Why I'll Never Become a Sucessful Writer
Merry Christmas everyone! It's been a fantastic week for me, and I'm psyched that I actually have some time to update tonight. My family just finished eating dinner, and now my mother is making drinks and I'm on my second cocktail now, so I'll be sloppy drunk in no time. I'm starting to feel a little giggly now, so I apologize in advance for anything retarded I say.
Last night, we had our traditional Sullivan Christmas at Grammy and Bompy's house in Hingham. Picture this: twelve Sullivans crammed into a house so full of nick-nacks and furniture that there's hardly any room to move. Their house is like a maze of plants, narrow hallways, and wall paper from the sixties. The House gets so warm that all anyone ever wants to do over there in find a quiet place and fall asleep. The lack of oxygen doesn't help. My grandparents are starting to go a little senile, and their poodle Gusto, is out of control, barreling into everything and everyone. The only thing that made the night bearable was seeing my Aunt Dawn, Uncle Bill, and my cousins Melissa and Adam. They fucking crack me up every year. I love seeing them, and they always make the night worth it. As in previous years, I received presents from my Aunt Karen that was junk that she was looking to get rid of, but unlike previous years, I didn't get anything horribly humiliating. Last year I got that book about healing after a painful breakup, the year before I got that God-awful coat rack, and the year before that I got a framed picture of myself, which must have been taken of me mid-blink. This year I lucked out with some cheap makeup, an ugly keychain, and a "Girls' Club" stationary set meant for a ten-year-old.
But despite everything, we had a pretty good time.
As much as I love the Christmas season, I'm always glad to see it end. The semester is over, and this week I've slept better than I have in about three months, although I did awake in a panic the other morning after a particularly upsetting dream that I forgot to hand in my research paper and failed lifecycle. It felt pretty good to sleep in, though. Pretty good.
I got most of my grades back, thanks to my degree audit. Three A's and a B. The in B is in biology, and I'll take it. The only grade I'm missing is abnormal psych, and that's a big question mark. My teacher was a complete disaster, I think I failed the final, and truthfully, I'm a little scared to get my grade back for that course. The stories I could tell you about that professor! ZOMFG! I don't want to go into it now, maybe I will later, but if I get anything less than a B, I will write a letter to the dean, so help me God!
The final for Memoir was on Wednesday night, and boy, it was quite an experience. My class, the undergrads, joined the graduate memoir class and together we critiqued the remaining six stories together. I waited around on the second floor of the library until I saw someone from my class, because for some reason I didn't want to go into that classroom alone. My friend, Faustina, and I joined up, and together we ventured to the third floor classroom where we took our respective seats in the circle and taped our nametags to the fronts of our desks. There were about ten other people in the classroom-- four or five undergrads, to whom I grinned and waved, and like, eight grad students. After reading all their memoirs, It was interesting putting faces to names. Some looked much like I pictured them; others, not so much. One of the grad students, a girl named Victoria, looked like my friend Chloe from high school, also a very talented writer. Realizing that made me smile.
Our friend, Nicole, showed up, and the three of us whispered about the grad students, how they did or didn't look the way we pictured them. I think some of them were probably doing to same to us. The room filled up quickly, the undergrads filling in between the grad students.
Walker started the workshop, and though the class was bigger than usual, it didn't seem much different, until we were workshopping the second story, and one of the grad students, raised his hand, and what followed is by far the greatest and most insane tangent that I've ever heard in any class. He was a an older student, in his late thirties at least. He was not how I pictured him. In fact, I'm not sure what I thought he looked like before the final class, but seeing his in person made me think of a washed-up former pro-wrestlers that I used to see when flipping through the channels when I lived in NH (WWE was a big deal to some people up there-- more so than down here, thank God), you know, balding and stocky with limbs like tree trunks. This man was also responsible for some of the worst writing I've ever read. I eagerly awaited his contribution to the discussion, because somehow I knew it would be hysterical. He cleared his throat and began to speak.
"What I noticed about this memoir," he began, staring right at Walker, "Was the word choice. Instead of saying that the papers fell out of her arms and she had to pick them up herself, oh no, she wrote that the files fell to the ground and she was helped by a drug addict named Marty, who didn't have to help her, but he did because he's a good person-- and I know that man," the crazed student ranted, wagging his fat finger in the air, "Marty is still in that parking lot picking up prostitutes and selling drugs."
As he continued, I turned slightly toward Faustina and mouthed, "What the fuck?" and we did our best not to laugh. Anytime this student interjected into the class discussion, his tangents of craziness lasted for a good three or four minutes at a time. A couple times, he definitely rambled on for longer than that. I focused on other people in the class to see how they were dealing. Nicole and Paige were whispering back and forth, (the other) Tara was sorting through her critiques, Michelle and Carey looked as though they were going to burst out laughing. I made eye contact with Michelle and shook my head, and it was all over for us. As soon as Michelle and Carey started laughing-- the quiet, restrained sort of laugh that makes your insides hurt. I knew because I was laughing the same way.
