Egan's Burn

I have been nurturing a rant this week about pretentions. I’m afraid they’re unavoidable in graduate programs, even at the humble university that I attend, because while we the student body may be brilliant, we can’t help but wonder if we’re only as brilliant as the standards of our regional state university. (Actually, I shouldn’t be including myself in that “we”… I rarely feel brilliant, though I recognize that it has little to do with whether or not I actually am brilliant).

In any case, I was struck by an experience in a workshop with our writer-in-residence, MM, an amiable and buoyant man who was far too generous with his time and talents. He presented our group of ten with a very simple question: “Do you have any collections?”. He was answered with dead silence, and as I looked around the room, I could see my peers scrambling for an appropriate answer. Not an honest answer. God forbid you crack open your gaping maw and tell MM that you collect souvenir shot glasses or Beanie Babies. I could see sets of eyes flicking to right-brain quadrants to determine what kind of collection would be worthy of an academic mind. First edition Southern novels, perhaps? Back issues of The New Yorker as lovingly preserved as a kid’s comic book collection? The fact of the matter was, MM had already shared his various collections with us in previous meetings. He happens to collect a variety of knick-knacks, including plastic Mold-O-Rama figurines, postcards, and four-frame photo strips. (The latter, admittedly, intended for an upcoming book). A simple, honest fondness for simple, honest things. No pretentions. No one else was willing to follow suit, though. Because I’m often embarrassed by extensive silences, I piped in that I had a collection of Las Vegas gaming tokens. While I didn’t do the work of collecting these items myself (my father used to bring them home from business trips), they are the only common assortment of items that I have. I was far more distracted by my irritation with my peers. Why are we so intent upon hiding behind our carefully-constructed grad student personas? Is it so difficult to embrace what we enjoy? (By the way, I technically collect scrapbooking materials, as I have extensive space committed to these items, but no time to actually create anything with them).

This topic was again brought to mind this week as Jennifer Egan was accepting her Pulitzer for A Visit from the Goon Squad. She gave an interview to the Wall Street Journal after the announcement where she made a comment that was little more than flimsily-veiled slander towards women who write what is commonly referred to as “chick lit”. I’ll admit, I felt the sting. I’ve had my day with the work of Meg Cabot, Sophie Kinsella and Jennifer Weiner. And why the hell shouldn’t I? I was a twenty-something seeking a career, husband and family and could relate to what they were dishing out… and it was undeniably funny stuff. I like to laugh. Sue me. I read my fair share of contemporary women in literary fiction as well, including Ms. Egan, but I certainly don’t think I have to shun my chick lit past to enjoy my literary present. I say this with a dose of humility, as I myself slandered a genre writer in my poetry workshop not more than two weeks ago, robbing her of any perceived credibility because she writes what I classified as “chick lit”. I’m not proud of it, especially in hindsight, because what I did was slander a writer that I’m not only fond of, but one I often model myself after, mirroring the motivation of the young Harvard grad, deciding that she’s good enough to copy, but not good enough to deem literary.

Well, screw that. I’m having trouble believing that we’ll ever gain ground as women writers if we become just as predatory with our
pretentions as Egan. I believe she’s entitled to her opinions, yes, but in holding herself in a place above other women writers, implying that their creative outlook on the world is less than hers, she has done no more than come off as arrogant as a bearded graduate student in literature, patronizingly patting the heads of the hippie MFA’s. (That may not make sense outside of my own perspective. Remnants of a three-year scuffle with my work-partner-in-crime).

This week has inspired me to play more. Even if it starts out “derivative” and “banal”- write what is fun to write.

***Update: My fury in this post resulted in a rather fun short story that is quite removed from what I usually write. Clearly, I need to stew in my anger more often.

National Poetry Month

Well, today is April 1st, a day where most people plot a prank, while we in the writing community decide whether or not we will recognize the fact that it is National Poetry Month. To recognize that fact is to consider whether or not we care for poetry (many writers don’t), or to decide if we want to take part in the extremely difficult challenge of writing a poem a day for the month of April.

I am not a poet. However, I respect poetry as a branch of literature that is captivating, enigmatic and impossible for me to understand. I screech through poetry workshops at my university because I can’t recognize if the work I’m doing works or not. Workshops don’t feel honest enough for me to decide if my peers actually like the poems that I’m writing (though I suspect they don’t), and I have claimed to throw in the towel a dozen times or more, but still I end up in yet another poetry workshop. It is my own personal brand of self-flagellation. I am confident in fiction. I know that what I produce works, or will work in the long run. But in poetry I am a more likely to burst into tears of the other writers in my workshops take longer than three-and-a-half seconds to respond to what I have offered them because I am sure their hesitation is a confirmation of how they think my poem is stupid. But I come back for more.

Well this, my friends, is the end of my road with poetry workshops. The requirements of my MFA program will likely not make it possible for me to continue to study this particular genre of creative writing and continue to complete enough work for my thesis in the fiction track, so I feel called to participate in this month’s challenge to determine of poetry and I will be saying goodbye, or if we will remain close (closeted) friends. We shall see.

You haven't been usurped of power if they had the right to take it

There is little in this world as disappointing as having a great idea, but finding out that it isn’t an original idea. Well, you can’t be robbed of something that was never yours, but nonetheless, I feel robbed.

Being a redhead is part of my identity. There are few of us out there in the world, depending on where you hang your hat. In the United States, we make up somewhere between one and two percent of the population. Globally, about the same. There are places where you can find a higher concentration of redheads, though. Ireland, about eleven percent. Scotland, roughly thirteen. However, the long and the short of it is, redheads are rare, and sometimes when you are a redhead, you feel like the only one.

I was being encouraged by some of the faculty at my university to write a book. I was interested in the way redheads are characterized in literature and pop culture, and I wondered if you could even say marginalized. I was doing some research, reading novels, and looking for quotes from great redheads past. Unfortunately, in my research I discovered that someone else was out there. A professor of English, and a redhead, was out there with the same thoughts in mind, and she put it in writing first.

*sigh* Somewhere out there is a woman who shares my fury, but who has stolen my thunder.

***Update: Aformentioned English professor and I have exchanged some emails. There may be a place for me yet. Stay tuned. ;-)

The drawback to reading a book in a day

In the past I have had a few books come into my possession that I was so enthusiastic about reading that I flew through them in a matter of hours, and a price was always paid for this passion. There is a reason they teach reading comprehension to us as children. When one eagerly devours the words on a page, the things that make that work beautiful are often missed. My current goal in my own writing is to examine each part of my stories on a sentence level to ensure that I always express myself in the best possible way, in each and every line. I’m taking a poetry workshop to assist with this project, but it is proving to be more of a headache than it is worth.

Now the demands of a graduate program in English often require you to read a book in a day, which is frustrating but necessary. I’m trying to make a conscious effort to slow down, savor each sentence like an excellent meal, and copy out lines in particular that I love so that I can enjoy them again. I’m going to try to find a way to post these “regurgitations” on this blog, as well. Until then, I’m off to experience more prose with haste!