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Day Twenty-Six: When Bats Attack

6/22/2015

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Today was an adventure.

From the moment I woke up to get to my PT, I had this sense of foreboding. Be it drinking too much caffeine or too little sleep, but I felt like everything was off-kilter, like some sort of weird Kafka short story, and I could trust no security this Monday promised.

I would have chocked it up to reading too much Martin McDonagh lately, but that was before the goddamed bat attacked me.

I shouldn't say attacked. To be fair, the bat probably didn't have any qualms with me other than, "what the hell is that awful shrieking coming from the other side of this door I'm trying to crawl under?" But that was the point, wasn't it? It was in my space, and it was stretching its little black demon claw under the AC unit's closet door and grasping at air, i.e. me.

I screamed in the animal control lady's ear, which I would have felt worse about, if she'd not been a complete jerk to me on the phone from the get-go.

"There's a bat. A ... a bat."

"A cat?"

"No, a bat."

"Ma'am, where is the cat?"

"It's not a cat. It's a bat, and it's in the A/C unit in my apartment."

"Well, there's nothing we can do about a cat outside in your A/C unit. Is it getting cut up from the blades?"

"I ... what? It's a bat and it's inside and I don't really care right now if it's getting cut up or not and I'm not going to check!"

The bat interjected with a claw and an, "eep!"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

So sad to say, the idea of winning against my anxiety's drama queen tendencies to tell my brain that there was no danger was quickly squashed as my eyes told my brain that a bat was trying to get inside my home.

They took care of the bat while I was out at lunch.

Upon returning, between bats and tired brains and achy legs, I started to come up with brilliant ideas for my book that was not actually all that brilliant, and I realized I needed to ruminate a little more on a course of action before spending a lot of wasted time writing crappy pages that would inevitably end up in the recycle bin.

So this brings me to the real topic of today: What to do when the bats attack and you just cannot sit down and write on your book?

The answer: read another Martin McDonagh play. Read Angela Patten's heartbreaking memoir. Reorganize your desk and bookshelf so you can actually make sense of what is on your bookshelf. Eat pizza. Read articles about things that you need for your characters. Try to figure out how, in the current social climate, your Confederate character who hangs a rebel flag is going to be taken by audiences. He's a nice guy, but yeah, he's got that rebel flag hanging there in that parlor room. And that flag has bothered me from the moment it popped up in his parlor room, but I think it says something about the human condition to have a nice guy with an awful symbol hanging out in his living space, and I want to see where that character goes with the realization of how awful that is. I think that characters need to be complex, and the original thought was that this Confederate character was complicated, but now I just sort of want to take that flag and tear it up and damn complex characters because the real world is too complex right now.

But I guess what I'm getting at is this: sometimes there are just days where bats attack you, and you can either flop around the apartment bemoaning your lack of focus to actually write on your manuscript ... or you can do other things and make room for more writing time tomorrow.

Right after I lay garlic at the bottom of every single door in my apartment. Bats don't like garlic, right?
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Day Twenty-Five: A Letter to My Father, from his Writer Daughter 

6/21/2015

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Dear Dad,

I know you're never going to read this. I know you're never going to read this, because you don't read the things I write. You've never seen this blog, you aren't friends with me on Facebook, and you haven't cracked open any published book that has my writing inside of it. In fact, you'd be mortified if you knew I was writing a public letter to you, because you are such a private person.

Today, we had a surprise party for you. It was at your favorite restaurant. We wrapped your presents in Christmas paper and made hand-drawn cards. We've done this for years.

The boys got you things you could understand. Manly things, things that fit what you enjoy. I got you a meal at the restaurant, but at the last minute, I decided to give you something else as well.

I forgot you wouldn't understand the significance of the present, since you don't read my writing. You don't know my weaknesses, you don't know my strengths, my rhythms, my imaginary worlds that spark up inside of me and sometimes don't hold their own on the pages, because I'm still learning my way.

The present was a character playlist I'd made for my favorite character in my thesis project. The character is a father-type figure. He is wise, he's kind, he's protective, and he's the reason why I've kept writing this conflabbit series. He's been a guiding light for Alex and me, even though he's fictional. When Alex and I go through hard times, we look to his guidance, just like we look to your guidance. He's been a great source of introspection and intimate exploration of what it means to be a parent, to have a parent, and to grow up and realize even the happiest and greatest of fathers can be sad sometimes. 

This doesn't make any sense to you, I know, you're not a writer. When I got my first car, I put a picture of this character on my keychain so he could keep me safe when you couldn't be there driving with me. You rolled your eyes, not because you thought it was stupid, but because you didn't get it.

When I wrapped this present, I forgot all the times I tried to share my inner world of "writer" with you and it went awry. A few years ago, I asked you to listen to my prologue to the book I was working on at the time. You fell asleep a few paragraphs in. I was in a rage of fury, crying, stomping my feet, leaving the room. You tried to explain, "I don't really get into fiction. I read nonfiction."

"So when I publish a book, you won't read it?"

"Probably not," you said. "But I'll buy it. And I'll love it."

When I did publish my first book, you were first in line at the release party. You bought a ton of copies. You bragged about it to anyone who would listen. You set my book ... and the subsequent books ... on the bookshelf facing outwards, masking your nonfiction because it was as precious as one of my trophies you used to display.

But like I said, you've never read any of them.

So when you opened the present, my first reaction was disappointment in your own disappointment. I tried to explain to you why I'd given you a mix CD of music you might not like. I said, "That's our father character in the book." I tried to tell you that it's because you are my father, you are who he is for my character. I wanted to say that in all of my stories, there have been fathers and daughters dancing together, marching side by side into battle, trying to find ways to communicate the immense love they have for each other.

I said, "The first song is 'Suddenly' from Les Mis," and your eyes bugged and you snorted. Les Mis is not your speed. But Hugh Jackman singing about Cosette is what I think of when I think of the fear of becoming a father. I wanted to share it with you.

We don't speak the same language. And while I felt a tinge of frustration, of anxiety, when you confusedly read my track list, I can't be mad anymore.

You might not read my stories. You might not be able to connect with my characters and my plots and gain a deeper understanding of who I am, of who you are to me. But then again, I never took up martial arts and connected with you. I came to all of your tournaments, saw how big the trophies got, clapped when you broke boards. But I never dug in deeper than that.