"This one time," the student practically shouted, "I was skiing down the Black Diamond, and I fell down the mountain and broke my femur! I didn't have my boots on tight enough, and boy, I'll never do that again!"
I was a giggle away from wetting my pants at that point. I tried concentrating on other things. The walls of the classroom. The remaining critiques. My cuticles. I know the sorts of faces I make in situations like that, pretty much deer-caught-in-the-headlights eyes and an obnoxious smirk, and since I was in plain sight of the aforementioned student, I tried my best to be polite.
"If I go into the bathroom after class tonight," he spouted feverishly, "There won't be any men in there waiting to console me! If I was a woman, all you ladies would be lining up to give me hugs!"
Poor Michelle had cracked. She held her head in her hands as she tried to control her laughter. To my right, I watched as other undergrads did the same. The student continued on his tirade, and Faustina nudged me.
"Look at Walker," she whispered. "I don't even think he's paying attention anymore. He's probably trying to decide what to have for dinner."
Our professor did look a little tired, his eyes had glazed over and it did look as though he were thinking about dinner, Christmas shopping, or various errands he had to run before going home. And with that, it was all over for me. I let out a low moan, that I quickly disguised as a yawn/cough/sneeze. I squirmed in my seat. I wiped away tears, doing my best to dodge the death stare this dude was shooting me. If he didn't hate me already for the critiques I'd written for him over the semester, he sure as hell hated me after that.
By the end of the class, I had a headache from trying not to laugh.
As the most entertaining workshop session came to an end, Walker gave us a piece he had written a few years ago about a workshop experience that he had had as a student. Earlier in the class, he had also given me back my critiques for my Lake Blob story, but I was far too preoccupied with Mr. Ranty McTangent over there to pay much attention to my critiques until I was at home.
Though the vast majority were overwhelmingly positive, there were three that were pretty bad, and let me tell you, those are the ones that I remember. One was so mean that it almost made me cry, and I was glad I was sitting alone in my room. It was written by a grad student, who is a pretty terrible writer in my opinion. She wrote all over my piece, making nasty comments on every page-- the worst being when she circled my brother's name and scrawled, Ugh, that name... I hope this isn't another story about him. The comments about my writing didn't bother me too much, because her stories were some of the worst I'd read in the class and she's the last person I'd ever go to for advice, but the snipes at my character were devastating. This writer tries WAY too hard to be deep, and she's not fooling anybody, she wrote. Further along she noted that I obviously favored Bridget because I talk about her more often than Maeve. She doesn't seem like a very good sister to me, which is apparent because Maeve hardly even talks to her. It was then that I hocked that critique in the garbage-- although I was still pretty hurt about the whole thing.
The last time I checked, workshop was supposed to be a discussion about the positive and negative aspects of a piece of writing. Apparently, some people think that it's a time to rip both the author and the piece apart. I'm not really sure what her problem is-- I went back and reread the critique I wrote for her last piece, and though some of it was negative, I complemented her on what worked, too. I'd shrug off the comments as the rantings of a writer scorned, but the thing is part of me believes what she wrote. Maybe I do go overboard sometimes, but as a writer, I'm still growing. I know I can be over emotional, and yes, I've been known to drop a few f-bombs here and there, but I didn't feel like there was any reason to attack me. And Tippy. That made me so angry.
And so, I had a moment of doubt. Maybe I'm just not cut out for this. I will never become as good a writer as I'd like to be. I was convinced that advanced fiction workshop was bound to be a disaster. My fiction writing skills are lacking. Writing about myself is what I do well. My threshold for criticism, constructive as it may be, is painfully low. I've never taken rejection well; as much as I try not to, I always take it personally. The scary thing is, most of the critiques were wonderful and thoughtful, and I know they'll be very helpful as I revise my story. Writers from the workshop that I really admired praised my piece. I hope you submitted this to The Bridge, several wrote. Great writing-- basically publishable as is. Those are the ones that I want to focus on-- good writers with good advice. I don't know why I can't stop thinking about the negative ones.
Writing is what I do better than anything. I'm a little drunk right now, so it's hard to tell, but trust me when I say this. Nothing brings me as much satisfaction. Nothing is more difficult or heart-wrenching as the process of producing something worth reading. Tippy and the Lake Blob took a toll on me this semester. Tippy especially. Writing that story ripped me apart, and reading the critiques from my class, especially a handful of the grad students, made me never want to write again.
If this is the way I reacted over a good workshop, I'd hate to see how I'd do with a negative workshop. It's bound to happen at some point, and I'm dreading it. I don't think writing professionally is for me, you know? Just saying.
