Writing and Me Part I: Bad Dreams, Bad Language, Bad Ass

A recent graduate of the Pine Manor College Solstice MFA program asked me to write a small article about what it's like being a writer and also about my experience being in an MFA program.  I'm not sure where to start exactly and I'm afraid it might exceed her 1-2 page limit, but I suppose, as my mentor has said, chronology is my friend, so I'll start at the beginning.

When I was a kid, I had difficultly sleeping.  Between a busy mind and recurring nightmares, nighttime was not my friend.  However, I did discover two pretty reliable cures for my restlessness: the first was lucid dreaming wherein I controlled every aspect of my dream down to the central players and the plot, the second was to write.  By the time I turned ten years old, my ability to dream lucidly was falling by the wayside, and so I wrote.  And wrote.  And wrote some more.  Pretty soon I'd written a novel.  

To borrow a metaphor from Harold Clurman, author of "On Directing," writing is like gardening and in order to get something good out of it, you have to lay down some shit.  There's a place for bad plays/writing and that is to provide fertilizer for the good stuff to come.  Well, that first 'novel' was pure fertilizer.  And that's exactly what it was supposed to be.  When I was younger I always had a book to read and a book to write in.  My diary did not chronicle my daily affairs, I filled it, instead, with the adventures of Jeremy Arbuct and his extra-terrestrially raised paramour from the past.  That was also shit, awesome shit, but shit nonetheless.  Luckily for me there were a few undigested seeds in the shit pile and they started to grow.  Over the years I gave my garden a constant supply of manure while watering and weeding and tending the small, determined sprouts.  This was my happy place.  One of them, anyway.  The only thing I loved as much as writing and reading, was acting and singing.

I majored in Music Theatre at Mesa State College (presently known as Colorado Mesa University) and took writing classes for electives.  I studied screen play writing, stage play writing, poetry and short fiction.  But there was one class that changed everything for me.  And not in a good way.  I took a fiction class from a professor who looked and spoke like Jimmy Stewart.  He was a nice enough man, but his ideas on writing and literature were dated and, I've come to realize, incredibly destructive.  He wrote his own manual for the class - a sort of 100 page manifesto of what he deemed to be decent literature - and then expected us to practice what he preached.  If you were a female, you could not write from the POV of a male character and vice-versa (which was incredibly limiting and sexist to boot).  Your protagonist cannot swear (which was a real fucking downer) and he or she must be an upstanding moral citizen (another downer because sex, drugs, and rock and roll, man!).  And the piece that I turned in for class was a dry, horrid, literary nightmare.  

I reread it years later and recognized that the story had a decent plot and interesting characters, but it was completely and utterly devoid of voice.  The class not only killed the 'me' in my writing; it killed my desire to write prose at all.  I switched to screen play as my primary writing for a while and eventually that fizzled, too.  But even with my desire gone, I couldn't stay away forever.  I dabbled in science fiction and angel mythology and then I learned about role-play.  For a while my writing hinged on the instant gratification that came from the give and take of partnered writing.  I became a little dependent on it, but, in the end, it was what pulled me out of the shell I had created around myself ever since the Jimmy Stewart look-a-like silenced my voice.  I could write from the viewpoint of a man if I wanted.  Hell, I could write from the viewpoint of an alien, an android, a cat, a sentient and sassy toaster!  And my protagonists could be bad boys with drug habits and foul mouths, or sweet young hookers with hearts of gold, or even tortured souls with violently repressed desires.  I even tried a little fan fiction and that is a strange and delightful creature unto its own.  But the point is, I wrote.  And wrote.  And wrote some more.  I added a fresh layer of  manure of cliches and passive voice to the garden, watered my dried up stems with metaphor and simile, and invited the sun to warm my dialogue once again.  

In November of 2010, I finally officially participated in National Novel Writer's Month (NaNoWriMo), and won.  I wrote a vampire story with a little guy-on-guy action (pretty much two of my favorite things).  With 50,000 words behind me on a single project, I started to feel like myself again.  So I signed up for Script Frenzy, too!  For Script Frenzy, I had to write a 100 page screenplay.  This time around I wrote about dragons and reached my hundred pages easily.  So now I had two projects with some weight to them.  Suddenly the idea of writing things, of being a writer, didn't seem that far-fetched.  I wanted to grow, I needed to grow, and the next logical step was a Masters of Fine Arts.  Seven years after graduating from Mesa State, I applied to two MFA programs, both on the eastern coast.  Only one accepted me.  At the time I took it to mean I was only good enough for one - but I don't think of it that way now.  Somehow I was meant to be part of the Solstice MFA Program at Pine Manor College and that next January began a new and bad ass chapter of my writing life.