And maybe, now that I'm an adult, I can comprehend that just because we don't speak the same language, we can understand we love each other. We can receive the bond we give one another today.

"Thanks for dinner," you say.

"No problem," I say.

"What a surprise!"

I can send you a picture via text of the two of us, standing outside Grandma's house, you holding me, looking at nothing but me, and me laughing and waving my arms around, safe and happy in your arms.

You can write back, "That's us! I love you."

I will keep listening to your stories about tae-kwon-do and Irish culture. You keep collecting my stories and putting them on your bookshelf. We're going to be okay.

With all my love,
your daughter


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Day Five: Lindsey Stirling and Healing

6/1/2015

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So I actually got my blog in tonight. I just got home, so if the time stamp is off, not my fault. I'm tired as hell and Alex already went to bed, but the challenge is every day, so I'll make a quick entry and collapse in a bit.

It's unfortunate that I'm half-awake and have to write this now in order to fulfill my challenge to myself, because I wish I was a lot more awake to be brilliant at writing the things I wanted to write, and that there is a sentence to prove that I will not be as eloquent as I wish to be right now.

So today was a crazy day. I had too much to do, and not enough time to do it in. It was my first day working in the outreach program I'm doing part-time in. It's not a full-time job, which is awesome, because it means I can still contribute something and stay active, but not have to worry about overload right now. After that, I visited Alex for lunch, rewrote Chapter One, had a meeting with my mentor Nancy, and then Mom and Dad and I went to the Lindsey Stirling concert.

Surprise, it was an amphitheater. Surprise, it was a gorgeous night. Surprise, I like Lindsey Stirling.

That girl. Like holy God, she's so creative. She has gorgeous outfits, and she dances like a madwoman ballerina on crack while she's wielding these crazy violin skillz, and the stage is exploding with all this stuff she's thought up and has been plastered onto the digital background behind her. And people loved it! People were like, "Yeah Lindsey Stirling, you vomited everything you love onto this stage and we totally think it makes sense and love it!"

The part of the night that really hit me was when she stopped playing music and had a "real talk" with us. She said that everyone always thinks she has always loved herself and that she's perfect. She says that in her twenties, she battled depression. She hated herself. She was in a rut and she hated looking in mirrors. But then she made a change. And now look at her.

Usually these stories don't really hit me very hard. I think it's sort of trite to be like, "Guys I'm famous and lookee me now!" But something about the creative spark in Stirling, something about her originality and her youth ... or maybe just something about where I am in life right now ... it hit me really hard.

I guess this is where I get serious with you.

I don't talk about this publicly, so the idea of doing it here is terrifying. I've never wanted to be that person with a blog who gripes about the things she's gone through. This is a writing blog, not a therapy blog, but I'm starting to think that perhaps the two are connected. I know, I should have made that connection earlier?

I don't feel comfortable getting into details, but I've struggled with my own demons. And I'm taking steps every day to allow myself to be happy. To allow myself to believe in what I am and who I am and what that entails.

There was a time not too long ago that I'd given up on myself. All of those things I wanted to be when I was a kid was stupid frivolous dreams. I needed to be more practical.

Why is it so hard for us to allow ourselves to be happy? Why is it so difficult for us to believe in ourselves?

My mentor said today it was because we were all from a Puritanical society.

My mentor also said something else today: that I have something to offer.

I'm trying to believe that. I'm trying to get myself to the point that Stirling is at. I'm waking up every day and allowing myself to have a good, happy, and yes sometimes selfish life. I've gone so far trying to erase myself by giving giving giving to others.

Now it's time to bring me back. Now it's time to write.

But actually, right now? It's time to sleep. G'night!
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Survival of the Day Job 2014

8/8/2014

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Articles About Authors with Day Jobs:

Lapham's Quarterly - Dayjobs

Huffington Post - 11 Authors Who Kept Their Dayjobs

Writer's Digest - Before They Were Famous

Mental Floss - Early Jobs of 24 Famous Writers

Buzzfeed - Famous Authors and Their Dayjobs

Did You Click Buzzfeed - That Was a Test

Stop Reading Buzzfeed Articles - Go Write

No Seriously - Go Write

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Toto watches over my writing desk. He wishes you good day and good luck.
So this was my first week back at work. About two minutes after I stepped into the building, I started a conversation with a co-worker and mentioned my writing room.

"Oh, are you still writing that series?" she asked.

"Yes?" I said.

Then she gave the look. If you're a writer with a day job, you know what look I'm talking about. It's the look that reminds you how your dreams are silly little things.

It's difficult to be in an environment where no one knows how serious you're taking this, how hard you work to keep both the day job and the night job going, or who you really are and where you're going.

I once said to a friend that there is a fine line between the deluded and the successful when it comes to art.

So it's important to remember, fellow dayjobbers, that our coworkers do not define us. Our daily chores do not make us failures. And if we want it bad enough, we need to remember that there are a hundred thousand people who did it before us. If we want this for ourselves, then we need to stick to it and stand on our own and make it a priority in our lives.

So here, I'm making rules for us:

1. If you have time to write, then write. One author shared his story of writing seven hours straight on the days he had off. You don't get a day off if this is what you want.
2. Don't worry about how others define you. Remember, everyone has a job and no one's life is completely encompassed in their job.
3. Don't feel guilty for taking time to make your writing a priority. You cannot always live for other people.
4. No one has a for-sure success in the future. Everyone, even J.K. Rowling and Margaret Atwood, has at some point felt like a loser and wondered if it was worth it. So make it worth it (and by the way, Rowling was on welfare/worked as a teacher before that, and Atwood was a coffee shop barista).
5. Set deadlines for yourself and do not allow yourself to waver or come up short. Give it your best shot so you won't regret anything.
6. Ask those around you in your personal life to support you. If they love you, they will support you.
7. Make friends in your writing community, even if it's just online. In 2014, I don't think it's "just online," I think it's a huge resource.
8. Give yourself a writing space or a place to go write. Turn off the internet. Focus. If you can't write, then read. Blog. Network. But for God's sake, do not Buzzfeed.
9. Believe in yourself. Advocate for yourself. Love yourself.
10. Finally, submit. Nothing will come of you just sitting there type type typin'. Even if you get a rejection, you're having a conversation with the external writing world.

