Hi. I'm Jenna McGuiggan.
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Tuesday
Oct252011

A sweet surprise about my creative self

The magazine arrived in the mail in a clear plastic envelope with a canary yellow piece of paper declaring:


Congratulations! You've been published in...

mingle
creative ideas for unique gatherings


I'd written an article about Liz Lamoreux's Be Present Retreats for Mingle, a new publication from Stampington & Company. Seeing my words make their national print magazine debut made me smile. The gorgeous photos throughout the 10-page spread were so lush that I couldn't decide if I wanted to hug or lick them.

I'd expected the magazine to arrive in the mail, and I'd expected to like it. But something happened that I did not expect.

As I paged through the article I noticed a smallish pang...of...what was it? Oh. I know: Jealousy.

Wait. How is that even possible? I was looking at my own article!

My words! My byline!

But none of my photos.

Some part of me appears in five of the article's 15 images*: as an elongated shadow on the beach during the magic hour; as a pair of hands holding my Snowcat Diana F+ camera; twice with friends; and once leaning over a table concentrating on my art project. But nowhere was there a photo I could point to as "mine."

I did have the opportunity to include my own photos for the article, but the deadline coincided with the start of my graduating MFA residency, and it was all I could do to see straight at the time. The editor (the lovely Christen Olivarez) had a bevy of fine photos to choose from in a post-retreat Flickr group where other mentors and students had uploaded their images. I'd taken plenty of shots too, but I hadn't taken the time to upload them to the Flickr group. I kept meaning to, of course. Then the article deadline rolled around and I kept meaning to email a few over to Christen. But I was overextended, and something had to drop.

At the time, I was fine with my photos being the thing that dropped.

Fine until I saw the article in print and felt that weird and unexpected mix of pride and disappointment.

And that's when I learned something new about my creative self:

I care about photography.

Specifically, I care about the images I take.

I care about them more deeply than I'd realized.

I care about showing people how I see the world not just through words, but also from behind the lens. And I care about pairing those two together: words and images, side-by-side.

As I looked at the lovely images in the article, I realized something else: Some of my photos are just as lovely as the ones I was drooling over. What a sweet surprise: to realize that in a few years I've gone from being the "I-can't-take-a-good-photo" kind of gal to a "Some-of-my-photos-are-truly-beautiful" kind of gal.

I'm not sure which is the bigger or the sweeter surprise: To realize that I care about my photography, or to realize that I have photographs worth caring about.

As all of this unfurled in my mind, I realized I was actively transforming envy into inspiration, something I first wrote about more than two years ago now.

I'm glad to have my words in Mingle. I'm also glad for this opportunity to learn about something that matters to me, not through rejection, but through the gentler means of my own unknowing neglect.

Over the past five years I've gotten to know my creative self far better than ever before. I thought we were quite well-acquainted. I love that there are still surprises to be had. I wonder what else I'll learn in the next five years.

(*The lovely images in the article were taken by Liz Lamoreux, Vivienne McMaster, and Kate Inglis, all photographers who inspire me.)

Wednesday
Oct192011

How do I know if it's any good? (In The Word Cellar)

This week for "In The Word Cellar" I'm taking a short break from the MFA mini-series. I'll be back next time with more tips on choosing (or not) an MFA in creative writing.

** ** **

A few weeks ago a student in the current session of Alchemy: The Art & Craft of Writing asked me a question that froze me in my tracks:

I've been thinking about writing  a novel for a long time. But each time, I've pushed it out of my head because I didn't think I had the time or skill required for such a big project. I've come back to it recently because the urge to do it seems insistent. 

How can a writer gauge if his or her plot is any good?

Holy crap. It's a good question, right?

Substitute any number of words for "plot" and you have the crux of the writers' existential question: How do I know if my _______* is any good?

{*plot, idea, voice, essay, poem, story, novel, play, writing}

How do we know?

Hell if I know.

I read the question and sent her a quick note saying I'd be back with a full answer just as soon as I pulled together my thoughts on the topic. And then I put off answering her for more than a week -- because I was afraid to answer it.

