The Beauty of What I Love

"It is a tremendous act of violence to begin anything," said Sagittarian poet Rainer Maria Rilke. "I am not able to begin. I simply skip what should be the beginning." I urge you to consider trying that approach yourself, Sagittarius. Instead of worrying about how to launch your rebirth, maybe you should just dive into the middle of the new life you want for yourself. Avoid stewing interminably in the frustrating mysteries of the primal chaos so you can leap into the fun in full swing. (Wise words in my horoscope for the week of 11/24/11 from Rob Brezsny's Freewill Astrology)

I saw Dar Williams in concert last Sunday night, and as always, she was delightful. I love her shows because in addition to being a fantastic singer and songwriter, she's generous, funny, and oh-so-real. Real as in human and authentic and true. Real in that I'd-like-to-be-your-friend way. In-between songs she tells stories about life and music and the intersections of the two. She's at ease and also perfectly quirky at the same time. She makes me want to be her neighbor.

What I love most (besides the music) is the sense of community Dar builds when she's on stage. (And yes, I know I keep calling her "Dar" as though we're BFFs or something, which we're not, even though I met her after the show and she was ever so nice. But calling her "Williams" feels too stuffy, and not what I'd call my neighbor.) So, this sense of community: It might be just Dar and a guitar (plus a keyboardist this time) up there on stage, but I always feel like I'm part of something at one of her concerts. The audience always contains plenty of true fans who are comfortable calling out questions and comments, all in the spirit of conversation. (What's the opposite of a heckler? A supporter? Merriam-Webster supplies only "near antonyms" for heckler, including defender, soother, succorer, and comforter. Comforter: Now I'm picturing an audience of cozy comforters and downy duvets snuggled into the chairs, which actually feels about right.) Dar interacts with this audience of anti-hecklers, answering and joking and asking her own questions, continuing that conversation with comfort. She sings, the audience sings. We're there to listen to her, but I suspect a lot of us are there for a sort of sing-a-long, too. Her music makes us participants in something larger than ourselves.

As she told a story on Sunday she made a passing mention to one of her songs, a crowd favorite. The audience murmured in excitement, thinking she was going to play it next, but that wasn't the plan. She played a different song, and then said, "Okay, I can't mention a song and hear you all say 'Oh!' and then not play it. Help me out on this one if I need it; I haven't played it in awhile, but here we go." And there we went, Dar playing guitar and singing, the audience singing too, all of us in it together.

The last time Dar was in town before this, she was sick. She'd started to lose her voice just before the show, and by the time she got on stage (just her and her guitar this time), it was leaving fast, to the point that she had to change her set list and even the key of some songs so she could hit the notes. And that time, it really was a sing-a-long. I don't remember if she asked us to help her out, or if we spontaneously raised our voices, but that time we truly were in it together. On Sunday she said, "Last time I was here you all really showed me the love. Thank you for that."

I don't know if I'll ever be Dar Williams' neighbor, but I'm trying to be more like her. When people read my words, I want them to feel like I feel when I'm sitting in a dark theatre listening to Dar (and the comforters around me) sing. I want my readers to feel connected, not just to the words and ideas on the page, but to the world, to each other, to the divine, to themselves.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about what I'm really called to do in this world. I know I'm meant to write, but is there a deeper purpose to my stringing together words that sound and taste good? I feel a lot of angst around this question. I just want to create beautiful stories with meaning. Is that enough? Am I making it too complicated (as I'm wont to do)?

I know other writers who feel called to use their words and work for social justice, for peace, for emotional healing, for environmental responsibility. I care about all of those issues and more, and sometimes I may write about them. But I keep wondering what my "thing" is, as though I have to declare some sort of stance, to choose a major in this university of life. This obsession is curious, since I'm not much for labels or structures or limits. I'm rarely able to choose a straight and narrow path and declare absolute allegiance to one thing over another. I'm not suggesting that the writers I'm referring to above do this either; everyone is multi-faceted and complex, with nuance and shades of personality. But I've been hoping to find that elusive one thing to define myself and my work, something I can call my own, something to call me. (I could talk at length about the reasons I want this kind of self-definition while also rejecting such limits, but that's a story for another time, one I'm sure I'll have to write eventually.)

