. You’ll see.”

            In the meantime, his poems popped up in various literary journals I read. There was another book. But he had left Midwestern U after a couple of years, and someone told me that his departure was related to his not getting tenure (boohoo). He taught somewhere else, then a third school, where he finally seemed to stick.

            My stories started getting published—“Look at this, Mr. Metaphor,” raged my brain—and won some awards—“What do you think now, Mr. Fucking Metaphor?”—and I was writing magazine articles and won an award for one of those, and things looked mildly hopeful for my writing life.

            Then I won a scholarship to the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, which is a summer gathering of writers and writer wanna-bes, a tense crucible of literature and liquor. It was a big deal to get this award, which meant I attended the conference for free, got a short reading with the dozen other scholars, and—the real prize—got access to the “party cabin” where the “real” writers hung out after dutifully teaching all day.

            I saw on the brochure that Mr. Metaphor would also be at Bread Loaf, one of the “real writers.” Hmmm, maybe I could…but I reconsidered, tamping that primitive voice in my head with a soothing litany: it’s a small world; what would saying anything accomplish; and anyway, he was in poetry and I was in fiction, so our paths would never cross in the sea of two hundred writers.

            And yet our paths crossed constantly: at every reading, every social event, every cocktail party, every night at the party cabin. He was staring my way, watching me from across the room. Staring, staring, staring…and one night he came up to me and trapped me. Neither of us was even drunk yet.

            “You look so familiar,” he said.

            I slid on my good-girl smile: “Well…actually, you were my teacher once. But it was so long ago, I can’t believe you would remember me”—then added in my head, me and my B+, asshole. I guzzled my gin—sick of sugary tonic at this point of the conference, I now drank straight Tanquery over an ice cube or two. Not recommended.

            He seemed pleased, perhaps happy to see a former student who wasn’t living under a bridge or begging for attention. “What school was that?”

            “Midwestern U.”

            That familiar horror on his face: The Scream Redux. “Oh my God,” and now he guzzled at his drink before he spoke carefully: “Did I ever do anything bad to you?” An emphasis on that single word, “bad.”

            That damn politeness of mine nudged, and I thought, Don’t go into it—my friends who knew the whole story were in the corner waving anxiously, sending telepathic messages for me to shut up—but Mr. Metaphor had ASKED, and I was drinking this straight gin on ice and well, I didn’t live in Iowa anymore, so I said, “Actually, yes. Yes, you did do something bad. I asked for a letter of recommendation for grad school, and you read my stories and told me I wasn’t good enough and that I’d never be a writer.”

            “My God,” he repeated, before racing through his words: “I’m sorry. That was a bad time in my life back then—I was suffering from undiagnosed Graves’ disease, and I had terrible depression. I did awful things to so many students. Once I wrote at the top of someone’s 25-page research paper, ‘fuck you.’”

            “Wow,” I said.

            More guzzling. The party around us felt obscene and strange: laughter, music I didn’t recognize.

            “I’m so sorry,” and he leaned in to hug me with strong, solid arms. “Look at you now: a scholar at Bread Loaf, which means you’re getting your work published in top journals. You’re doing well.”

            I nodded, still shocked. Mostly I was shocked at what I hadn’t realized until right then: I had assumed he was right, that he had known something about me. That his assessment was accurate and true. And yet I had kept writing my stories and books anyway.

            He said, “I’m so happy you didn’t listen to me,” and we hugged again, went our separate ways back to the liquor, to our friends.

            I’m so happy you didn’t listen to me. Yes, me too.

            Now, I’m a writing teacher, and to be honest, there are times where it’s my secret fantasy to write “fuck you” on the top of someone’s woeful story. But I don’t. The problem with tough love is that you don’t know—until the end—who’s tough enough for your form of love and who isn’t.

Work in Progress: How to Chat Up a Writer

Out in the real world of the happy hour/reception/party/wedding/holiday gathering, there are plenty of people who don’t care that you’re a writer:

“What do you do?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Oh. Did you try that crab dip?”

I don’t worry about those people one bit.  Nor do I worry about the people who instantly pepper me with a thousand enthusiastic questions about writing: 

“A writer!  What do you write?”

“Novels.”

