The Anxiety of Influence: A Dog’s Tale

I co-own a difficult dog. He is our neurotic co-pilot. I worry that I helped morph many of his saner attributes into something no longer sane, all the while trying—with patience and persistence—to quell his interest in barking at humans, pigeons, dogs and plastic bags. I wish I knew his before-us time. Then I could chart his course in the last year and rest assured that our training is doing him some good.

I should first credit Monte with his lovable qualities before I proceed to sully his reputation over the interwebs. He is an amazingly intuitive and courteous dog. He will can jump up to my lap and place his paws on my arm when he senses the twinge of existential despair. He knows what’s up and how to fix it.

Monte will gladly accept visitors into our house, even the dog trainer who came on a house to meet him. He treats our cats with begrudging respect. And he doesn’t pester the 50 gallons of water holding our fish. He won’t tear the window blinds or scratch the hardwood. He squeals in his sleep when he’s dreaming. His brown eyes will make a warm puddle of your heart.

Monte can elevate my blood pressure like nobody’s business. He is very dog reactive. It took us a while to notice this. When we adopted him, all 50 lbs. of his 2+ year old emaciated black lab mix self, we noticed he was a leash puller. He wanted to go, and he was taking us with him. He would, on the other hand, approach other dogs with the curiosity and good intentions—but elevated emotions— in much the same way a kid might approach the ice cream truck. There would be tail wagging but an eventual paw swipe at the smaller dogs or a lunge at the larger dogs. Now, during walks with our numbnut, this behavior is more than I can handle. Has our discouraging his dog greeting (because he gets overwhelmed) reinforced his belief that all dogs are bad and that, when we tenderly try a meet-and-greet, he believes it appropriate to jump and swipe? Oh Sisyphus!

Above all else, it is embarrassing to have a dog that is inhospitable to some of our neighbors, while he slobbers and wags his tails at others. He adores the soft-spoken, aloof neighbor, who memorized Monte’s name, birth marks and habits before he could recognize my face or before I could even learn his name. Monte loves the children that play in our courtyard, who kick the soccer ball and proclaim their bravery in the face of slobbering dogs. He likes the constantly revolving line of fans at our local RedBox. He is angry at anyone who might be banging around under the hood of their cars or watering their lawns when we walk by. He doesn’t like if someone is listening to headphones or on their bicycle. He is angry when someone comes out from around a corner. He is elated at squirrels. He cowers at thunder and if someone slams the door downstairs. His agoraphobia has manifested itself not as the inability to leave the apartment, but rather with the inability to manage the barrage of sensory information he encounters outside. And I thought walking your dog was supposed to be calming and regenerative.

So we enrolled Monte is a Growl class. And he was a super star. I was not a super star. I was a blubbering fool, disappointed when Monte wouldn’t make eye contact and felt like jumping up and down at other dogs. I was a mess simply because I couldn’t stand the anxiety of holding in my anxiety enough to make sure Monte didn’t see that I was agitated. Turned out, I needed a Growl class for humans and Monte needed to stay home and eat bacon and watch Days of our Lives. I think that this human class I need to go find might be filed in the yellow pages under “therapy” or “support group”.

In Growl, the dog trainers told us to sing “jingle bells” to ourselves when approaching another dog, so as not to transfer the anxiety or tension through the leash to our dog. There’s a lot of talk of the leash being the emotional tether—the only thing “connecting” you to your dog. My tension tells Monte when to be tense. My relaxation tells Monte when to relax. My tension is high when I’m tense about making sure I relax enough. The trainers wouldn’t be able to help me if they knew I’m too worried about singing jingle bells and sacrificing one small bit of my attention from him to even remember why I’m supposed to be singing jingle bells in the first place.

It’s been 9 months since we adopted Monte. With excellent precision—if I have the timing right—I can navigate the most stress-inducing dog walk-past on the narrowest of sidewalks while Monte maintains eye contact and prepares to receive a treat. Food motivates. But motivational slogans and commands and food-giving is both exhausting and habit forming. Sometimes it doesn’t even work. Will Monte ever not need treats to walk like a reasonable, obedient and calm dog? Will I ever trust the dog? Will he ever trust me?