Being at Dar's concert reminded me of what I love to do: to create beautiful stories with meaning. Dar writes about a lot of things, including politics, social justice, the environment, art, family, psychology, and Greek mythology. Those are good and important things, but I never pigeon-hole her as an activist artist or a parent or any other one thing. She writes and performs songs of beauty and meaning.

The opening act on Sunday was an amazing local artist named EMay (a.k.a. Erika May), who quotes Rumi in one of her songs: "Let the beauty of what you love be what you do." Maybe my work in this world is to simply do what I love: to use words to create connections, to beckon beauty, to craft something that makes me and those who read it feel alive. What do I call this calling? I don't have any other word for it but writer.

How The Low-Res MFA Works (In The Word Cellar)

This is Part 4 of an "In The Word Cellar" mini-series about MFA in writing programs. You can read the other posts at the links listed below:

• Part 1: The Road to MFA-ville gives you a short introduction to the mini-series.
• Part 2: Why Get an MFA in Writing? chronicles my decision to apply to graduate school and explores what I was looking for in a program.
• Part 3: Researching & Choosing an MFA Program is a long, meaty post that details how I chose which programs to apply to. It also includes helpful resources and suggestions for anyone considering or applying to an MFA program.

In that last post, I offered an overview of how low-residency programs work and why I liked being in one. First, I'll reprint what I wrote about that, and then I'll get into more details about the logistics of low-res programs, including how the feedback process works and what "critical" work really means in the context of a creative writing program.

How low-res programs work...

Low-res programs usually take four semesters to complete. A semester is six months, so you're basically working on the degree for two years straight. Twice a year you spend about 10 days on campus. (This is the residency part.) During residencies you'll attend lectures, workshops, and readings with faculty members and other students. I found that residencies were like an alternate reality: total immersion in the world of writing. The "real world" of home and work fade away and seem quite distant very quickly. Frankly, it's pretty fantastic to be immersed in the world of writing and the company of other writers.

The rest of the semester is spent off-campus. So it's just you and your writing wherever you live. Each program may be a bit different, but most work like this: Once a month you send packets of writing to your faculty advisor, who will then respond with detailed feedback and recommendations.

A low-res program culminates in the completion of a creative thesis, just as in traditional programs. This is essentially a collection of creative writing you've done over the course of the program. Mine had to be at least 75 pages. It included a collection of essays that belong together plus one "random" essay that wasn't part of the same set. Your creative thesis could be part (or all) of a memoir, a novel, a collection of short stories, or a poetry collection. (The page count for poets is always much shorter, it seems.) My other graduation requirements included writing a critical thesis and writing and delivering a 45-minute lecture.

...and why I think they're great.

It's often said that the low-res model more closely mirrors a writer's life than does a traditional program, and I think that's true. Most of the time, being a writer means sitting down alone and writing. Then you might share your work and get feedback from an editor or your peers, and maybe get together with some fellow writers at a retreat or conference a few times a year. And then it's back to the page. This is how I spent my two years in a low-residency program, which seems to be good training for my post-grad writing life. I'm still working on writing consistently, but I'm so much better at it than I was before grad school. The experience of having monthly deadlines has helped me to become more consistent in my writing. It's also reinforced my need for external deadlines, which I now feed by making commitments with friends to swap work or deciding to send my work to lit journals.

And now for some new material. Please keep in mind that I'm writing from the perspective of my experience with Vermont College of Fine Arts (VCFA). There will be a lot of similarities with other low-res programs, but not all programs work exactly the same way. (If you've gone through a different low-res program, I invite you to leave a comment telling us how your experience was the same or different.)

The advisors
Each semester, a student works with one faculty member as an advisor. Students usually work with a different advisor each semester (for a total of four advisors), but occasionally students will petition the program and ask to work with the same advisor two semesters in a row (usually the last two semesters).

