Sea Legs

I've been working on the same short story since last spring. Maybe it even started before that. It's been so long since I was in college for this sort of thing that I feel like I've lost my chops. I went back and read one of my stories from 2004 and impressed myself. It's been long enough that I have no connection to it and it doesn't feel like I even wrote it, but it's so clean and technically proficient. I feel very far away from being confident about my proficiency.

So this one I'm working on STILL has become a monster of a thing--8,669 words and 32 pages. (Thank god the maximum for some of the journals is 10,000.) I "workshopped" it in Aspen this summer and have re-written it twice since then. I still don't think it's very good--for one thing, I'm afraid there are too many mediocre scenes, but I took a different approach this time than the way I used to do it in college.

For one thing, I wrote my ideas before I knew exactly what I wanted. I wrote the thing and made notes on the side in a separate word document. I let it be sloppy because I just needed to get it out of my head. I used to worry about every word as it came, writing with the goal of having not a single word out of place, not a single extra. It usually produced clean writing, but it was a very constipated process, and I feel like my stories never went anywhere unexpected or interesting because I strangled them to death. Isn't one of the main points of the artistic process to play?

With this one, I had lots of different directions I wanted to take it in, an idea of scenes to throw in, and a couple of inner conflicts I wanted to explore. I wrote a third of it in first person then turned back around and changed every pronoun to third person and then rewrote it in third and kept on writing. I wrote the second to last scene first and then backed up to the beginning. I added scenes in the first major rewrite and completely deleted a whole story line and main character. I thought about what Sue Miller said--that the true joy is in revision, where you are the rearranger and the fine-tuner because you've already generated material to work with. I think I'm coming to understand that, because while I still don't like a lot of technical aspects of the story, I'm deeply entertained by the characters and the plot, and I go back and live in it each time I revise. I finally was able to get some distance from the characters this time around, too, and I quit picturing the faces of the real people they were based on and started picturing the fake ones. I even pictured a new neighborhood that I've never previously visited.

When I look back on the first draft, I'm embarassed that people in my summer class read that version, but I'm proud that it's become something else, and it could not have if I hadn't been willing to put that junk on the table first. But I am still too hard on myself and scared, though it's a different kind of fear than the one in college--I have gotten over myself a little more to the point that if someone thinks this particular story is not very good, then oh well. It doesn't mean I'm a bad writer and I should not write. But my recent fear is that it isn't very good to anyone, and I don't have an audience even after working for so long on it. Of course, I wouldn't take back that work, because it was enjoyable and I'm still proud of it.

My other fear is that I'll run out of things to write about. There are so many things that I am passionate about and moved by, but so few things make a good story, or a story I am capable of wrangling. I wonder how I'd ever have anything big enough to write about that could become a novel. And then what if it's a very bad novel that no amount of revision can save? That's a very scary prospect.

Okay, I have more than two fears. Let's be honest. I'm scared I won't find the right grad school for me, and if I do, that they won't let me in. That I'll have to move and undo everything I've built in my life in this city, and everything Leif's built, and maybe we'll only be moving for a pipe dream.

It is also true that my goal is not to be a best seller--if I could be minimally published, published enough to teach fiction writing, then I'd be happy. To me, that's not really a pipe deam, because I know I have enough passion (and on most days, I feel like I have enough talent) to pursue that.

And it's true that grad school does not a writer make. If I'm serious about writing, I will write on my own at least a couple of times a week so that I have something to workshop in the first place. I thought about applying to another summer workshop this year, but then for what? I'm not in the middle of writing anything, so why would I need other people to spend time reading nothing?

The truth is, I just want to be around writers talking about fiction. I wonder if there's some kind of outside-of-college writing circle I could be a part of. Somehow I feel like it would be really lame.

Plus, it's such an intimate thing to show someone else your writing, because a lot of the story is always based on you and your life, but then it's blown up and distorted and shot through a negative lens (in my case), so then people are thinking you've got this dark double life. That's why it's nice for either complete strangers or people who know you very well to read it.

Then there's also the problem of, "Hey, would you do me the small favor of reading my 32 page story and telling me what you like and don't like about it? It'll only take you about three hours, but I just need some reassurance before I send it to some real publishers." If that sounds good to any of you out there, I will send it to you instantly (really).