Have a great year, everyone. And if you need a day job writer friend, you know where to find me.
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How an MFA Program Changes Your Life

7/27/2014

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The happiest day of my life was the day I realized I would never have to live in my hometown again. With my belongings moved into an apartment in Chicago's Lincoln Park neighborhood, my twin bed siphoned off from my two roommates' beds, and my nineteenth birthday party taking place in my new dining room with my new friends around a German chocolate cake purchased at the two-level grocery store on the corner, I knew that all of my hard adolescent work had paid off.

I now would be free. My greatest fear of withering away at home would not come to pass.

The saddest day of my life was the day I moved from Chicago back to my hometown.

There are a lot of reasons why this happened. For starters, money. For other starters, external pressure. Heartbreak was another reason. But soon I found myself back on familiar streets living an ordinary life in a place where the extraordinary refused to surface.

We have no oceans in my hometown. We have a river, and it's filthy.

Many people feel this hopeless giving up, although I doubt many of them feel it as early as twenty-three. I did good work here, and I continue to do good work, but something was missing. The glimmer that happened when I wrote far off worlds, the echo of my voice when I sang. "Why don't you sing anymore?" someone asked me ... no, a lot of people asked me.

There was no point, I could have answered. It will just remind me of what I could have been, would have been another good one. But usually I just answered, "Oh, I'm busy. And things. And life. And no one wants to hear it, anyway."

It had to stop.

Ray Bradbury writes in his book, Zen in the Art of Writing, that in order to live, in order to "stay alive," we have to keep writing. We have to come up with those crazy worlds no one else can see. We must believe in magic, or "Buck Rogers," as he puts it.

So Alex, my fiance, found Mur Lafferty's podcast and in turn found Stonecoast. For months, the two of us schemed to get me into the MFA program. And then one day, Nancy Holder called and told me the good news.

As you know, I went to my first residency last week. And I am about to tell you why you should stop not singing, start staying alive, and find your own Stonecoast.

The night before, I was afraid.
I told Alex that he needed me, that my dead friend needed me, that the dishes in the sink needed me. "It's too far away, I'm too scared, I can't make friends, everyone will hate me, I'm not good enough." But stalwart Alex lugged my 49.5 pound checked bag all the way to his car, and then all the way into the airport.

In my book, Abigail is a young girl who is trapped in Boston and damned to walk the earth after her airship is taken from her. There is a scene where she escapes, bursting into the sky and seeing the sun strike the white clouds
from above. And when that plane pierced the rainstorm and breathed out into the air, I felt like something new was about to happen.

For the first time in a long time, I had a chance.

Maine is a different sort of place. I say different because it's not like anywhere I've lived. Even my hometown is loud with this incessant noise from the interstate and the planes from the airforce base. But Portland is silent. As soon as I got rid of the jet engines in my ears, I realized how quiet the airport was. And then I recognized silence in the parking lot, the road, the highway, and finally Bowdoin College Campus.


And for the first time in five years, I was welcomed by people who understood what I wanted to do with my life.

It was like coming home.

Stone House sits on a peninsula (which I loudly remarked in our coach bus upon seeing it: "WE ARE ON A PENINSULA!"), and it is beautiful. If you look through the trees in the front yard, you see sailboats and the ocean. Mist hangs in the trees, mud flats magically transform into roaring seas in a matter of hours. At night, I walked around the park with my friend as trails dissipated into the fog. This was the land of Stephen King, Herman Melville, Jules Verne, and my own imagination.

"You are not an aspiring writer," the director of the program told us. "This is the point in which you become a writer. Virginia Woolf had a moment where she became Virginina Woolf. And this is yours."

I ran back to my temporary dorm room and I typed, typed, typed on my story. My teachers knew my heroes, my teachers were my heroes, and I'd read them all my life. This was a place where students published their work and won Campbell Awards.

Stonecoast was a place where people did the things other people talked about maybe someday doing. Stonecoast was a place full of people who said, "I understand. I hurt, too. It's okay. We'll write about it together." Stonecoast was where the Muggle borns came together for ten days every six months to build their armor, give out six months' worth of hugs, and write as fast as our hands could go.

I watched the graduation of the class of 2014, and I saw that this program did not just change my life, but had changed their lives.

I'm back home now, reading Bradbury and finishing up Verne. Tomorrow, I lock myself up in a hotel room and revise the beginning of my manuscript for my mentor. And although I know this year is going to be a long one, I know that I'm not alone. I know I have a goal.

I know Maine exists.

Please do not wrap yourself up in a blanket of malaise. Please go out and do what you love to do. Find people who also love to do that thing. And be happy for it.

It's not too late. Go be happy. Find your magic place where the fog comes in and the sailboats can get all the way out to the ocean.


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My Anxieties About Starting my MFA

7/6/2014

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This Friday, I embark on a magical journey to a faraway land called Maine. And if my current binge-watching of Once Upon a Time is any indication, Maine is a kingdom far away with ruthless pawn store owners and little regard for any actual law.


That worry aside, I'm getting my supplies ready and my homework in order to make this trek, and I would like to share my deep-seated neuroses about beginning this journey.

Workshopping Others' Work

How nice should I be? How mean should I be? I'm editing my classmates' stuff, and I'm used to editing as an editor with a client I am working for. And yes, you as the editor must have a bit of teamwork in that kind of relationship with your client, but at the end of the day, you've either been given many moneys to help that client for your expertise, or you have been hired by a publisher because you know what you're doing. There's confidence in that role. Now I'm sitting not as an editor, but as a classmate, a peer. If I'm too mean, then maybe I'm being precocious. If I'm too nice, then maybe I'm not doing my assignment correctly. Without knowing the culture of the school or how MFA programs work, I might just dip into pro-mode and start giving notes on what must change before this can be published ... before I remember that's not my place in this case.

Getting torn apart in Workshop

So in this program, you submit your manuscript about three months before you actually go to workshop. I've completely revised the crappy manuscript I turned in, working with other editors and writer pals to get it to a better place. Now that I look at my old draft, I am so afraid of what is to come at this workshop. I want to give one of those taboo disclaimers, where I stand up and wave my arms in the air and shout, "I know it sucks! I just worked twelve weeks making it not suck! Please God don't think I suck!" But we all know I wouldn't ever do that ...

Being a Noob

I'm not gonna lie. I am hella awkward when I don't know anyone in a situation. And I know this is a stupid thing to worry about. I'm an adult! I am like three years away from being thirty, I have a full-time career, I have published a book and plays and have traversed some of the scariest American cities all by myself. I worked at a publishing company for three years. I freelance edit. I've started two writing groups. I teach Creative Writing. I have no bed time, damn it!