At VCFA, students get a say in who they work with, but it's not guaranteed that they'll work with any particular faculty member. You get more say as you progress through the semesters. As a first semester student you circle a certain number of names of faculty members, with no system for ranking your preference. For example, if there are eight faculty members who teach in your genre, you may be asked to circle six of them that you'd be willing to work with. Starting in your second semester you get to list faculty members by preference. Students in later semesters have more clout in this process, and by your final semester you usually get your first choice. I always ended up working with one of my top two choices for the semester.

The packets (and feedback)
As I mentioned above, each month I sent a packet of work to my advisor. Some advisors request that these be sent via regular mail, while others accept material via email. Either way, my packets consisted of a combination of creative and critical work. (More on what "critical" means below.)

A standard packet consists of 30 pages of writing (often a combination of new and revised material), plus a "cover letter." The term cover letter confuses a lot of people, and sounds like something you'd send with a resume. Not so. This letter to your advisor is an opportunity to ask them questions and to update them on how you're doing creatively. Think of it as a monthly check-in,  a written version of what you'd talk about if you met with your advisor during office hours. In return, your advisor will write you a letter, answering your questions, addressing your concerns, and offering writing and reading suggestions.

In addition to this letter, your advisor will provide detailed feedback on the work you submitted. Each advisor has his or her own way of doing this. Some will leave detailed line notes on your work. Others include the bulk of their comments in their main letter or in mini-letters at the end of each piece of writing. Some work electronically (using Word's "track changes" feature to leave comments and line edits on the electronic documents), some work on hard copies, and some may do a combination of both. I know of one faculty member who gives students feedback via audio recording, which sounds strange, but his students usually love it.

You can get a sense, in advance, of how faculty members work and what they like to focus on (which genres or subgenres; do they focus on "big picture" issues such as theme and structure or more detailed items such as language usage, grammar, and word choice). You learn this by reading their teaching statements, getting to know them through their lectures, talking to other students, and by talking directly with the faculty members during group "speed-dating" sessions.

A note about feedback
Just as every faculty member has a different process for giving feedback, each will have a unique perspective and opinion on your writing. This means that you sometimes receive conflicting advice. At first this can be frustrating and confusing, but in the end, I believe it's a gift and an invitation to find your own artistic vision. I've written a separate post on this called Dealing with Feedback.

The "critical" work
Let's talk about what critical work means in the context of a creative writing program.

First off, it's not nearly as dry, boring, or terrible as it sounds. Part of the MFA program is learning to read as a writer; to dive into another author's work and begin to figure out how she made the magic happen on the page. This is learning to look at creative work with a critical eye. Not critical in the sense of being harsh or belittling. Rather, this is about applying critical thinking skills to the craft of writing.

During my first two semesters, my critical work consisted of essays in which I examined how a particular writer or writers used a specific writing device or achieved a particular effect. I looked at a lot of different things in these pieces, including the following: how David Sedaris uses humor to convey deeper truths; how Annie Dillard uses poetic and rhetorical devices to create meaning and mood; and how various authors use details to create lyric intimacy. I also wrote a review of a published memoir, noting what worked and what didn't work in it.

These essays served as the training ground and warm-up for my third and fourth semesters, when I had to complete larger critical projects. In my third semester I wrote a critical thesis entitled "Spinning a Web of Wonder: Capturing and Conveying Awe on the Page," an in-depth examination of how several authors do this, and suggestions on general principles the rest of us can apply to achieve the same effect. For my final semester I had to write (and then present) a lecture. Mine was called "The Secret Life of Language" (description here).

Doing this kind of "critical" reading and writing is a huge part of why my writing improved so much during the program. It was completely different from the literature papers I wrote as an undergrad. It opened my creative eyes to the art and craft of writing. This way of seeing didn't come automatically; it felt awkward at first. But now that I have the hang of it, it's an indispensable skill.

Thankfully, it hasn't taken the joy out of reading at all. Many people -- including me -- tend to worry that this might happen when they start to read and think about writing in this new way. But for me, and the people I know, it's simply enhanced our experience of books. I can pretty much turn the critical faculty on and off as I need to.

