Workshop Bingo

Yesterday was the last workshop of the MA, for the full time students, at least. Which felt strange, since it seems like we haven't been at it for very long, but at the same time welcome, because I've been in workshops for seven solid years now and at some point you get really tired of the process. Cava was bought and poured around, which led to the decision that everyone should drink at the mention of Point of View, because Henry reliably picks on P.o.V in every piece we read or discuss.

Which, of course, reminded me of my undergraduate workshops.

There seems to be a bit of a tradition at old R(MW)C involving English majors, their senior year, and large, opaque water bottles, specifically in relation to Senior Seminar. You can take a drink whenever the lecturer says something you think is moronic, or you can choose cue words that your classmates use frequently; in my case it was 'Jane Eyre,' 'A. S. Byatt,' 'Boy Band,' and any assignment that didn't apply to the ten Creative Writing concentrators in the room because the seminar was geared to Lit majors, of which we had one in the class, and so calculated to make the rest of us rend our garments in frustration. It was a three-hour study in frustration every Thursday night, when I was supposed to be fencing but was instead discussing critical approaches and research habits for a theoretical project that I would never actually conduct because it wasn't pertinent to my concentration. You would have drunk, too.

I'll blame Honors for causing that bit of fun to spill over into other things. Mandatory departmental readings? We all sat in a row, chose a key word based on the author's interests, and had ourselves a good old time. Except for the evening we chose 'um,' because none of us knew the visiting writer's work. You'd think that professional word people would have excised that bit of filler from their vocabularies when they were toddlers, but the introduction alone contained enough 'um's to drain half the volume of my Nalgene.

But the best place to play the game was Workshop. Workshops are tough when you're first starting out and don't really know what you're doing. They're tough in a different way when you're months away from graduating and are surrounded by students that are still figuring out plot arcs and grammatical sentences. My response was to toss about six shots of vodka (I'm not really sure, I free poured that shit in proportion to the pain I'd felt while reading the pieces earlier that week), filled it up the rest of the way with Mountain Dew from the dining hall on the way to class, gave it a shake, and started sipping. One gulp every time someone I knew was written into a sex scene. Every time boy bands were mentioned. Twice for metaphysical bullshit. And a nice long chug whenever the professor drastically misinterpreted my work or when one of the other students correctly explained the entire piece to him. There were other cues, but they varied from week to week. It was a good way to curb my temper: the more reasons I had to be annoyed, the warmer and fuzzier I felt. When the session was promising to be really bad, other people joined me, or borrowed my water bottle in the middle of class.

Which leads to a bit of confusion I think needs to exist, but is too specialized to be mass-produced.

We heard 'point of view' in every workshop. In undergrad it was some variation on 'metaphysical bullshit.' And everyone contributing to the workshop has a handful of private buzzwords that get whipped out every week. 'The writing is very assured.' 'Tropes.' 'It reminds me of Z. Z. Packer/Ali Smith/Raymond Carver/whoever you choose.' 'Structure.' 'You should read...' There are words and phrases that come up over and over again, not so much because the concepts recur in peoples' writing, but that the participants have pet ideas that get trotted out every week.

Bingo cards.

They'd be different for every workshop group, and would have probably made me pay more attention than my drinking game. Of course, anyone that won would have to scream 'Bingo!' in the middle of workshops. But most workshops could stand to be a little more surreal. Someone out there has to do this. If I never get the chance to do it myself, I'll find a baby MA to corrupt (if I'm still around next year) and revel in second-hand shenanigans.

Brain fluff and an anthology.

This time there is a trifecta of reasons for my absence: a hellish journey to France for an international fencing tournament (no legionnaire's disease this time), one of those long illnesses that lays you out flat for weeks, and a directive from Ali Smith to go write a novel and the accompanying discovery that when I begin a novel everything else ceases to be important - a trick of psychology or a flaw of personality that Henry assures me is pretty common.

February is over, but it still feels like February. The return of marked coursework resulted in loud dissent in the ranks, for assorted reasons. My personal annoyance stems not from my marks but from the conflicting commentary attached by the markers, which makes me wonder if anyone really knows what they're doing when it comes to the rough side of fiction. There seems to be a great element of chance in producing a piece that 'works,' and even more chance in getting it published. Or perhaps that is just what I tell myself to lessen the sting of rejection letters.