Slush: Not A Pleasing Fruity Drink

The Wall Street Journal released this article about how getting read (nevermind published) from the slushpile has reached astronomically difficult proportions. For example, The Paris Review, publishes one solicited story a year, making the odds .o08%. So, do we draw up the noose, pile up the back issues, and jump?

By way of response, I would like to say that even today, in this supposed dearth, new writers get noticed. Who ever said writing was easy? People seem to cling to these glory days when the short story market paid the bills. And when was that? And how long, in the grand scheme of writing and publishing, did that era last?

Technology has made multiple submissions easy for the writer. Writers don't have to painstakingly type manuscripts, and then wait for their return. Now they can fire multiple copies off and carpet bomb if they like. Editors, lest they wind up drowned in sheafs of paper, have had to create lines of multiple defense. Having read for a lit mag, I don't blame them.

No, you can't mail your newly minted book off to Random House and expect a response, but if you are writing and submitting good work, publication is not dreaming the impossible dream. In the past three years Montana MFAers (as in, my fellow classmates) have cracked some tough markets, including The Colorado Review, The North American Review, The Black Warrior Review, The Boston Review, McSweeney's, The Atlantic Monthly, The Mid-American Review, and The Gettysburg Review. Books by former grads (that seems to take a few more years) have been published.

A quick look at The Paris Review told me this pub is not for the emerging artist. This month's issue (for example) has work by Robert Haas and Aimee Bender. Furthermore, I don't believe it's the responsibility of every lit mag to focus on emerging writers. It's not as if Aimee Bender and Robert Haas are spamming American.

Still, I'm glad for the lit mags that give us newbies a chance. Allow me to say, thanks. And if you are an emerging writer, consider supporting a mag that supports us.

FIction, Nonfiction or Poetry? A Genre Quiz

You didn’t prepare for workshop today. What’s your excuse?

a. Sorry, too drunk.
b. Sorry, my meds were off.
c. Bumblebee.

You wrote all day today. The following describes your process:

a. Writhing in agony, pulling of hair, torrid typing, screaming, pacing, pounding of head on keys.
b. The above, but you finish the day with a hot bath.
c. Over hibiscus tea, you penciled in a comma. After a long stroll by the stream, you came back and erased it.

Characterize your intimate relationships.

a. Cradle Robbers R Us.
b. Quite healthy, actually, unless your meds are off.
c. Random pressing of bodies in narrow, wallpapered hallways.

You’ve just finished Lolita. Describe your mood.

a. I should perform the literary world a favor and shoot myself.
b. Inspired by Nabokov’s descriptive powers, a writing exercise comes to mind OR the book triggers such disturbing memories you can’t finish.
c. That first paragraph. Delightful!

Time to make money.

a. I’m going write that YA graphic novel.
b. I’m going lie about how I joined a pack of wolves.
c. It is with great sorrow that I part with my grandmother’s brooch.

Describe your perfect meal:

a. Cheeseburger and a fifth of Jack.
b. French cheese, Indonesian curry, and Mexican goat tamales, accompanied by a story of how you nearly died learning to prepare each.
c. Lavender crumpets and rainbow mist. One perfectly butchered lamb chop seasoned by the waft of a rosemary sprig.

You have no doubt by now figured which letter corresponds to which genre. If you had significant answers in a second category, congrats! You’ve discovered your second genre. You are going to be rich.

A Chronicle of Writer's Chronicle Anxiety

Writer’s Chronicles are piling up on my office desk. I mean to read, but before I get a chance another one appears in my box.

I know I should study the articles and learn, because writing is my scene, but I don’t know how to absorb all this writing about writing. Writing about writing is like teaching writing or learning writing — too many ings. I need to write. Write. Such a clean, simple verb, devoid of passive voice. I feel guilty if I don’t read Writer’s Chronicle but then I feel worse if I’m reading the Writer’s Chronicle and not writing.

I did make it through two articles this afternoon. One interview with Lee Gutkind, because he’s a nonficion honcho, and another interview with poet Sheryl St. Germain because a friend of mine graduated from Chatham and she’s the director there. And I saw that she’s from New Orleans so that caught my eye. More specifically the word "gumbo" caught my eye. Gumbo. I like gumbo.