I am so scared of coming off like a faker, like a false writer, like an idiot who just finally learned what a chapbook looks like. I have this inexplicable fear of showing up and taking one look at everyone and realizing that while I know my stuff, they all got into a secret club long ago; a club to which I received no invite. I know this is stupid, but how as an adult, do I still worry about who I'm going to sit with at the lunch table?

Being Away from Home

Again, a stupid one for a grown woman. My fiance just moved up to this town. We haven't been separated since we ended our Long Distance Relationship three months ago. And now, a week, before I'm about to leave, our friend has died. I'm missing my friend's memorial game night to go to this residency, and I'm leaving behind a fiance who has just realized that mortality exists and we all are doomed to say goodbye to one another. I also will not lie: I slept in a blanket fort last night, because my friend made blanket forts, and when bad things happen, blanket forts sound like the best thing ever and you just want to sit in one and drink mounds of pop out of a Twizzler straw. The idea of leaving home right now is a tough one, but life has to carry on and we have to carry ourselves with it. Oh, happy day!

Not Packing the Right Stuff

So I'm flying to Maine. I have to fit everything I need into like a suitcase. I've never been to Maine, and I've never been to these dorms or this college. I've heard I need a fan. Other than that, I do not know. What if I forget an important book? What if I forget my toothbrush? What if I forget my homework?!

Missing Something

Honesty, again: I plan to glomp onto the nicest, most patient upperclassman I can find and just tail them for the entire ten days. In the unfortunate event I cannot find a willing upperclassman, what will become of me? I will miss a bus. I will miss a class. I will miss food. I will miss the really cool hangout where everyone gets to know each other. I will get lost in Portland and no one will ever find me again!

Not Realizing How Stupid It Was to Worry Until It's Too Late

I've heard that the Stonecoast residency is "like coming home." From the people I've met, they're so very nice.

I've been thinking a lot about my friend. I met them --- and yes, I am using them out of respect, not out of improper grammar --- on Facebook before I moved away to undergraduate. I was so nervous, not knowing what awaited me in Chicago and this university where fancy things happened and fancy strangers attended. So I reached out, to the people on Facebook who were also going to be freshmen in the fall. This was 2006, so there was actually a spot to write which dorm you were in, and so I searched people who would be living down the hall from me.

My friend was one of these people.

Looking back on our very first conversation via chat, because we live in the world of technological ghosts, I see that we were both very nervous about leaving home and going into the great perhaps. I barely knew the person who would become my friend. They were nothing but a stranger on Facebook, and I couldn't think of a scenario where college was an actual day-to-day, real-life thing I would excel at.

Now, eight years later, my friend and I had our last conversation a week ago, before they were taken. Our last conversation, funnily enough, was about that first year of college and who we'd roomed with. We reminisced on the hard parts, but also the good parts. We didn't know it would be our last conversation.

But that conversation was full of good memories. Although we'd been nervous about moving to the city and taking on the world, we'd done it. We both found happiness. We both grew into strong adults. We both had been brave enough to take that step into adventure and friendship.

Now I feel that anxiety again, starting a new chapter and a new program. I've met people on Facebook in preparation, and I feel as if I'm about to make a whole new bunch of friends. I can't imagine my day-to-day life being in a place far away that I've never seen in a program I've never experienced.

But eight years from now, I'll look back on this list of worries, and I'll laugh. Because new adventures are always frightening, but they're always worth it.

To all of you starting your MFA Programs, may the odds be in our favor.
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Why I Can't Write Memoirs

6/28/2014

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My baby picture, now available on the internet and wherever Google is found. You're welcome.
This week, I had the horrific experience of writing my first post for the MFA blog, The MFA Years. I am a contributor, and this is one of those amazing experiences that just sort of fell into my lap because I happened to be on MFA Draft '14 at the right place at the right time.

So obviously I didn't want to screw it up.

We were supposed to introduce ourselves, give the audience a taste as to who we were and what we were about. It was an open-ended question that could lead us into talking about applications, writing history, or our pet cats. Seeing as I don't have cats and the application process is an awful nightmarish blur, I opted for the story I thought was most important to my growth as a writer.

How I learned to stop worrying and enjoy science fiction writing.

This piece can be found here. I added pictures from my own personal life, I talked about a personal conversation I had with my professor, I opened up about my grandmother and my weird quirks as a child. I even touched on my elitism in college. While none of this stuff was that hardcore and shouldn't have given me a panic attack, I stayed up until about 3 a.m. reading it and re-reading it, picking over every photograph to make sure my real name wasn't in there, that I didn't say anything bad about anyone, and trying not to anger the entire literary fiction world.

The piece was not controversial. I'm just a sissy.

I guess this is why I cannot write autobiographical things. I tried, for a class entitled Autobiography. I wrote all about my time in the big city and the different people I'd met, but I never published it. I never showed it to anyone who wasn't my professor, and I tried to distance myself from it.

I know other people have this anxiety. We live in an age that anything written on the internet or in a magazine can easily be found by anyone for the next however many hundreds of years that internet exists. This means that some stupid Facebook rant I wrote in 2006 is still very much visible to me and anyone who is interested enough in my Facebook to spelunk  through eight years of selfies to find that on December 2, I was very angry at "You Know Who You Are" for disagreeing with "Whatever Stupid Politics I was Into At the Time!"

So a lot of us have become a little skittish about sharing with the class.

I've read so much memoir lately, and they're all about women who overcame these gigantic odds through different difficult situations, and I just think, "I know everything about you, and I've never met you." What great courage that they stand up and are sometimes the first to say, "This thing that we aren't talking about? It's happening. It's happening to a lot of us."

I don't think I'll ever be that brave.

I watched John Leguizamo the other night, and he discusses his father's lawsuit against him for his autobiographical one-man show. I just thought about my own dad, tearing up because of me sharing something that was between me and him, and I just can't do that. I think about my mom, my ex-best friend, my ex-boyfriends, my old teachers, my college roommates, my professors, that one guy on the bus ... they're all with me and peering over my shoulder when I write about them. I even worry about my grandma, who is now dead and gone. I put her picture up on my blog a few months ago and told her story. I really battled about doing that. Who was I to talk about her? Who was I to tell her story when I hadn't been there or when I just had one perspective?