Why afraid? Because it's a question I ask all the time about my own writing: How do I know if it's any good? 

But eventually I faced the question and offerd up the most honest answer I knew how to give. I think it's a question that many (most?) of us creative types struggle with, so I decided to share a slightly edited version of my answer here. Let's get the question (and the ways we can answer it) out into the open and talk about it. There's safety (and comfort) in numbers, especially when it comes to the burning questions of creative doubt and fear.

Earlier this year I asked one of my mentors that very same question: How do I know if what I've written is any good? Furthermore, I wondered to him why I couldn't answer that question for myself, especially at this stage in my writing life, when I've been at it for awhile now.

He answered me by quoting from W.S. Merwin's poem "Berryman," which recounts Merwin's experience of working with his mentor (John Berryman).

I had hardly begun to read
I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can't

you can't you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don't write

Isn't that wonderful and terrible?

Wonderful because even the great writers struggle with this question. So it's a natural question to have! It's also wonderful because it kind of lets us off the hook. It basically tells us: Just keep writing. Don't worry about the quality; just keep doing what you're called to do.

But it's also terrible, right? Because not being able to gauge your own work is frustrating. Plus, who wants to work at their craft their whole life without knowing if they're improving?

And so I still struggle with this question on a personal and a metaphysical level. How do we know if anything is any good?

Maybe we don't know.

Maybe we don't need to know. Maybe we're asking the wrong question. What would happen if we stopped wondering if our _________* is any good? What if we asked ourselves these questions instead:

  • Is this a novel/article/book/story/essay/poem/play I want to write?
  • Is this something I need to write?
  • Is this something I'd want to read?
  • Is this something I feel compelled to tell?
  • What will I lose if I don't write this?

So I say: Write it. Writing it (whatever it is) is the only way to allow it to develop, to make sense of it, to figure out where it wants to go and what it wants to be.

On a practical note, I recommend reading and studying published works by respected authors to see how they do it. Learning to read like a writer has been the biggest thing to help me grow in my own writing. I learn so much by looking at the work of others to see how they do specific things with the craft.

Another practical thing to do, after you've written part or all of it, is to ask people you trust to read it. Ask other writers and ask people who love to read. Ask them to tell you the truth with love. Ask for specific feedback on whatever it is you need. Join a writing group, find a workshop, work with an editor or coach. Let your words out into the world at least a little bit, and see what happens.

The question of "good" is difficult when it comes to creative endeavors. It's murky water. On one hand, I don't believe it's possible (or even advisable) to directly compare and rank one piece of writing against another. Apples and oranges, so to speak. On the other hand, some apples do taste better than others. But here again, even that's not quite so simple. I prefer a very cold, crisp apple with a loud crunch and a balanced sweetness-to-tartness ratio. My husband prefers an apple with a softer bite and a sweeter taste. Which apple is better? It depends on who's eating it.

So it's all a matter of taste? No, not all. It's a matter of taste in part.

I told you the water is murky. Determining if something is "good" is subjective, and yet I do believe there are some objective standards by which we can sort (rank? judge? none of these words feel good) pieces of writing. I'm hesitant to make any sweeping claims on this right now because I need to think it through some more. (Chime in with your ideas in the comments if you'd like.)

So first and foremost, I say again: Write it. (Whatever it is.) It keeps coming back to you for a reason. I sometimes think that if we don't tend to the ideas that come our way, they'll eventually leave us and ask someone else to create them. And then we'll mourn the loss.

The only consistent way to learn to write something is to write it. Want to learn to write a novel? Write one. Ditto for essays, short stories, poems, plays. Writing is a practice of practice.

Again, how wonderful and how terrible.

I say all of this knowing that I'm preaching to/teaching myself.

What do you think?

** ** **

In The Word Cellar normally sometimes runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.

___________________________________________________________________________

Need an infusion of writing inspiration? How about a nudge to help you find (and write) your unique stories?

Join me in November for Alchemy Daily, 30 days of writing prompts, inspiration, and a little bit of magic. You'll get daily prompt emails, an ebooklet of the prompts to keep, inspirational tidbits, and a spot in the private Alchemists forum. All for just $45. More details and registration are here.