“What kind?  Mysteries?  Or fiction novels?”

Sigh. “Yes.  ‘Fiction novels.’”

And off we go on to where I get my ideas from and whether or not I write on a computer.  These questions amuse me, and I’m happy to do my small part on educating the world on the writing life.  

The real world people who make me tense are the ones whose spines suddenly stiffen when they hear I’m a writer:  they’re either intimidated to speak to a writer, or they want to impress me in some ill-defined way.  Combine that with an overall DC quality of fear of not knowing-it-all (okay, guilty!) and a general East Coast aggression, and you’ve got a much more uncomfortable and irritating conversation from my perspective.  Friends, relatives, and total strangers:  here are some helpful hints on what NOT to say to a writer.

FOR THE COCKTAIL CHATTERERS:

“A writer? Are you published?”

This is a punch to the gut to any writer not published, or not published much.  It’s a big, bold step for most of us to call ourselves a “writer.”  If we weren’t a “writer,” we would have called ourselves something else.  We’re writers, published or not.  And what we’re thinking is:  You’re a lawyer? Have you won any Supreme Court cases?

Try instead:  What do you write?

“So you’ve published two books?  Have I heard of them?”

Another punch to the gut, because while I want to say, Depends on how well-read you are, I usually bumble out something like, Probably not, with a horrible, false laugh that replays in my head all night long when I can’t sleep.

Try instead:  What are they about?

“How much money do you make?”

Hmmm…how much do you make?

Try NOT asking about money at all, which is exactly what I do when you tell me that you’re a K Street lawyer and I know you want me to know that you make a lot of money.

“I should write a book.  I have a great idea.”

Please do.  And I should go open a medical practice tomorrow.  I think I’ll specialize in heart transplants.

Try instead:  “I’ve thought about writing a book, but it seems so hard.  Do you know of any classes that might be right for me?”

“I don’t read.”

Thank you for giving me a reason to head off to the bar for another drink…excuse me.

Try instead:  “Are there any great books you love to recommend to people who may not read much?”

FOR FRIENDS & FAMILY

“So, have you found a publisher for that novel yet?”

Obviously not, because do you think I would keep this information a secret if I had?

Try asking:  How’s your writing going?  [This is an open-ended question that the writer can easily take any number of directions, depending on how fragile they’re feeling.]

“You know who’s a great writer: Jonathan Franzen*.  I sure love him.  He’s a genius.  Wasn’t he on the cover of Time magazine?”

*Insert whichever writer’s name is most annoying at this exact moment.

In hearing this statement, the only possible conclusion I can draw is that you think that I am NOT a genius.

Try instead:  What are you reading?

Try instead:  Have you read XX?  

I know, I know…the world will not follow the script I write for it.  But isn’t it pretty to think so?

Work in Progress: A Rant on Rejection

We know that there are many factors that go into the decision of which story/poem/essay gets published and which gets returned, and that many of these factors are beyond the writer’s control: the editor’s bad mood, what else has been accepted for the journal, someone friend’s story getting the nod instead, a screener who hates the second person, and so on.  In fact, the only factors in our control are to write well and to research journals as best we can.  Even though we know these things—and preach them to our students and friends and family—it remains an inescapable fact:  rejection sucks.  There’s no way around it.

This is not a post that will make you try to feel better.  This is a post to just rant and whine and complain about the unfairness of it all and how sending work out again and again and again can be soul-sucking, making Sisyphus’s life look like a walk in the park.  Rejection is the worst part of the writing life.

How to cope?

I’ve tried blasé:  Oh, well, whatever.  Lots of other great journals.

I’ve tried revenge:  They’ll be sorry when this gets published and is picked up by Best American Short Stories.

I’ve tried anger:  Mother-fucking mother-fuckers, fuck them.

I’ve tried nice:  Okay, I was just rejected, but sure, I’ll subscribe to their journal and use this five dollar discount they so kindly offered.

I’ve tried practical: Send it out again before the day’s over.

I’ve saved rejection slips/email printouts, and I’ve ripped them into tiny pieces.

I’ve sent the same rejected story that I knew was perfect for that journal back to that journal, essentially rejecting their rejection.

I’ve laughed at editors’ dumb jokes at AWP and complimented their hideous necklaces.