Like I said, memoir takes a lot of courage. Any one of us can sit down and make up stories and share them with each other. There's a blanket of comfort that we are not those people, we did not make those decisions, we did not lose real friends or betray them or make other people hurt. We made no mistakes. Because those people are fiction, and we just made them up.

But memoir?

I salute the memoirists. You stand up and shout out into the void your secrets and your truths, and other people shout back. You share your most valuable stories and most loved family and friends so we may learn something or so we don't feel so alone. While we all huddle in our own little caves, protected from scrutiny and judgment, you stand out in the storm and take it, just so we know there's someone out there for us.

So thank you. Please keep writing. And maybe someday I'll learn from you how to stand out in the rain.





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10 Things I Learned from Applying for an MFA in Creative Writing (or, now that I'm finally into an MFA program, what I wished I knew a year ago) (OR how you can learn from my stupidity)

4/22/2014

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So this story has a happy ending. I got into the school of my dreams, and I have purchased my plane ticket to whisk off to Maine this July so I can learn how to write about robots and dragons. Just keep that in mind. After three times of trying, I finally got to go to college.

A lot of people have stories that are similar, and other people, like my friend's girlfriend, only tried for one school once and landed a funded position. So sweet for her, and sucky for the rest of us.

My own personal story started in 2008, when I decided I was going to try for an MFA in the first place. In late 2010, I applied for real. I applied to Brown (ha, no), Cornell (wait, what?), Michigan (yeah right), and IWW (death knells). As you can possibly imagine, I was not old enough, experienced enough, good enough, nor ready enough to go to any of these programs. I turned in a personal statement talking about how the MFA was a glass box upon a shelf full of my dreams and aspirations, and I was scared to take it down off the shelf and get my fingerprints on it or some other random nonsense like that. I also spelled Sherman Alexie's name wrong.

The second year, I got into a program. But there was no funding, and instead there was a fat benign tumor in my guts, which meant I needed to put the MFA (and a lot of my writing projects) on the back-burner for one more year so I could make sure I was well enough to move away and do my thing.

This brings us to the third year.

And even while I count the days until that beautiful plane with the one connecting flight in O'Hare takes me to Stonecoast, I sit with six rejections and two waitlists in my pocket to the other eight schools I applied to. I just lucked out that the one school I wanted was the one school who wanted me.

In short terms: it's hard out there for a pimp.

I freaked myself out so hard, guys. An entire year of my life was dedicated to this freakish awful circus called MFA Applications. And I, too, scoured the internet to figure out what the hell I should be doing.

Now that I am through the tunnel of doom and on the other side, I unfortunately still don't know everything. I know a lot of people got way more acceptances than I did. I know a lot of people know how to spell Sherman Alexie's name right the first time. But I also know I survived, and I'm wiser for it.

Here's the Top 10 Things I Wish I'd Known.

10: MFA DRAFT

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MFA applications can be hard and tedious. It'd be nice to have someone there to just give you a pat on the back and be like, "It's okay! I'm going through hell, too! THE ODDS ARE NEVER IN ANYONE'S FAVOR! THE CAKE IS A LIE!" So for this reason, I wish I'd known about MFA Draft long before I did. I actually found the Draft after all of my applications were turned in, and I was waiting to hear back. I wanted to know when people were being contacted, and that meant finding places like gradcafe and MFA Draft. Unfortunately, Draft would have come in handy about twelve months earlier, since people share tips and swap drafts of their writing samples and keep each other sane through GRE testing. If you're applying for 2015, look up MFA Draft 15. Do it now. Introduce yourself. And get started.

9. JUNE WASN'T EARLY ENOUGH.

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So I started in June. I turned down my Round 2 MFA Application Anti-Acceptance Due to Tumor in April, and then I started MFA searching in June. I thought I was on top of it all. I thought I was ridin' the wave of productivity and haha to those unfortunates who wouldn't start until October! I sat my rump down at a Dunkin Donuts and I read the Poets&Writers MFA Edition and I highlighted the crap outta that sucker. I was gonna do it! I was gonna get ready for the GRE and Mama, I was gonna be a star!

I should have started in March. There's so much to do, especially on the writing sample and even just really researching what schools would be a good fit for you, that you cannot wait until June. You just can't.

8. IOWA MAY BE FANCY, BUT IT MIGHT NOT BE A FIT.

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I applied to nine schools. I write "popular fiction" or "genre fiction" or "science fiction" or "speculative fiction" or "hack-style" or whatever you want to call it. So I knew that not every MFA program was going to be for me. But oh, I still underestimated just how gloriously my paper airplane of a writing sample would crumple and fall into a fiery ball of sad. My writing sample included a story about a man who moves backwards in time instead of forwards, a granddaughter recounting her grandmother's last day on Earth before the Noah's Ark Rocketship took off, and of course an excerpt of my science fiction novel. Except for Brown, where I needed a few more pages and I included my YA Steampunk Trilogy (excerpt, of course). I am brilliant. So very brilliant.

The thing is, I took a chance. I wanted a school to pick me for who I was, not for who they thought I was. And this is who I am, guys. But instead of wasting my time and money and paper and postage on schools like NCSU and Brown, I should have probably focused more on smaller schools with good funding who would take on a crackerjack like me.

Stonecoast, thank God, was looking for crackerjacks. They collect crackerjacks. And now I get to crackerjack for two years with people who can actually help me.

And imagine if you got into one of those programs where you couldn't actually be yourself.
I was (surprisingly) waitlisted at a school that was research heavy. I hate research. Why the hell would I apply to someplace that would expect me to research things?! I don't know, but I did.

I also looked at Poets & Writers for the answers. Obviously if a school is ranked 60 out of 150, it's easier to get into than IWW or Brown, right?

Ha, by like four percent, maybe! You're still sitting at 4 out of 900 applicants! Good luck to you, ma'am!

This is in no way saying that P&W isn't legit; it totally is and you need to read it and ear-mark it and kiss it before bed. But you also need to do some of your own research on the programs. You need to see if low-res is going to work out for you a little better than full-res, or maybe Amherst would be your worst nightmare instead of your dream come true, because you have nothing in common with the faculty. Or maybe there is a really sweet program in Kalamazoo (there isn't any program in Kalamazoo, please don't get your hopes up) that gives full funding but it's up-and-coming, and no one knows about it yet.

That happened to me with Wichita.