Then I skim the ads, looking for anyone I know. I notice that more I stay in gradschooland, the more I recognize. But I am even more amazed by all the names I don’t know. How is it all these people are professors and visiting writers and I’ve never heard of them? Although clearly these writers are more published and accomplished than me or they wouldn't be featured in an ad.

Which leads to the next anxiety.

Why isn’t my name featured in an ad? Will I ever be one of these names other aspiring readers skim over wondering who I was and why I matter? Will I have a little black and white photo with my chin tilted at a saucy angle? Ack! I need a career. Which means I need pubs.

Which leads to the next anxiety.

All the contests. And calls for lit mag submissions. I try to circle with my pen but at this point I’m hyperventilating a little. Cookie. I need a cookie.

So I read the MFA ads. The MFA ads are safe because I already have an MFA. I wonder if ads work. I wonder if applicants look and think, wow that’s the coolest brick building I’ve ever seen. I am SO going there.

One trend I noticed in these ads was the slogan. I saw an ad for Ohio U and it was thankfully sloganless. Another advertising tactic is the writer’s quote. It seems to have more weight if the famous writer has an association with the program (Hugo for Montana, or O Connor for Georgia College and State). The quote is less of a sin than the slogan.

I don't know who is writing these slogans but I suspect writers aren't writing them.

Top Ten Worst MFA Slogans:

10. Be a Writer in a City of Readers (Portland State U)

9. Finally…an MFA that trains you for a career not just a genre (Western Connecticut State)

8. Immerse Yourself in the Writing Life (Old Dominion)

7. The World’s Focus is on our Faculty. Our Faculty’s Focus is on You (Drew)

6. My words... My time... My MFA. (U of Nebraska at Omaha)

5. Creative. Exploring. Worldly. Aware. Inventive. Challenging. Poetic. Engaging. (Chatham)

4. Write from the Heartland (Ashland)

3. Get Carried Away by the City of Big Shoulders (Roosevelt U)

2. Scribbling on the Ether: The Changing Nature of Writing and Publication (Western Michigan U)

And… the winner:

1. Write from the Heart of Writing (Lesley U)

I against I: Indolence, The Writing Life and Hauntings of Childhood Malaise

I have been unable to write a word while my sister-in-law births. This was not my intention. Grace Ann was my first “live” birth. As a relative, I love my brother’s wife and wanted to be there for her. As a writer, I was eager to bear witness. Surely this would all be material for a story someday.

Yet there was an uncanny lack of drama. The wringing of hands, the pacing, the damp brows — all notably absent. The Relative was grateful, but The Writer bummed.

8:00 Family arrives at hospital for birth.

8:15. Chris’s abdomen cut open

8:43 Baby displayed in window. Hi Baby! Hi!

9:30 Family at local Cracker Barrel for breakfast

9:38 Another plate of biscuits, please?

Sadly, I can’t blame Grace Ann, a 7 pound, zero-year-old, for my indolence. And tweren’t my belly sliced. The real problem is when I return to Alabama, I slip into this mind-numbing vortex. I become a blob held together by skin capable of nothing but watching TV and shoving processed food in her face. Think of David Banner transforming into The Hulk. Then picture the exact opposite.

I haven’t blamed my parents much in recent years, so I reckon they are due.

Growing up, my parents took me on interminable drives to “look at houses,” or to eat a Spam spread sandwich at a state park. They both possess this zen-like quality whereby they are, I swear, just that easily amused. I am not. I am a picky little bored bitch. I learned to bring a book, much like a person might make sure to carry an epi pen. On these rides (sometimes cross country) I would sit, read, and stare out the window, quietly waiting for the day my life would begin.

I’m 40. Waiting for life? Uh, this might be it. Nora Ephron tells me the neck sags at 43. That means I have three freaking years to enjoy a book tour with a neck.

So before I go home I make grand plans to begin My Great Southern Childhood Story. I pack a little sparkle notebook to capture those tiny details that have slipped into the memory abyss. For one, I had somehow forgotten those pine log trucks you get stuck behind on two lane highways. Semis that haul stacks of felled pines, red flags tied on the end. These flags, presumably, are so you can focus when the log slips, smashes the windshied and gouges out your face.