Anyway, I'll end my little rant there. I have to work tomorrow, but when I get out, I'm heading up to New London to visit some old friends, and I'm very excited to see them. And nervous. I'll have to give an update in a few days; hopefully I'll have something worthwhile to report.
Last night, we had our traditional Sullivan Christmas at Grammy and Bompy's house in Hingham. Picture this: twelve Sullivans crammed into a house so full of nick-nacks and furniture that there's hardly any room to move. Their house is like a maze of plants, narrow hallways, and wall paper from the sixties. The House gets so warm that all anyone ever wants to do over there in find a quiet place and fall asleep. The lack of oxygen doesn't help. My grandparents are starting to go a little senile, and their poodle Gusto, is out of control, barreling into everything and everyone. The only thing that made the night bearable was seeing my Aunt Dawn, Uncle Bill, and my cousins Melissa and Adam. They fucking crack me up every year. I love seeing them, and they always make the night worth it. As in previous years, I received presents from my Aunt Karen that was junk that she was looking to get rid of, but unlike previous years, I didn't get anything horribly humiliating. Last year I got that book about healing after a painful breakup, the year before I got that God-awful coat rack, and the year before that I got a framed picture of myself, which must have been taken of me mid-blink. This year I lucked out with some cheap makeup, an ugly keychain, and a "Girls' Club" stationary set meant for a ten-year-old.
But despite everything, we had a pretty good time.
As much as I love the Christmas season, I'm always glad to see it end. The semester is over, and this week I've slept better than I have in about three months, although I did awake in a panic the other morning after a particularly upsetting dream that I forgot to hand in my research paper and failed lifecycle. It felt pretty good to sleep in, though. Pretty good.
I got most of my grades back, thanks to my degree audit. Three A's and a B. The in B is in biology, and I'll take it. The only grade I'm missing is abnormal psych, and that's a big question mark. My teacher was a complete disaster, I think I failed the final, and truthfully, I'm a little scared to get my grade back for that course. The stories I could tell you about that professor! ZOMFG! I don't want to go into it now, maybe I will later, but if I get anything less than a B, I will write a letter to the dean, so help me God!
The final for Memoir was on Wednesday night, and boy, it was quite an experience. My class, the undergrads, joined the graduate memoir class and together we critiqued the remaining six stories together. I waited around on the second floor of the library until I saw someone from my class, because for some reason I didn't want to go into that classroom alone. My friend, Faustina, and I joined up, and together we ventured to the third floor classroom where we took our respective seats in the circle and taped our nametags to the fronts of our desks. There were about ten other people in the classroom-- four or five undergrads, to whom I grinned and waved, and like, eight grad students. After reading all their memoirs, It was interesting putting faces to names. Some looked much like I pictured them; others, not so much. One of the grad students, a girl named Victoria, looked like my friend Chloe from high school, also a very talented writer. Realizing that made me smile.
Our friend, Nicole, showed up, and the three of us whispered about the grad students, how they did or didn't look the way we pictured them. I think some of them were probably doing to same to us. The room filled up quickly, the undergrads filling in between the grad students.
Walker started the workshop, and though the class was bigger than usual, it didn't seem much different, until we were workshopping the second story, and one of the grad students, raised his hand, and what followed is by far the greatest and most insane tangent that I've ever heard in any class. He was a an older student, in his late thirties at least. He was not how I pictured him. In fact, I'm not sure what I thought he looked like before the final class, but seeing his in person made me think of a washed-up former pro-wrestlers that I used to see when flipping through the channels when I lived in NH (WWE was a big deal to some people up there-- more so than down here, thank God), you know, balding and stocky with limbs like tree trunks. This man was also responsible for some of the worst writing I've ever read. I eagerly awaited his contribution to the discussion, because somehow I knew it would be hysterical. He cleared his throat and began to speak.
"What I noticed about this memoir," he began, staring right at Walker, "Was the word choice. Instead of saying that the papers fell out of her arms and she had to pick them up herself, oh no, she wrote that the files fell to the ground and she was helped by a drug addict named Marty, who didn't have to help her, but he did because he's a good person-- and I know that man," the crazed student ranted, wagging his fat finger in the air, "Marty is still in that parking lot picking up prostitutes and selling drugs."
As he continued, I turned slightly toward Faustina and mouthed, "What the fuck?" and we did our best not to laugh. Anytime this student interjected into the class discussion, his tangents of craziness lasted for a good three or four minutes at a time. A couple times, he definitely rambled on for longer than that. I focused on other people in the class to see how they were dealing. Nicole and Paige were whispering back and forth, (the other) Tara was sorting through her critiques, Michelle and Carey looked as though they were going to burst out laughing. I made eye contact with Michelle and shook my head, and it was all over for us. As soon as Michelle and Carey started laughing-- the quiet, restrained sort of laugh that makes your insides hurt. I knew because I was laughing the same way.