Cut to: 2008. Interior. Book Fair at AWP. I see Wichita's table. It's small. I go over there. They are really nice and sweet and they tell me all about new stuff that is happening. I decide Wichita is not for me.

Cut to: 2014. I'm near the end of my application process, and I decide in a panic to apply to Wichita. It's been a few years. They've grown. Seth Abramson mentioned them and now everyone wants WSU.

Guess who didn't get in.

Find the place that fits you, not the place you need to fit.


I wasted so much time and money. And in the end, Stonecoast didn't even need my damn GRE.

7. F THE GRE.

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So yes, let me begin this by saying that you absolutely should study for that test and yes, it does mean a lot when coming down to the nitty-gritty of funding and TA positions. And yes, there are specific programs that need a certain GRE score in order to be admitted. So in no way am I saying that the GRE is not important.

But it's not important as it will seem.

I feel like a lot of us glomp onto the GRE because it's the only assessment-based score we get during our progress in this dark hole of applying. But really, seriously, if you figure out what programs you really want to apply to, and none of them want the GRE, then you may not want to take the GRE. Of course, other people will disagree with me, saying that you may find a program you like down the road and you're going to need that score. It's a gamble, but either way, GRE or no GRE, don't use your entire summer studying for it instead of workshopping your writing sample.

Like me.

I worked so hard on that GRE, and I got a pretty good score. By pretty good, it was high enough to get into any school I wanted ... if this was the ACT and I was going for undergrad. But I wasn't, and the GRE really meant nothing because they didn't like my writing sample. So hey, kids! Know your vocabulary, but go to the writing sample. Use your summer for the writing sample.

Writing sample.

Also, know which programs you want to send your GRE to, before you leave for the testing. They give you four free schools, and use that. It's an extra hundred dollars.

6. IT IS SERIOUSLY ALL ABOUT THE WRITING SAMPLE. NO. SERIOUSLY.

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Everyone says this and no one believes it. Have a strong SOP, have strong recs, but seriously, it comes down to the sample. You double-check that puppy five times before you send it out, for any typos whatsoever. Because guess who had typos even after checking it and rechecking it and having two other people recheck it? Two thumbs to this gal.

Don't do novel excerpts. Don't show off something that you just wrote. And don't ever turn anything that wasn't workshopped. Workshop it. Send it out. Tear it apart, or the applicant committee will.

5. PUT YOUR HEART INTO IT, AND THEN FORGET ABOUT IT.

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I worked nonstop from June to the end of January on my MFA applications. It was a near-to year of my life. I've had relationships shorter than the application process for this graduate degree. I was meticulous, I was ruthless, I was egocentric, and I missed out on a lot of films during Oscar season.

But then there's this weird drop-off come February, when there is nothing to do and no one is telling you how you did.

Around mid-March, I should have been having the time of my life, since my bridesmaids and I went on vacation to check out my wedding venue and I had a week off from school. However, I was fervently watching MFA Draft 14 to see if I had gotten into Boulder or Wichita. I checked the mail every day, I pestered my parents to see maybe my mail had magically ended up in their mailbox ten miles away.

You just have to forget about it. From January 3 to April 15, you will know nothing, Jon Snow. You have to carry on with your life. Your beautiful, fulfilling, day-job life.

4. DON'T USE THE MFA AS AN ESCAPE HATCH.

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Ah. Yes. That day job.

I actually got into an argument on MFA Draft about how some people are using the MFA to run away from a life they don't want.  I think that every writer has a small little part of their brain that says, "Man, if I could just write all day for a living and do nothing else, then I would have it made." Well, I know writers who write for a living, all day, and it's not as easy as you'd think. Just assume that anything you do, anywhere you go, anyone you love will have their setbacks. That weird, tired, frustration that comes with being alive and breathing on Earth does not go away just because you have moved away, changed jobs, gotten married, or even entered an MFA program.

I said that in fact I'd known people who were using the MFA application as a possible "escape hatch" from their crappy lives and their crappy situations. Having someone pay you a stipend to sit in a dorm and type, type, type? Greatest thing ever, right?

No. And I was a little vindicated when a few days later, another Drafter posted that she was frustrated and sad because not getting into a program this year meant having to go back to her crappy job where no one treated her with any respect. Someone commented with words of wisdom, asking, "Will you then be okay working that crappy job and getting disrespected while you're in graduate school?" Because guess what, kiddos, you're still going to have to work to put yourself through school (and yes, that includes full funding).

"But Dawson!" you exclaim. "I got into Brown and I have enough savings!"

Sweet. But then you run into other problems. Like absolutely no job prospects when you graduate (helloooo adjuncts!). Or you're living in Providence, which is a gigantic college town with swindly landlords who will shut your heat off in the middle of the night. Everything looks shiny and beautiful, until you get there and start to see the grease marks right up close.

And I was in a writing cohort in my undergrad. I will be the first to tell you that getting a writing degree is not easy. Is it fun? If you love it, and I loved it, it will all be totally worth it. But I still had to contend with deadlines, a ridiculous amount of writing, and everything I wrote got torn apart to shreds. I had to deal with everyone else and the competition of having four people going for one final little slot of production at the end of the four years, and everyone was good. And even when people weren't good, you wondered why they got praise that day and you didn't. I had a professor who absolutely hated my writing style, and I thought that meant that I sucked forever.


It's not easy. Writing is never easy. But we do it because we love it.


This also plays into this Michael Chabon idea that if you go into an MFA program, you will immediately become someone. You won't. You'll probably end up flitting around from adjunct job to adjunct job, trying to make ends meet.


In summation: You go into an MFA program to get better at writing. You don't go into an MFA program to hide from the world or jump-start your life out of your parents' basement. Otherwise, you're going to be even more frustrated and depressed than you were when you were applying in the first place.

3: SCHOLARSHIPS! FAFSA! MONEY! YAY!

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Yes, you need to do the FAFSA. Yes, there are scholarships outside of your department. You need to scour the college's website very early on, so you know exactly when scholarships are due and which ones you can apply for. Do your FAFSA as soon as you get your tax information from your jobs. Just do things early. There aren't a lot of federal grants and there's barely any scholarships out there that don't come from your schools, but you need to keep things in mind for GA's, TA's, and scholarships:

There is the department.

And then there is the graduate school as a general whole.

Two chances. Two sets of opportunities. Don't forget that second one.

Oh, and even if you are paying completely out of pocket, you should do the FAFSA. Some schools consider it a requirement.