Tuesday
Oct112011

Operation Sacred Studio (or, Editing in 3-D)

painting by kelly barton; flower by the hydrangea plant in front of my house

Today is Day 3 of Operation Sacred Studio: the process of clearing out, cleaning up, reorganizing, and beautifying the room where I write. I'm laboring to transform it from a dust-drenched storage locker of a room to a sacred space in which to create. This process requires a lot of stamina, muscle, and focus -- as well as several boxes of Swiffer cloths.

I'm trying to think of it as editing in 3-D. 

Maybe I just have editing on my mind since we're discussing "Editing as a Creative Act" in Alchemy this week. I've been sharing how much I often enjoy the editing process when it comes to writing. I like having something on the page to work with, to move around like puzzle pieces, to shape like clay. In writing, it's the blank page that frightens me most. The first draft is the part of the writing process that can send me hiding under the covers or employing master avoidance techniques such as cleaning the bathroom.

In writing, it's usually the lack of words that overwhelms me. But it seems like the opposite is true in the physical realm. Having so much stuff to work with makes me want to cozy into the corner of the couch and pretend I don't need an accessible studio space. After all, I have a laptop and copious piles of notebooks and pens; I can write anywhere, right?

True, I can write anywhere. But there is something to be said about having a dedicated space in which to create.

And that something to be said is this: If I want to honor my creative work, I need that dedicated space.

I need a calm, beautiful space where I can retreat from the world of dirty bathrooms and focus on the world of writing. I need a well-edited space if I'm ever going to face the blank page with regularity and courage.

I need to not see a thick line of grey cat fur felting the white baseboard where the carpet meets the wall. I need to not trip over piles of books collecting dust on the floor because I've used up all available bookshelf space.

I need to find the lenses for my Diana F+ camera so I can actually (learn how to) use them. I need to have a clear tabletop and easy access to my little stash of art supplies for the days when I need a creative break from the words.

I need a desk that welcomes me into its embrace like an old friend.

I need a space where I can breathe, where I can listen for the words waiting to come through me.

And so I sift through the contents of that space. I enlist my husband (may he be blessed for his efforts) to carry box after box to the basement, to hang new shelves, and to help me hang the many photos and paintings I've collected over the last few years. I file papers. I use another Swiffer. I spend some money on attractive and functional storage containers. I edit the space with a keen eye on what must go and what must stay.

This kind of editing tires me. How many times have I started and stalled on such projects? (correct answer: a lot) But I can't let myself stop halfway this time. For one thing, there's stuff everywhere. Every available surface -- from the bookshelves to the desks to the floor -- is occupied with stuff (so much stuff!) waiting for me to find it a home. I think this is the classic "It has to look worse before it looks better" phase.

At the outset of this endeavor, I stood in that room and teared up. My throat tightened, my heart rate increased, my breath went shallow. I basically had a panic attack as I faced the physical manifestation of my own creative clutter and emotional avoidance techniques. Now I'm in the thick of facing it all head-on. I'm hoping that getting through this will serve as a reminder to keep calm and carry on the next time I face the blank page.

It's late afternoon right now, and I still have a lot of work to do. Please wish me luck. I'd also love to hear your thoughts on creating sacred spaces. What does a sacred space look like to you? Do you have any rituals you use to honor or dedicate important physical spaces? Any storage or decorating tips? I'm interested in all of it!

** ** **

p.s. As I wrote this, I was reminded of my friend Liz's new online course called Create Space. For four weeks (Oct. 24 - Nov. 20) participants will explore ways to create space within themselves, their homes, and their days. Doesn't that sound lovely?