Speaking of publication, Cruentus Libri press will be birthing a horror anthology next week selected around the unifying theme of the sea; The Dead Sea will be on Amazon US, UK, for Kindle and on Create Space. My contribution to the collection was one of those instances of incredible chance and the vatic voice; it was written in one breath (after an extended debate with my partner on the monsters of Celtic mythology), came out exactly as I wanted it to, and found a home immediately. Which is not typical of my writing or publishing process.

Doesn't that just look precious?

Two more anthologies should be poking their sunny heads through the snow along side the daffodils this spring, though if the present trend continues they will be excessively delayed. By the time the last comes out I hope to have found an agent for some longer pieces that have been sitting in the closet for a while, or at least have enough rejection letters piled up to show that I've tried.

And breathe!

And somehow four months slipped past while I was somehow not paying attention. This either has to do with the amount of work that's currently up in the air and never seems to be entirely cleared away, or one of my favorite truisms: regardless of how much or little you have to do, it will expand or contract to perfectly fit all available time. I keep thinking that after the next project is due I will have a space to breathe, collect my thoughts, and maybe do something for pure enjoyment, but there is always a next project.

Last year, I tried rock climbing (again), because I wanted to get over my fear of heights. And even though I was quite proud of myself the first time I managed to get six feet off the ground without getting dizzy and refusing to move, I quickly realized why the sport is such an apt metaphor for life. It's fun to scramble up and down the easy routes that you've done before. It reminds you that you can actually climb. But if you want to improve at all, you have to push yourself. And when you're really pushing yourself, especially if you're a muscularly-challenged female that gets faint on balconies, each new handhold feels like the most impossible thing you've ever done. And when you do manage to swing yourself in just the right way so as to progress a few inches upward you can only be proud for so long, because the next handhold will now be the most impossible thing you've ever done. And so it will continue until you run out of places to put your hands.

We discussed in Theory and Practice of Fiction last week how the present moment, and therefor our enjoyment of the present moment, only lasts three seconds. (The assigned reading was on neurobiology and physiology and its relationship to consciousness and time.) Three seconds is about as long as my overwhelming joy at grabbing the next hold while ten feet up lasts, and about half as long as my acceptance letter happy dance lasts, because acceptance letters are rare and I try and savor that feeling as long as possible. But after the moment, there's the next handhold to grab, and the next piece to write - or, if I'm really courageous, the next PhD application. 

Frequently I forget, as I'm scrabbling to read assigned material and make deadlines, that I'm making any progress at all. And though I can't quantify what I've learned, or when I've learned it, I can feel its influence. When I look at the pieces I wrote last year and before I'm quite embarrassed, which apparently happens to most artists who consistently work on their craft, but unlike before I now know what to change in order to fix those old pieces, to make them into something I can be willing to acknowledge as mine. 

And, for the sake of pure self-indulgence, an example of a handhold made where elation lasted beyond a single moment: UEA hosted a women's fencing tournament yesterday, and I beat all three of the sabruers on Oxford's women's team. That possibly made up for never having been able to go to school in Oxford. If you can't join 'em, beat 'em with a +10 aggregate indicator and gloat quietly while flexing your nearly nonexistent biceps. Now if only they'd let me fence on the men's team...

Impossible Dreams

Everyone has them, or at least ought to have them: goals that they want to reach that are just on the other side of believability. Not the ones that involve conquering a country or elaborate revenge, though those are probably doable for some people. I mean the things that seem out of reach now, but might be possible if the dice fall the right way.

I used to think that living in England was one of those pipe dreams, along with royalties (of any amount) and getting into a Master's program. And now I'm here. Other pipe dreams have taken their place:

• Walking the coast of England for mental health research and awareness.
• Getting into and through a PhD program in one piece.
• Living in a country where the official language isn't English.
• Telling my dad to go buy a copy of the New Yorker so he can turn to a specific page and see my name.
• Selling a novel. Heck, selling three novels and being able to buy food from them. 
• Going back to the home I dream about. 
• Living without medication. Or mandatory doctor's appointments. 
• Not having to worry about visas and length of stay while I'm in the UK. 
• Fencing in the Olympics.