Also. Another big thing to remember about money. Applications cost. A LOT.

2: KNOW YOUR FACULTY. KNOW YOUR RECOMMENDERS.

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Now some people go overboard and read every single faculty's book. That's ridiculous. Don't do that. But you do need to see who you're going to be working with. I've worked with teachers and professors before who just do not see eye-to-eye with what I want to do with my writing. They write something completely different than what I'm interested in writing, and neither of us can find any common ground. That said, I actually met one of the greatest influences in my writing life because I switched one Creative Writing class time slot when I was a sophomore in college.

And now that person is one of my recommenders. Oh look! A transition!

It's important to trust your recs. It is important to know these people believe in you and are going to fight for you. One of my recommenders the first time around was a very fancy person, but they wrote the absolute worst recommendation I've ever seen (because yes, they gave me a copy). They meant no malice by it; they were just an awful letter writer. It was literally a paragraph, and not a big fat paragraph. It was like a tiny little "I endorse this message" disclaimer more than it was a meaningful explanation of their adoration for my work. Or you know ... whatever.

You also need to treat your recommenders like real people, because they are real people. On the flip side of life, I work as a recommender for other people. I absolutely hate it when people hand me a form or an address or information and they're like, "Yeah it's due tomorrow." I tell people I want at least two weeks' notice, and I think that's being pretty nice to them. On the other hand, I also get pissed when people hand me information and they're like, "Oh yeah, and it's due in I don't know ... April?" And it's October. I will forget. Don't think just because you dropped it off and touched base (in a very literal way ... like reaching out and touching a base and then running away with immunity to taggers), that I am even going to remotely remember that you need a recommendation come April. I've had relationships shorter than the time you are asking me to remember something. So no, that don't cut it.

Also, get them a present. They'll really appreciate it, and then they'll do more recs for you.

Also, ask for more than what you need. I've heard so many horror stories about people who didn't get into a school because some a-wad didn't turn in their rec letter. How dumb is that? You do everything right. You pay money. And you don't get in because your recommender didn't turn a piece of paper in?!

But it happens.

So if you need three, get four. Or five. I had five people on deck for three slots, and all of my recs got turned in on time.

Also, you need to send them SASE's for their rec letters and you need to write out all of the information for them. It needs to be organized and categorized so they know exactly what is going on with life. If not, they'll shut down or just get really angry that you didn't make this easy. And do you want an angry person writing your rec letter?

No. The answer is no.

Last thing: if you can, meet the faculty. One of my biggest regrets was not being able to make it to AWP this year. I've got every year since 2008 when I discovered AWP existed as a wee sophomore in college. You need to go to those booths, make actual connections with people, and really honestly have that human experience with other humans. Talk to students, get to know the school. Once at AWP, I went up to the booth of one of my top picks, and this little girl with a fancy t-shirt informed me and a group of kids, "Oh. If you write genre, don't even think about applying here. Or at least try to mask it in your writing sample."

That was a big fat nope from me. And I saved 70 bucks on my application, and the faculty saved their eyesight not having to read it.

Also, take advantage of AWP. I actually had someone come up from NEOMFA and woo me to their program and took my name and got really excited about me going there. NEOMFA wasn't for me, because at the time, I did not have a driver's license. But it was really sweet to be wooed. Wouldn't all of us love to be wooed during this process?

1. LOVE YOURSELF, NO MATTER WHAT.

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Your heart is going to be broken, guys. All of your hearts. You will not get into every program you want to get into, and even if you're one of those lucky Top Ten who gets in everywhere and then has to choose between Michigan and Brown, you're going to be sad eventually because you'll go there and think to yourself, "Maybe I'm not good enough."

Well, you are good enough. We all are. Because we are wanting to dedicate two years of our lives to getting better at something. How many people in the world do that? Who gets up in the morning and thinks, "I want to go and get better at this thing that is not going to make me any money and will probably cause me to spend a lot of time by myself, miserable and self-loathing." Furthermore, how many people say, "There is this thing I love to do, but I am humble enough to know that I could get better?" If you think a lot of people say these things, then I commend you, because you have kept good company.

But I've met a lot of people who just sort of slug through life, or they have such an ego, they never try to get better. So many people out there would rather say, "Oh, well, I'm sure it'll happen on its own." or "I always wanted to do this thing, but you know, stuff." People suck because they procrastinate. People always talk about what they could have been or what they're going to be, but they never do anything to better their situation.

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars.

So the fact that you are even reading this blog, looking at schools, applying to programs, and going off into the great perhaps ... all of that tells me that you are worth something, and you want your writing to be worth something.

Be kind to yourself. Allow yourself to be open to growth and criticism. But never allow anyone to make you feel like you're a nothing. And if you don't get into a program, it does not mean that you suck. It means that your writing sample sucked. Or maybe your writing sample just didn't fit whatever that school wanted. Or maybe you just aren't ready for the great perhaps, but perhaps next year you will be.

The only thing you can do is keep loving yourself, keep writing, and keep fighting.

Good luck. And God Bless.


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She Lives in You: Immortality through Stories

3/18/2014

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This woman to your left is one of the most important people in my life. Her name was Dorothy. When she was a girl growing up in the Depression, her uncle brought her and her four sisters the funny pages as Christmas presents, because it's all he could afford. Her grandmother sponsored her so she could go to high school and not get sold out to maid and farmhand work by her father. Her grandmother had her own brilliant story; she'd been seventeen and only German-speaking when she landed on Ellis Island during the Draft Riots.

But one day, Dorothy returned to her grandma's house after school, and her dad was waiting.

"Get in the car. Your grandma's dead. And you're coming home."

Coming home for Dorothy wasn't a good thing. Immediately, her father hired her out as a farmhand. She was fifteen.

At some point, she said it was enough, and she went to work as a gas station attendant. It's where she met Leonard. At age nineteen (1938), she married him.

They worked as farmhands until they could get enough of a savings going to buy their own land. They did, and there were ducks and horses and a bunch of soybeans, according to my mom.

They raised two kids on that farm; three if you include my dad (whom she took in when he was sixteen). But the kids moved away and everyone got older. Leonard got sick. And then Leonard got sicker. And then the farm was sold, and the two found themselves in an apartment down the road from the big city hospital, an hour away from any sort of countryside.

Nine months after Leonard died, I was born.