The problem is, my stuff wasn't finished in time for one of the journals I was going to send it to, and the other journal changed their deadline, and I let it sit on the back burner for so long because I was bogged down with teaching that I didn't get either story in on time. Then, once you do finally submit your work, it takes them at least three months to get back to you, and it's likely that it will be a rejection letter. So it could be years before I'm ever published. So it's unlikely that that will happen before I apply to grad school.

And then, I thought about the worst and most impossible part of the application process: letters of recommendation. My writing teachers haven't seen my face in five years. I'd almost be better off asking my high school English teachers to write one.

How does anyone ever make it through this process? I need a mentor.

I heard a rumor

I woke up this morning at 6:10 in an anti-histamine fog (I took off-brand Nyquil before bed). My phone was ringing. Since Dad's in Sarajevo, I figured he was calling me at what was a convenient time for him. I let it ring. By the time I got up to start the shower, it was ringing again, and it was Mom calling from home.

"Hey, go look outside your window! It's like a blizzard over here!" she said.

"Oh yeah," I said. I remembered that Michael in sixth hour yesterday asked me: "Is school going to be canceled because of the weather tomorrow? I heard a rumor that it was going to snow." I had scoffed at that idea, thinking 1) it is unlikely that BR will see snow and 2)EBR school system won't let us get off school for shit.

I looked outside and it looked a bit icy. It was dark and there were definitely some swirlies in the car headlights on my street.

"You sound terrible," said Mom.

"I just woke up," I croaked.

"Are you sick?"

"Yeah, it's just a throat thing. I shouldn't have told you."

"Okay, go pour some hot hot water on your throat. It'll feel better--,"

"Stop it Mom."

"Okay, well, have a good day."

I opened the bedroom door, told a sleeping Leif "I think it's snowing outside," and hopped in the shower. I felt like crap and I was dizzy and tired so I wasn't that excited. Leif came into the bathroom and confirmed snow. I asked him if he was going back to sleep and he said he wanted to, but he couldn't now.

By the time I got out of the shower and got dressed, Leif was fully suited up and outside. When I sat down to eat breakfast, he was coming in with a wet knit hat, a red face, and a big grin.

He was kind enough to start my car and brush up my windshield while I brushed my teeth. It was light out by the time I got to the front porch with my bookbag, lunch, and purse, and the whole yard was white. Big fat biscuity flakes were falling. I got Leif to take a picture of me in the yard and then I took one of him and got in the car. I had the wrong shoes for snow. Too bad my snow boots were in Lafayette.

I drove to school and cranked up Boards of Canada. It didn't feel like I was in BR at all. Everything was covered in a charming, fluffy layer. Even the gas stations looked like postcards.

When I got to school, I could see that kids were crowding under the overhang outside. There was a good inch or two of slush in the parking lot. I sloshed up to the main building with all my bags and an umbrella. One of my kids from two years ago was running into the parking lot skimming snow off cars yelling "This will make a good one! Oh, Hey, Ms. W__."

Then I saw the snow scene: all of the kids were playing in front of the drama building by the parking lot. None of them were dressed well enough--they were all wet in hoodies, sneakers, and fake designer boots. Some came up to me and yelled "Ms. W__" like they had been waiting for me, but then they had nothing to say after that. Everyone was just plain overjoyed and couldn't contain themselves. They were all playing so nicely together. Then J. from fourth hour ran up to me and told me I should have turned around because school is canceled. I saw one of the math teachers and she said the same thing. I half-wished I was wearing my ski gear so I could watch the kids play some more, but my feet were cold and wet, so I called Leif, let him hear the kids yelling in the background, hopped back in the car, and drove home.

Leif had gotten out my long underwear for me and wanted to go on a mini-walk to see what the lake looked like. So we did. Some metalhead-looking teenagers were playing in the front yard in our neighborhood. One of them yelled "How y'all doin'?" to us like somebody's cheery grandpa.

It's funny that people in the north see snow as a huge pain in the ass. Everyone down here is acting like they're in love with each other just because the air happens to be cold enough to freeze our usual rain. It's oddly transformative out there.