There! Wasn’t that a lovely detail? But that’s all for now. Mom has Cinemax. And I know where she stashes the cookies. Those nasty packaged cookies that I would never purchase at home. I’m going to sneak just one more. And then really, really, when I get home my life will begin.

Post MFA Pep Talks (Pump Your Fists, Say Yeah!)

When I was researching MFA programs, I admit I pooh-poohed Columbia out of hand. Word was the average grad had $60,000 in debt. I heard a few sordid workshop tales. Even the application fee was expensive. Why would anyone go there? I thought, as I practically applied to state schools that offered TAs.

I don't I regret my TA. If I had a huge student loan, I would be in a state of panic right about now. And I went to a program of which mere mention makes my heart clench in lost love. But I'm forced to admit, as I trek the murky swamps of the post-MFA, I see a goodly amount of Columbia MFA bylines. Especially in nonfiction. More than once I have read where Columbia grads (for instance Meghan Daum in one of my all time essay faves “My Misspent Youth”) debate the cost-effectiveness of the degree. Yet as my rejection-slip-covered soul devours the printed, published page I have to wonder. It can’t hurt to attend a program in a city where the vast majority of publishers, agents, and major magazines live.

It’s too bad Columbia and Montana can’t combine to form the perfect MFA mullet, business in the front – party in the back. Now that I’m facing the business end, I find myself turning to a book by a Columbia grad, Betsy Lerner, a poet MFA turned editor turned agent. I recommend her The Forest for the Trees: An Editor’s Advice to Writers for anyone in the pre-pre-writing stage, which means you aren’t actually writing, but reading books about writing.

Too busy you say? The book lists are long and the bathtub soaks too short? Okay, here’s the Sparknotes:

1) It’s tough, but hang in there.
2) Don't call the editor at home.

No, wait. I can do better:

1) Write as if your parents were already dead
2) If you are in a program or conference, use the time to learn from writers who are a notch or two above. (Of course the catch here is that you have to be willing to admit that).
3) Write with your ideal reader in mind (i.e. writing for everyone often translates into writing for no one).
4) Write the book you want to read
5) Write for your mentor or fiercest critic

Booted From the MFA Womb

The ripping Kansas winds and humidity blanket let me know I am definitely not in Montana anymore. I want to go home but where is that? If I clicked the heels of my pink flip flops I might get thrown in a worm hole.

My Camry (equipped with a U-Haul trailer) thinks it's some kind of badass parked with the 18 wheelers in the Econo Lodge parking lot of Salina. I've spent the past twelve hours becoming intimately acquainted with the roadkill wildlife of Nebraska. Feathered, furred, domestic, wild, taloned, pawed, clawed. Too bad I can't work some kind of matchmaking deal with all those taxidermy schools in Montana.

I've also had too much time to wonder what I'm doing.

Two more hell days of driving and I'll be in New Orleans to meet fellow MFA grad Anne Marie Inge. She asked me on the phone the other day that gut wrenching post MFA Q: Have you been writing? I was actually writing pretty soon after graduation, but everything got put on hold for the move. And a kickass trip to Glacier National Park. It's weird to think a few weeks ago I was hiking to Iceberg Lake and communing with mountain goats. And in a few days I'll be slurping oysters in Nola. All it's takes is a lot of driving and fuckload of money for gas.

Guest Blogger: Beth Staples on writing in the "real" world

I was excited when Trina asked me to contribute to this post-MFA blog. I have been post-MFA for over six months now, which seems a both round and regular enough amount of time for reflection. What it hasn’t been, unfortunately, is enough time to figure out how to have a “real” life and enough time to write. So this here is a blog post about how I haven’t figured it out yet. Hopefully I’ll find some way to make it inspiring in spite of that.

Some background. Within two month’s time – between October and December of last year – the following events transpired: I graduated from my MFA program, I got engaged, I started a full time job, I bought a house. Luckily, no pregnancy, or I’d have no other major life events to look forward to. On top of all of that (or because of it?) I started suffering from a series of chronic, daily migraines impervious to any medication. (On good days, I like to think of the pain as a novel idea gearing up for its birthday.)