Saturday
Sep242011

Researching & Choosing an MFA Program (In The Word Cellar)


sticker found on ground; iPhoneography

Last time in this column I told you the story of why I decided to pursue an MFA in writing. Since then, I read an interview that Susan Orlean gave to Lee Gutkind in the journal Creative Nonfiction. In it, she offers an interesting perspective on graduate writing programs. She says that she wasn't initially a big supporter of them because she "always wondered why you should pay for something to be edited when you could be out there in the world, writing and getting editing as part of it -- and being paid." But a few things happened to change her mind: "One, it's harder and harder to get those jobs; two, the reality of the good editing [not necessarily] being there for you...." After serving as writer-in-residence at a few MFA programs, she thought this:

"This is where this is happening now, the chance to get your work really read and edited.' In a perfect world, that wouldn't be the case, but I'm not sure you would still get the apprenticeship. The model I always looked toward was that apprenticeship model from the 1900s: When you work for a cobbler, you're actually fixing shoes, but he's right there, correcting your mistakes, and there's a customer who's waiting for his shoe. I'm not sure that exists much anymore, so I've softened my position on writing programs because I think they are filling a need that maybe isn't being served that way."

I like Orleans' ideas on apprenticeship. That's very much how my MFA program felt; I was an apprentice to working writers and editors. Even though I wasn't writing for immediate publication, I did have that end goal in mind. I'll talk more specificity about my kind of program (low-residency) in this column and the next, and perhaps more about my particular school (Vermont College of Fine Arts) in a later column.

** ** **

In this installment, I'll share some tips on how to research and choose an MFA in writing program. There's a lot of information in here, so you may want to get a cup of coffee or glass of wine and settle in. Or maybe buckle up. Or hang on to your hat. Some such clichéd metaphor.

(If you're not interested in MFA programs, I invite you to use your time more wisely and check out this visual history of literary references on "The Simpsons." Or you could browse past "In The Word Cellar" posts about other writing topics. )

Types of programs: Traditional vs. low-residency

First of all, there are two basic types of MFA programs: traditional and low-residency. Traditional programs are what most people think of when they imagine grad school. These degrees usually take two to three years to complete. During that time you attend on-campus classes and work toward a final creative thesis. One of the practical perks of traditional programs is that they often offer students significant financial aid through grants and teaching assistantships. If you're willing to move somewhere to attend grad school, traditional programs are a feasible option.

Since I wasn't able to move to a new city or state for a few years, I chose to go the low-residency route. The upside is that I didn't have to move, could keep working, and my program was amazing. The downside is that low-res programs don't offer the same kind of grants that traditional programs do. But student loans are definitely an option. (Just ask me how much of an option they are in January when my first payment is due. But I digress.)

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.

How to choose a program

Here are some things to consider whether you're looking at a traditional or low-residency program.

First, consider what genre you want to write in. While some cross-genre study is usually possible, you will usually focus on one main genre. Most MFA programs include tracks in fiction and poetry. Most also include a creative nonfiction (CNF) track, but not all do. (For example, Warren Wilson, a very well respected program, does not offer CNF as a genre. On the other hand, the also well-respected Goucher Collge offers only CNF.) Some programs offer other genres, such as writing for stage and screen or writing for children and young adults.

Another thing to consider is a program's faculty. Check out how many faculty members teach in your genre. If you can, try to get a feel for their work. I admit that I didn't do this due to a time crunch and a feeling of overwhelm. I started researching grad school right before the next round of applications were due. (Low-res programs usually accept applications twice a year.) Plus, I looked at a lot of schools. Trying to research that many faculty members and what they had written was impractical. But it's truly one of the best ways to choose a program. It's impossible to read everything every faculty member has written, but it's nice to get a general sense of their work. It's also nice to see how long they've been teaching -- and where. A great writer isn't necessarily a great mentor or teacher. (Side note: A lot of the faculty who teach in low-res programs also teach at other universities and traditional MFA programs.)

Talk to current students and alumni. Contact the schools that interest you and ask to be put in touch with students or graduates. This is very common, so don't feel weird about it. I talked to a number of current and past students from several of my favorite programs. Since graduating, I've volunteered to talk to prospective students. It's a great way to ask questions and get an insider's look at the program. I even requested to speak with a faculty member after I was accepted to a number of schools and was trying to choose a program.