We lived in that apartment, half of my toys and half of my memories in that place. My parents were still young, and they still tried to make ends meet by working a lot. So Grandma and I got close. She was a mother in every sense of the word. And she was a mentor in an even grander scheme.

She got me to start writing books.

This past September, she died after a ten-year battle with dementia. To see her stories fall away one by one, to see her barely remember the farm and her family, it was difficult. It was like none of it had happened and none of it mattered.

And then when the text came in from my aunt (Your grandma's gone, sweetie. I'm so sorry), it felt like there was a void of existence in the world.

It got me thinking, how many stories weren't told ever again. Grandma talked about sitting on the porch, watching her mom work. She talked about a carnival she went to with her sisters and they all took awful photos in the picture booth. She talked about her uncle's kindness, her father's cruelty, her mom's frailty, her older sister's persnickety-ness, and her youngest sister's babyish habits.

Grandma was the last of them to pass. All of those people, all of those stories, are gone.

The question has arisen in my own life and in the lives of those she left behind as to whether or not she continued on after death. A few signs have been shown, a few odd and weird coincidences have surfaced, and not to mention of course the age-old fable of what happened when she actually died. And personally, yes, I do think she's still with us in a new way. I've seen too much to think she isn't. But that point aside, she still lives, because I just shared her story with you and now we're all thinking about her and her life.

That was her worry in life, being forgotten. And now she never will be. Somewhere in the void of the internet, she will sit here on this webpage with a very simplified version of her story told.

That's all books really are; photos taken in a picture booth from the 30's. A thought that passed someone's mind as they sat on the porch watching their mother wash linens. A moment shared between a child and her grandmother in a quiet apartment that will too someday be open to deletion with my death. But it never does get deleted, does it? Because we keep telling the stories. We keep passing them on. I pass her story on, just like she told me the story of her own grandma.

And in that way, no one will ever really die.

Tell your stories. Don't forget them. And maybe we'll all live forever.

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MFA Draft 2014: Don't Just Get Married for the Dress

3/11/2014

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Yes, that above metaphor does make sense, and yes, I will explain it.

So for those of you who may not know, I applied for MFA programs this year. And boy oh boy, did I learn a lot. I think one particular lesson is important for all writers to keep in mind, regardless if they're putting themselves on the front lines of admissions or submitting to a dream publication or agent.

Writing is not getting accepted. Writing is not being told it's good. Writing is not getting everything you want. Writing is simply writing.

Ooo, let me do my metaphor now.

So in my personal life, I am getting married. I know, exciting, we've been broadcasting it online since 2011, so it should not come as a surprise to anyone who has been following our story. But Alex and I finally tie the knot on August 16, 2014.

In a fury of "oh-my-God-this-is-actually-happening," Alex and I headed out to a Wedding Convention across the river. And there indeed in all of its glory was the entire convention center, full of just absolute shit. I say shit not because it was ugly, but it was just a lot of shit. Like, you know, when you are moving out of your freshman college dorm for the summer, and your parents look around at all the random useless knick-knacks you've accumulated over nine months, and they say, "Look at all of this shit!"

"Man," I sort of kidded with Alex, "it's like it's all about the bride and you're just an accessory."

The joke became reality when the doormen started handing out stickers to BRIDES, BRIDESMAIDS, MOTHERS OF THE BRIDES, and ...

"Can I help you?" the man said to Alex's outstretched hand.

"A groom sticker, please!" Alex beamed.

The man scoffed. "Ha. Yeah, we don't have those." And he moved along.

Alex sort of sat there in a bit of a tizzy.

It seemed as if some girls get married for the sake of the wedding, and if the newest David's Bridal commercial and the numerous wedding forums internet-wide are any indication, this is a legitimate frame of mind.

I don't want to get married so I can wear a dress. I don't want to get married so I get my bachelorette party this weekend.
I don't want to get married so I can sit here on this blog and tell you I'm getting married. I want to get married because I am in love with Alex.

Alex is not some cold business partner who shall be playing the role of the groom. His proposal was clumsy and messy, but it was real. Our courtship was long and personal and beautiful because it was ours, not cookie-cutter. There was no question whether or not I was going to say yes, and when the going got tough, we didn't play games. We talked it out. Our hearts are fully in this. We are best friends, and it has been a very personal experience.

Writing has to be the same way.

So I asked myself why I write. It's such an over-asked question, but sitting on Facebook's MFA Draft 14 board, it makes you feel small and insignificant when you try to compare yourself to these people who seem to know what they're doing more than you do. All of a sudden, our prowess and talent and worth as a person are measured in amounts of rejection letters, acceptances, waitlists, or little scribbled notes on our "no thank you but you're awesome" mail. We keep score like writing is something that comes with a scoreboard. And we are ranked, over and over again.

This is not what writing is.

I asked myself a very important question. And I came up with a very important answer.

This is what my groom is: My groom is a boy with curly hair and glasses, who laughs by tilting his chin into his neck and giving out an "Oh my Goood" that can last for minutes. That's how you know you really got him good. My groom is a man who growled when he shoved a jackass in Boys Town Chicago up against a brick wall because the guy had copped a feel on my boobs.
My groom sometimes tries to quote Cracked articles to me as interesting facts, when we both know damn well we both read Cracked religiously. My groom is someone who sits by lakes with me and we talk about whether or not we can afford Jimmy Johns, and then we slip into a conversation about God and whether or not we really did see my grandmother standing at the end of the death bed when her body gave out.

And this is what writing is: Writing is sitting cross-legged on my dorm bed, playing Natalie Merchant and Panic! At the Disco while I furiously type out a scene with John Price and Daniel Welles. Writing is making Abigail's airship fly across the sky while Wallace Cane stands by her side. It's watching a stranger jump from a thirty-story building and wishing I could stop him from hitting the ground. It's looking Pard straight in the face and wondering if he knows that he's a bad person sometimes. And it's standing next to Dantes and Judas when they overlook the broken kingdom that is now completely void of life.

I am marrying my soul mate. I write people I have known for years in my mind; people I love and people who have a story that I have to tell. All of it comes from the soul, from the desire and love to need to love.

And I think we all need to remember that. Be kind to yourself. Love is something that comes from the soul, not from a letter and not from a dress.

Boom! Metaphor full circle!
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Photos used under Creative Commons from smoorenburg, Erik Daniel Drost, prasad.om, Feral78, spbpda, Môsieur J. [version 9.1], markus spiske, jcasabona