"This one time," the student practically shouted, "I was skiing down the Black Diamond, and I fell down the mountain and broke my femur! I didn't have my boots on tight enough, and boy, I'll never do that again!"
I was a giggle away from wetting my pants at that point. I tried concentrating on other things. The walls of the classroom. The remaining critiques. My cuticles. I know the sorts of faces I make in situations like that, pretty much deer-caught-in-the-headlights eyes and an obnoxious smirk, and since I was in plain sight of the aforementioned student, I tried my best to be polite.
"If I go into the bathroom after class tonight," he spouted feverishly, "There won't be any men in there waiting to console me! If I was a woman, all you ladies would be lining up to give me hugs!"
Poor Michelle had cracked. She held her head in her hands as she tried to control her laughter. To my right, I watched as other undergrads did the same. The student continued on his tirade, and Faustina nudged me.
"Look at Walker," she whispered. "I don't even think he's paying attention anymore. He's probably trying to decide what to have for dinner."
Our professor did look a little tired, his eyes had glazed over and it did look as though he were thinking about dinner, Christmas shopping, or various errands he had to run before going home. And with that, it was all over for me. I let out a low moan, that I quickly disguised as a yawn/cough/sneeze. I squirmed in my seat. I wiped away tears, doing my best to dodge the death stare this dude was shooting me. If he didn't hate me already for the critiques I'd written for him over the semester, he sure as hell hated me after that.
By the end of the class, I had a headache from trying not to laugh.
As the most entertaining workshop session came to an end, Walker gave us a piece he had written a few years ago about a workshop experience that he had had as a student. Earlier in the class, he had also given me back my critiques for my Lake Blob story, but I was far too preoccupied with Mr. Ranty McTangent over there to pay much attention to my critiques until I was at home.
Though the vast majority were overwhelmingly positive, there were three that were pretty bad, and let me tell you, those are the ones that I remember. One was so mean that it almost made me cry, and I was glad I was sitting alone in my room. It was written by a grad student, who is a pretty terrible writer in my opinion. She wrote all over my piece, making nasty comments on every page-- the worst being when she circled my brother's name and scrawled, Ugh, that name... I hope this isn't another story about him. The comments about my writing didn't bother me too much, because her stories were some of the worst I'd read in the class and she's the last person I'd ever go to for advice, but the snipes at my character were devastating. This writer tries WAY too hard to be deep, and she's not fooling anybody, she wrote. Further along she noted that I obviously favored Bridget because I talk about her more often than Maeve. She doesn't seem like a very good sister to me, which is apparent because Maeve hardly even talks to her. It was then that I hocked that critique in the garbage-- although I was still pretty hurt about the whole thing.
The last time I checked, workshop was supposed to be a discussion about the positive and negative aspects of a piece of writing. Apparently, some people think that it's a time to rip both the author and the piece apart. I'm not really sure what her problem is-- I went back and reread the critique I wrote for her last piece, and though some of it was negative, I complemented her on what worked, too. I'd shrug off the comments as the rantings of a writer scorned, but the thing is part of me believes what she wrote. Maybe I do go overboard sometimes, but as a writer, I'm still growing. I know I can be over emotional, and yes, I've been known to drop a few f-bombs here and there, but I didn't feel like there was any reason to attack me. And Tippy. That made me so angry.
And so, I had a moment of doubt. Maybe I'm just not cut out for this. I will never become as good a writer as I'd like to be. I was convinced that advanced fiction workshop was bound to be a disaster. My fiction writing skills are lacking. Writing about myself is what I do well. My threshold for criticism, constructive as it may be, is painfully low. I've never taken rejection well; as much as I try not to, I always take it personally. The scary thing is, most of the critiques were wonderful and thoughtful, and I know they'll be very helpful as I revise my story. Writers from the workshop that I really admired praised my piece. I hope you submitted this to The Bridge, several wrote. Great writing-- basically publishable as is. Those are the ones that I want to focus on-- good writers with good advice. I don't know why I can't stop thinking about the negative ones.
Writing is what I do better than anything. I'm a little drunk right now, so it's hard to tell, but trust me when I say this. Nothing brings me as much satisfaction. Nothing is more difficult or heart-wrenching as the process of producing something worth reading. Tippy and the Lake Blob took a toll on me this semester. Tippy especially. Writing that story ripped me apart, and reading the critiques from my class, especially a handful of the grad students, made me never want to write again.
If this is the way I reacted over a good workshop, I'd hate to see how I'd do with a negative workshop. It's bound to happen at some point, and I'm dreading it. I don't think writing professionally is for me, you know? Just saying.
Anyway, I'll end my little rant there. I have to work tomorrow, but when I get out, I'm heading up to New London to visit some old friends, and I'm very excited to see them. And nervous. I'll have to give an update in a few days; hopefully I'll have something worthwhile to report.