Plus, I haven't lost access to the inspiration side of writing. When I write a first draft (and maybe the second and third drafts, too), I'm not usually thinking critically about it. I'm still tapped into the creative, intuitive side of things. But when I come up against a passage that's not working, I can apply this other way of thinking to it and see how I can solve the problem.

Of course, it's not really so bifurcated as this, either. As I learn more about the craft techniques of writing, they become part of my creative psyche, so a lot of the work begins to happen subconsciously as my creative mind applies the critical principles I've learned. It's actually really cool.

What else? 
If you'd like to read about low-res programs from the perspective of a faculty member, check out this article by David Jauss, an outstanding author and mentor who teaches at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock and in the low-res program at VCFA. (Note: The link above takes you to the VCFA site where you can request the article via email. The article, entitled "The Real Story Behind Low-Residency MFAs" was originally published in the February 2011 issue of Writer's Digest.)

I've tried to give you more than just a peek into how low-res programs work in general, and how the VCFA program works in particular. What have I missed?

Please chime-in below with your questions or observations about MFA in writing programs, either low-res or traditional.

***For future posts in this MFA mini-series, I'm considering offering a primer on how writing workshops function, and possible alternatives to the MFA program. Do those topics interest you? What else would you like me to address about writing, graduate programs, and the writing life? Let me know in the comments or by email, and I'll consider your questions for future In The Word Cellar columns.  

{See all In The Word Cellar posts here.}

Sometimes it helps to soften the edges

cafe, iphoneography

"Feelings seem like made-up things,
though I know they're not."

~ Brenda Shaughnessy, "All Possible Pain"
(in The Paris Review No. 198, Fall 2011)

Insulting the Calling

dusk, iphoneography

On Tuesday I saw a shooting star. Just me in my car at the stop sign one block from my house, the clear night sky a deep-dark speckled with stars, and then one solitary satellite streaking its way into the mouth of the Big Dipper. And of course, it felt (as these things always do to people like me) like a sign.

A sign of what? Well, that's a topic for another essay (one I'm trying to write; the first essay I've tried to write in months, which makes the writing of it feel both liberating and arduous). In the moment after the star fell I had an inkling of what it might signify, but I was wrong. That inkling did not come to pass. (And all is well.)

I didn't come to this space to tell you about the shooting star. I came to write about how I haven't been writing, but then there was that star and the essay it sparked, and well, I guess I've been writing a little bit, which is good, since I've declared November my month of creative care.

I've been neglecting the deep writing that I want to be doing, that I need to be doing. The essays and short stories (and maybe even poems) that I feel called write. And I do feel called to write. So why have I been avoiding it? The other day I told a friend that I've been "insulting the calling." I can attribute this to being too busy, too lazy, too unfocused, too scared, too scattered. I can call myself all sorts of unpleasant names to pinpoint the reasons I don't write. But that doesn't make me feel any better, and that doesn't make me feel like writing. I've been feeling off-kilter for weeks, and I think it has a lot to do with months of creative neglect.

So I'm done with the personal name calling, the guilt, and the shame.

I'm done with the neglect, done insulting my calling.

I'm declaring November my month of creative care, the only antidote I know to creative neglect. I'm going to actively and purposefully stop neglecting my writing. And since I know that other creative ventures help to feed my writing, I'm going to be mindful about those, too, which means taking more photos, cooking more meals, and maybe even busting out my paints and brushes.

It's only day 3, but I've started that essay, taken a few photos, and made a meal that managed to be both wholesome and yummy. It's a good start. It's all kindling. I'll keep tending my fire over here in my little corner, thinking of you tending yours.

What are you making this month? How are you honoring your calling (whatever that may be)?

Writing Prompts: My love-hate relationship

I first published the post below last April to give you a glimpse into my complicated relationship with writing prompts and to tell the story of how I ended up creating Alchemy Daily, a fun 30-day session of writing prompts, inspiration, and community for writers and wish-to-be-writers. The next session of Alchemy Daily starts November 1, just in time for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and the original month of National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo).

