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.
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