Which brings me to here. The bad news (which we’ll get out of the way) is that I’ve spent only three hours since graduation writing. Yikes! There is some good news, though. I’m working my dream job as Managing Editor of Hayden’s Ferry Review. I teach one fiction writing class at ASU each semester. I’m planning my wedding. I’m making my mortgage payments. To manage my headaches, I’m trying to eat better. And occasionally, I even exercise. In list form, the two sides of that scale appear obviously imbalanced. The good side is winning, right? Then why does it feel just the opposite?

I believe firmly that new schedules require adjustment, that taking care of one’s body is just as important as taking care of her mind, and that sometimes, it just isn’t possible to do all you want to do. But I also believe that the major difference between a writer and anyone else is the writing itself, that the pressures of “real” life are always going to make it difficult to find writing time, and that it is possible to prioritize activities so that the most important of them (breathing? writing?) get their due attention.

Given that in the last six months I’ve found barely any time to write at all, and that exhaustion, job-juggling, doctor’s appointments and event planning are – often – the stuff of every-day life, I’ve been pondering some frightening possibilities. Among the questions I’ve asked myself these past six months: What if I’m not cut out for writing after all? Is it enough to work with writers and writing, without actually writing myself? Why, when I know that American Idol isn’t even that interesting, do I flop on the couch instead of writing? If I spent the same amount of time writing as I do feeling guilty about not-writing, would I have already written the most amazing novel ever? Etc.

Here’s what a friend recently said to me: “You’re going to spend parts of your life not writing. It’s just the way it is. If you wrote all the time, you’d be a crazy-artist-writer person and no one would like you.” Was she just trying to make me feel better, or does she have a point? I like my beau and my cat and swimming and eating and my wedding plans and our ping pong table and yes, even reality television. I also like teaching and editing and reading and (yes!) writing. I want all of it. And I’m hopeful that balance is possible, that this new life just needs some time to settle down, that with some negotiation, discipline and routine, leaving the MFA life behind is a step toward being a “real,” living, working, breathing and writing writer.

What If I Stop Writing?

I got my BA in Creative Writing (Fiction). After graduation, I found a decent office job and my writing effectively ceased. In fact, I've never written fiction since, except for the occasional narrative prose poem. Now it's 10 years later. I'm facing graduation and the job market and wondering How do I keep this momentum?

So I was reading Salon today and came across a letter to Cary Tennis that addresses my fear. Mr. Tennis makes some valid points in answer to the writer who is no longer writing nine months after graduation from a Masters program. Develop a daily writing practice. Suspend goals and closure--write because you want to, write for no reason at all. Take a workshop. He even mentions The Artist's Way, that mid-90s bible for blocked woo-woo writers that, indeed, I read and took to heart way back when. Did it help? No.

I think the problem is in the gap between an awareness that a daily writing practice is necessary and the actual creation of a daily writing practice. When you're working an 8-hour day, it is really difficult to come home and write or wake up early and write. Not impossible. Wallace Stevens did it. Doc Williams did it. But I'm no Wallace Stevens. It has occurred to me to get a part time job just until I can finish my manuscript. But it's really difficult to pay the bills that way. And when will I be "finished" with my manuscript? When it gets published? When I start sending it out with hopes of publishing it?

Add to that the anxiety of writing. The constant need for affirmation, which dries up after one leaves the supportive atmosphere of a program. There are no more workshop buddies, no more professors to encourage you to keep working. All of a sudden, one has to affirm oneself, constantly. That sort of self-actualization is hard to maintain when the rejections keep rolling in.

I am well aware that the only way to keep writing is to simply keep writing. Maybe I have developed enough confidence by now to believe that my writing is worthwhile and that it matters more than vegetating in front of the television after a long day of work. I also know that very few of the writers from my MA program still write regularly, and those do so because they went on to MFA programs. The others have become bogged down in the daily grind of making a living. On the other hand, there are enough books, articles, blogs, and sundry other media being published every year to indicate that some people must have found a way to do it.

One of my instructors here at UM has suggested that the single most important thing one can do in an MFA program is find a couple of good readers one trusts and maintain contact with them after the program. Keep sending them work and ask for feedback. Offer the same help to them. I think this is sound advice. It will certainly be the primary strategy in my plan of attack.