I’ve tried not submitting work at all, and I’ve tried submitting to a dozen places at once.

I’ve sent only to university journals, or never to university journals, or never to student-run journals, or only to student-run journals, or never to new journals, or only to new journals.

I’ve revised and tightened and expanded and re-revised and re-re-revised.

I’ve abandoned and resurrected and re-abandoned work.

I’ve written off certain journals entirely.

I’ve prayed.

What I have NOT done (yet):

--Binder-clipped a twenty-dollar bill to my story.

--Lied.

--Offered blood sacrifices.

Nothing works.  There is no way to cope with constantly getting the metaphorical door slammed in your face.

(Usually, this is where I would insert a paragraph about the importance of perseverance and patience and so forth.  How writing is its own reward.  I’d throw in an inspirational quote.  And I do sincerely believe all that on many days, but not today.)

In the end, I DO NOT believe that, like cream, all good work rises to the top.  I’m convinced that a lot of good work simply gets lost or set aside or overlooked or forgotten; many good writers simply give up.  I don’t have an answer or a better system or a way to fix this problem or a suggestion about how we can all truly feel better about it. 

I just have to call it like I see it:  REJECTION SUCKS.

Work in Progress: “A System as Ancient as Leeches”

This is a recent quote from a writer friend referring to the policy held by many lit journals that refuse to read simultaneous submissions.  Yes, I know that many do read simultaneous submissions—and THANK YOU for that.  And I’m not going to rant about the lit journals that still don’t, because I get that lit journal editors and their staffs are over-worked and underpaid.  I get that email submissions make it easy (and cheap) to submit to 20 different places at once, and so there must be an overload of submissions.  I also get that the frustration of feeling that everyone’s a writer and no one’s a subscriber would have to wear on you, as you read nine million short stories in the second person that all sound the same and could be lumped into two categories: “bad” and “very bad.”  I also get that when it’s your journal you get to make the rules (spoken with the thrill of launching my journal Redux this week!).

What I’m here to say is, who cares?  Simultaneously submit anyway.  And no need to mention it.

You know they know we’re doing it.  You also know that given the response times of many journals, I would be well into my dotage if I had to wait 9 months—summer of closed markets—8 months—summer or closed markets—a year—6 months and so on before I placed a story.  By that time, the iPhones my characters are using are obsolete.

Now, if I know that a journal is notably quick in its response time and asks for no simultaneous submissions, I would respect that.  And definitely, if I had a relationship with an editor—or was trying to create one with a shared memory of those cocktails at the hotel bar at AWP—I would not simultaneously submit.  But otherwise, life’s too short.

I rationalize my rule-breaking by considering that in recent  memory various journals have:

--rejected my same story twice, months apart

--never responded at all (this happens roughly 10% of the time, I’d say)

--ignored my follow-up email asking if they still have my story a year later (now I rarely bother with those follow-ups and just assume the story’s lost)

--taken more than a year to respond

--sent me a rejection for another writer

--rejected the story I responsibly withdrew five months prior

I love literary journals, and I love seeing my work in them, but they don’t always feel as though they’re on my side—and nor should they be.  They have their own agenda, and I understand that.  As writers, our agenda is slightly different than theirs.

I also aid my case by keeping meticulous records, and I ALWAYS  let a journal know immediately if I need to withdraw a piece from consideration.  I also do not blanket the world with submissions; I carefully select journals where I feel my work would fit, and carefully choose which stories to submit where.  I subscribe to and read journals.  I donate money to a beloved favorite.  From time to time I’ll send along a complimentary note to a journal editor when I’ve enjoyed a particular issue.  In short, I do my part to be a responsible literary citizen.

Several years ago, I was at a conference, speaking on a panel of lit journal editors and writers.  The topic was the usual “how to get published,” and the inevitable question came up:  “Should we simultaneously submit our work?”  I kid you not:  Every writer on the panel immediately said, “Yes,” at exactly the same time every editor on the panel said, “No.”

And there you have it: if you’re a writer, it seems that the answer on this one is “yes.”

(Okay, I sent out my stack of stories last week, so hurry to slap me on your black list before you forget…and that name’s spelled ZYK, not YZK.)