Apparently November is the month to hunker down and write-write-write...or at least to dabble with words a bit at a time. Maybe it's something to do with the changing of the seasons: colder, late-fall days up here in the Northern Hemisphere that make us take refuge indoors with mugs of hot beverages, candles, and the desire to create something lovely; or the joyous return of the sun that renews people's creative energy in the Southern Hemisphere.

Whatever it is about November, I need it. I need to recommit to my own writing. I've been... what? lazy? afraid? busy? confused? Maybe all of that. I have more to say about this, but for now, here's why I'll be playing along with Alchemy Daily and prompting myself back into a creative rhythm next month. (I hope you'll join me.)

** ** **

"I don't give prompts. The world is your prompt!"

So said the writer leading my workshop.

And I thought, "Yes, yes! Real writers don't need to be told what to write. I am an artiste! The world is my prompt!"

And then I realized that I've routinely found myself wondering what to write about, worrying that I'm not a real writer after all. Phooey.

Whatever shall I do if the world is not enough?

** ** **

I have a friend who loves prompts. For months she kept nudging me toward them, gently but firmly, trying to convince me that a good prompt is better than the whole wide world, because a good prompt gives you a focus and a way in.

** ** **

You know what I hate? The blank page. The blank, ever-so-white, mocking-me-with-its-clean-emptiness, no-words page.

When I was a teenager I wrote a poem called "A Bright White Room is Hell." I didn't intend it as a metaphor for the blank page, but I think I'd like to intend that now.

But give me a page with my own messy thoughts and I can breathe a little more easily. I have something to hang on to, something to swing around my head. Most days, words -- any words -- are better than a blank page.

** ** **

That same teacher who insisted that the world is our prompt conceded and gave us just one little bit of direction. She told us we could choose a color and write about whatever came to mind when we thought of that color.

I chose brown.

This is not what I wrote, but this is what I wrote about: how on the first day of first grade, the tip of my big, fat brown Crayola snapped off and left with me a pointless tree stump of a crayon. The teacher was a nice lady, but she wouldn't give me a new one. I cried during the whole walk home with my mother, who later recorded this event in the spiral-bound notebook she kept as a journal when my brother and I were little. Years later, that teacher, still a youngish woman, died of cancer. I began to think (while writing about "brown") how little things and big things can go wrong unexpectedly, and how there's not always a do-over or replacement waiting in the wings, even if your teacher is kind, even if God is loving.

All of that from brown. Brown was my way in.

** ** **

So here's the thing. The world is enough. But the world is overwhelming. And sometimes we're tired. Sometimes our creative mojonators slow down and we need help to crank things back up. I think of prompts this way: I know how to cook without a recipe. But sometimes I run out of ideas or get bored, and then I like to read cookbooks and websites for yummy ideas which I can follow verbatim or tweak to my liking.

There is no shame in wanting, needing, using creative prompts. I still resist them, but that's because I'm stubborn and silly. Even so, I am now a prompt convert. I believe in them. If nothing else, they can get us unstuck, get us writing, get some messy words on that blank page so we can swing them around later. If nothing else, prompts can be practice. And when I say practice, I mean as a musician practices scales and as a Buddhist practices meditation.

** ** **

Some days the world is enough. Other days, I need a little help finding the right piece of the world to write about.

I've discovered that I like a certain kind of prompt. I like ones that are open-ended enough to let me jump from the color brown to first grade to death (so to speak). I don't love the ones that are overly prescriptive and tell me to write a sci-fi story about toasters that come to life (for example). That's a bit too much of a way in, and I don't really want to go there anyway.

So I've created a batch of writing prompts that I'd actually want to do, and packaged them up for you, in case you'd like to do them too.

The next session of Alchemy Daily starts November 1. You'll get 30 days of writing prompts, inspiration, and magic delivered to your email inbox. You also get a spot in the private Alchemy Daily forum and an ebooklet of all the prompts to keep. All for just $45. (Registration is over here.)

It'll be fun. And no robot toasters, I promise. (Unless that's your thing, and then you can write about them.)

Next session: November 2011