Does the program have any special features? For example, the low-res program at Antioch University in Los Angeles has an emphasis on social justice. Queens University of Charlotte's low-res program has students participate in distance writing workshops (which means that you interact with other students to share and critique work even when you're not on campus for residency). Some schools have a strong  interdisciplinary approach, an emphasis on publishing, or extra certificates in areas such as translation, publishing, or teaching. One or two that I know of even dispense with the "critical" component of the MFA. (I'll talk more about creative and critical work in the next column.) I'm not in favor of this approach, even though it does sound appealing. (More on this next time.)

Consider practical things such as class load, graduation requirements, residency length, location, and dates (for low-res programs), and financial aid. (For low-res programs, also look at past residency schedules to compare the amount and quality of lectures, workshops, and other events.)

Consider reputation and ranking. These are tricky areas. By reputation I mean both the academic reputation and the general vibe of the place. Rankings (see below) can help you sort out a school's reputation, but they have their limitations. (There is currently a kerfuffle raging over the Poets & Writers' ranking system.) Talking to students and alumni can help to give you a feel for a program's culture: Do students get a say in what faculty members they work with? Are faculty known for being friendly and available or elitest? Is the atmosphere of the student body competitve or collaborative?

Resources

**The current issue of Poets & Writers (Sept./Oct. 2011) is devoted to MFA in writing programs. The cover story is titled "MFA Nation: Do You Want To Be A Part Of It?"

Here are some other resources to help you research schools and programs.

This list isn't comprehensive, so please share anything I've missed in the comments.

How to apply

Every program will have its own application requirements, so be prepared to get organized, especially if you're applying to multiple schools. Most programs require some combination of the following: 

  • application form;
  • writing samples;
  • entrance essay(s);
  • undergrad transcripts; and
  • letters of recommendation.

Traditional programs may require GRE scores, but low-res programs usually don't. Oh, and there's an application fee, usually around $50 per program.

You can probably use the same writing samples for most programs, but make sure you adhere to the requested page limits and formatting requirements. You may also be able to use some version of your entrance essay(s) for several schools, though you will want to tailor this to each specific request.

Traditional programs often accept students once a year, for enrollment in the fall. Low-res programs usually accept students twice a year, for enrollment in summer and winter. Pay attention to the deadlines.

To how many schools should you apply? That's up to you and your own style of madness. I have a Type A personality when it comes to these things. I also have a keen inability to gauge my own talent and skill level. I had absolutely no idea if I could get into an MFA program. So, to increase my odds, I decided to apply to seven (yes, 7) of them. (I had a very specific timeline in mind in my head, and I didn't want to risk having to reapply in another six months.) In the end, I applied to just (just!) six. I only skipped the last one because I found out I was accepted to my top choices before the final application was due. Most people I know don't undertake this kind of craziness. A lot of my MFA friends said they applied to two or three schools. Some took a chance and applied only to one.

Since I'm often asked where I applied, here's my list.

Okay! That's all for now. (If you've made it this far: Thank you.) I'll do at least one more installment in this MFA series of "In The Word Cellar." If you have questions about grad school, please let me know. And please feel free to ask general writing or creativity-related questions, too, as I'll be returning to those topics in future posts.

In The Word Cellar normally sometimes runs on the second and fourth Wednesday of the month. Read other posts in the series here.

Thursday
Sep222011

A post while I work on the other posts I'm writing....

As promised in the last post, I am working away on a new installment of "In The Word Cellar" all about researching and choosing a graduate writing program. The kindling seems to have caught the bigger logs on fire, and the post keeps getting longer and longer. I think I may be writing a few posts all at once and will have to break it into more manageable sections, like this:

I went out for lunch today and stopped to take some photos of this amazing brick wall. I've passed it dozens of times, but today was the first time I really took it in. I'm so impressed by the sweeping, yet intricate, beauty of it as a whole. And I'm in love with the details like the sweet little bird and the weird chubby vampire fella (which is my favorite, I think) in the close-up shot above. (Just for fun, can you find the image of a president in the first photo?)

I'm sure I could whip up some deeper metaphor about how this mural is like writing -- parts of a whole and all that -- but it's late and I'm tired and sometimes it's just nice to look at the pretty colors. If you're feeling metaphorically inclined, please have at it in the comments.

More soon....