Work in Progress: Titles, Again...But with a Survey!

Why can’t I title my novels? Why am I paralyzed by this simple act? Seriously, next time I’m going to write a novel to fit a title that I like. Even yesterday’s poem on the Writer’s Almanac mocked me:

From the beginning of “Her First Novel,” by James Tate

When Connie finished her novel she came
over to my place to celebrate. I mixed up a
shaker full of Manhattans and we sat out on the
porch. "Here's to… What's the title?" I
asked. "Well, that's a problem. The title's
kind of awful. It's called THE KING OF SLOPS."
"Gosh," I said, "that's unfortunate. I think
you can probably do better than that." …
[read the rest here]

Anyway, the good news is that I’m winding down this round of revisions, about to send this baby into the world to see what the world thinks, but I still don’t have a title that doesn’t make someone cringe, whether it’s my husband or my writing group or me.

For a while the book was simply called THE CHICAGO RIVER. That’s what the computer files all say. But that’s not really enough. Then it went through several different options, none of which felt like 100 percent to anyone except the desperation in me.

To find a title I have:
--skimmed parts of the Bible
--skimmed Huckleberry Finn
--skimmed Song of Myself
--skimmed Heart of Darkness
--torn through the tables of contents of several, random books of poetry as it’s my contention that poets have the best titles
--reread parts of The Wasteland
--reread parts of Mark Strand’s The Continuous Life
--googled river quotations
--read a website about river rafting
--googled Polish sayings
--reread my Polish cookbook (source of the title of Pears on a Willow Tree)
--googled poems about rivers (there are a lot of bad ones out there)
--bought a book of poetry because someone told me there was a villanelle about a river in it (very lovely, but nothing to steal for a title)
--reread my notes on Frederick Jackson Turner’s “The Significance of the Frontier in American History”
--high-jacked a late-night social gathering at VCCA to beg for title ideas (they flowed as the scotch flowed, becoming sillier and sillier as the scotch kept flowing)
--looked up books with “river” in the title on amazon
--spent a couple hours one morning writing a 3-page, 2-column list of titles, none of which was any good except for maybe the last one
--begged Steve to read two chapters about the Chicago River in a jargon-ish non-fiction book and write a list of suggested titles
--MADE EVERY SINGLE PERSON I KNOW CRAZY

So, now it’s up to you. Please take my exciting title survey…I’m serious and I’m desperate. That’s a very scary combination. I’m not going to say much about what the book is about, except to note that it takes place on one day in 1900 in Chicago, and, as you might have guessed, the Chicago River is important.

Try this link--

Click here to take survey
or since I don't trust my tech skills, try this if the above doesn't work:
http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/2B9B88V

Thank you! [Note: There will be a sign-up to create your own survey after you're done, but you can just close that screen and exit. The price of free services, alas!]

"Invisible Prejudice"

You must read this: Juliana Baggott in the Washington Post on the “invisible prejudice” favoring male writing over female writing—

“I could understand Publishers Weekly's phallocratic list if women were writing only a third of the books published or if women didn't float the industry as book buyers or if the list were an anomaly. In fact, Publishers Weekly is in sync with Pulitzer Prize statistics. In the past 30 years, only 11 prizes have gone to women. Amazon recently announced its 100 best books of 2009 -- in the top 10, there are two women. Top 20? Four. Poets & Writers shared a list of 50 of the most inspiring writers in the world this month; women made up only 36 percent.”

Read the rest here. (Thanks for the link, Annie!)

Give Me a Break

As reported in USA Today:

Year's best: Publishers Weekly today names its top 10 books of 2009: Richard Holmes' The Age of Wonder: How the Romantic Generation Discovered the Beauty and Terror of Science; Dan Chaon's Await Your Reply; Victor LaValle's Big Machine; Blake Bailey's Cheever: A Life; Neil Sheehan's A Fiery Peace in a Cold War: Bernard Schriever and the Ultimate Weapon; Daniyal Mueenuddin's In Other Rooms, Other Wonders; Geoff Dyer's Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi; David Grann's The Lost City of Z: A Tale of Deadly Obsession in the Amazon; Matthew Crawford's Shop Class as Soulcraft; and David Small's Stitches: A Memoir.

Not one woman? Really?