Ok, maybe the last one is a little far-fetched, but the rest could possibly happen, if I make them happen. Which makes me wonder, how many dreams have I let die because I couldn't see how to get there from where I was standing? And how many dreams have others let die for the same, or similar reasons? And the biggest question: Why?

Anthology Launch!

It's here: the Deep Cuts Horror anthology. 19 short stories, and recommendations of dozens more, all intended to thrill, chill, and etc; it's a pretty hefty volume for the money. You can find a table of contents here, and the book itself is available from Amazon electronically, and will be available in paperback and from other venues imminently.

My contribution to this is titled "Practical Necromancy," in the 'mayhem' section of the book, though it is much more coherent than the drivel that I normally post here. The story is about three sisters as they deal with the aftermath of their parents' death by turning to work, love, and black magic. There is also defenestration. The original title was 'All Through the Night,' after a lullaby my dad used to sing. It contains the line 'I my loving vigil keeping all through the night,' which is ironic in the context of the story, but not everyone knows the song, so the title was changed.

I never expected that the first book in which my work would be featured would be a horror collection, but that doesn't mean I'm not thrilled. The piece was as difficult to write as any of the literary fiction I've done, but was still one of the most enjoyable pieces that I've written.

Edit: Oh look! It's also available from Amazon.co.uk! I was not expecting that. 

Technical difficulties

The apocalypse didn't happen! Unfortunately, no one told my computer that. It proceeded to give itself a Viking funeral the day that the world didn't end, and as I was on the road the bastard didn't go into the shop until yesterday. The money that was going to become a pair of boots that don't leak and a waterproof jacket - as well as a few months of food that isn't eggs and rice - will now be turned into a new motherboard, with fingers crossed that all that cash will rescucitate the thing. C'est la vie. There will, hopefully, be more and more pertinent thoughts once I've regained the lost ground; coursework deadlines are less than a week away and I'm not sure at this point what to toss out in order to keep the slavering beasts at bay.

Random tip - when you're in a foul mood and a lecturer asks a stupid question via e-mail, log off and walk away until you can give an answer that doesn't strip paint and melt bone with its pure acidity. And yes, lecturers ask stupid questions.

Oh frabjous day, callooh callay!

It's snowing - and sleeting occasionally, but thank god it isn't raining. No, wait, and it's raining again. Henry Sutton flat out told me that Norfolk is the driest part of England; at this point I'm thinking that he was having me on. You don't have to be green and wear pointy shoes to dissolve here.

End of term is looming, which means there are suddenly heaps of deadlines. I've been doing edits for the anthologies that are coming out around/just before Christmas, because that's the best way I can think of to procrastinate writing my PhD proposal. Yeah, I do a double-take too, when I think that: I've got no business getting near a PhD, I can't even eat a chocolate ice cream without getting it all over my face. But better a PhD than a child at this point, and I'd rather spend the next three years writing a novel than chasing a toddler. Literary criticism has a special place in my heart, or possibly some other organ as it gets me irrationally excited, and the only way I can see to spend three more years semi-affordably studying it is to stick it out wherever I can get funding.

Last week I attended a reading by D. W. Wilson from his book of shorts Once You Break a Knuckle. It was a cosy event, as Wilson is a PhD candidate at UEA and a veteran of their MA program, so it's perfectly acceptable to have him sit on the drinks table to read while we all pack around. He's Canadian by birth, but the story that he read reminded me of home, and his presence there was a reminder of the adage "never say never." There is no market for short story collections from unknown authors, but his first published book is one such collection. Rejection slips get everyone down, but all you need is one acceptance to get a work in print. Winning the BBC prize for one of the pieces in the collection certainly helped procure that acceptance, but if he hadn't submitted to the prize in the first place, he never would have won.

At the end of the evening, one of the other students asked him for the advice that he would give his younger self. He said that most people insist that you can't make a living writing, that you have to find some worthwhile work and write in the margins, but that's just bull. If writing is the work that you have to do, the work you want to do, do everything you can to make it your work. Life can work out around it.

Of course, that can only happen if you keep on submitting.