Hippocampus Magazine, founded by Wilkes alum Donna Talarico, is looking for a few additional volunteer readers and copy editors to join their staff. These are unpaid volunteer positions, but the experience is great for resumes! Reading submissions is a fantastic way to improve your own writing, while also helping shape future issues of a thriving creative nonfiction magazine.
Visit Hippocampus Magazine online for more details and contact Donna Talarico if you are interested in volunteering.
Residency guest speaker Veronica Windholz has added to On Close Reading, her resource site for writers. The long-time editor first developed the website as a research archive for the workshop she developed and led at the Norman Mailer Colony, but she has since added information that all writers can access and apply to their creative toolboxes.
On Close Reading includes resources and guidance in the areas of composition, revision, and storytelling. The Editing Clinic includes lessons on Composition, Revision, and Storytelling.
In addition to editing resources, Windholz has added a selection of video clips from her most recent visit to the Wilkes University creative writing program. Graduating MAs will have the opportunity to interact with the editor at the upcoming summer residency.
In August 2013, Veronica Windholz will celebrate forty years of editing top-selling fiction and nonfiction for the major New York publishers.
Ever thought you wanted to start your own press, e-zine, or literary journal? Thanks to the initiative of Akashic Books editor Johnny Temple and Etruscan Press founding editor Phil Brady, alums and current students now have the option of pursuing a Master of Arts in Publishing! This new track will open at the June 2013 residency. Wilkes alums will take only an additional 18 credits to earn the M.A. in publishing.
Have you found the world of documentary film fascinating? The Wilkes low-residency program has also added a Master of Arts in documentary film, which will begin in January, 2014. Like the new publishing degree, alums need only take an additional 18 credits to earn this degree. The curriculum is being developed now working with Robert May and SenArt Films and other to be named companies.
For more information or to apply to any of the newly revised program tracks, please email or call Dr. Culver or Ms. Dawn Leas. Deadline to apply is May 31, 2013. Visit the Wilkes writing program website for updates.
Stephanie Riese at the Jan ’11 Wilkes residency
Wilkes alum Stephanie Riese runs A Scribble of Writers, a blog and creative collective. In this Q&A, Riese talks about their group, book reviewing, and invites others to join the collaboration.
Stephanie, tell us about A Scribble of Writers. What compelled you to start a collective?
I actually came up with the idea for Scribble of Writers at Wilkes. My friends and I were sitting in a social media class, hearing about how important it is to get our names out there and have an online presence. Listening to the types of writing websites and blogs people were using, I thought, “Hey, why not start our own?” I bounced the idea off the girls and they were enthusiastic. I love editing and proofing, so founding the site sounded like a lot of fun to me!
As part of the blog, you provide creativity prompts. Do you then share the results with one another?
The prompts are emailed out to everyone, and they email their pieces back to me. After any necessary edits, I post them to the website, where everyone has a chance to enjoy them.
Why do you include book reviews on the blog?
Book reviews were the suggestion of my friend Michelle, who wanted to write them. They’re a great way to get your name out there, and also generate great traffic for the website. I’d love to get a few more people to write them.
How can others get involved in A Scribble of Writers?
Anyone who would like to join the scribble need only send me an email and tell me what they’re interested in writing, be it the prompts, book reviews, etc. I’d like everyone to do the prompts in addition to anything else they enjoy, but I’m flexible. I’d love to see the site expand, with someone writing a blog about the writing process or other things like that.
***
Thanks, Stephanie. If you’re interested in contacting Stephanie Riese about A Scribble of Writers, you’ll find her on Facebook.
I Submit to You
By Michael J. Soloway
The Rule of Twenty-Five
Sheepshead Review. Serving House. Newfound. Northwind. Palooka. Thin Air magazine (4x). fwriction review. Utter magazine. Superstition Review. TINGE Magazine. The Boiler Journal. Passages North. Thomas J. Hrushka Memorial Nonfiction Prize (3x). Prick of the Spindle. The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review. Hippocampus Magazine. Ploughshares—just to name a few.
In all, I’ve received more than twenty-five rejections over the past thirteen months. They come in all shapes and sizes, with their own length and own voice. Like poems all titled, “Unfortunately…” Some offer compliments and encouragement; others simply cut you off at the knees and leave you feeling paralyzed with fear and insecurity. But a loss is a loss, whether it’s by thirty points or one.
Rejection is part of life, part of The Writing Life. But it’s also a word I associate with immaturity. After all, this isn’t one of those dreams where you’re late for a test without your No. 2 pencil; it isn’t high school. There is no prom to obsess over or folded notes to pass to potential dates—even though, at times, it may feel that way, as you ask yourself: Why not me? What’s wrong with me? I say: Nothing, especially if you haven’t even taken the plunge and submitted your work yet! And that doesn’t mean sending pages to your parents or friends or “one contest years ago.” Hilary Homzie, a children’s author at Hollins University, and a former mentor of mine, once told me: “You should always have twenty-five pieces of work in process at any one time.” Twenty-five? Yes, twenty-five. Five projects you’re writing; five you’re editing; five query letters you’re producing; five pieces you’re in the process of submitting; and five you’re waiting to hear back from an editor, agent, or publisher. Like sales, or any other business, it’s a numbers game—which simply means persistence is rewarded.
The Rebuff is Not Just For Cars
What’s the difference between a writer and an author? Have you ever turned this over in your mind? We call ourselves writers, but aren’t we already writers, all of us. Everyday, whether you’re writing or not, you are a writer; if you’re reading this then you most certainly are.
Perception and self-actualization is vital to growth and a continued formation of a positive identity. It’s time to start thinking of yourself as not only a writer, but an author as well. Whether you’ve published an essay or article or book or poem or blog or chapbook or a piece of haiku that began on a dinner napkin or if you haven’t published at all, give yourself permission to be an author. After all, we have Author pages on Facebook, not Writer pages. Be positive, then stay positive. Have your “Author’s Bio” ready. Know, deep down in your heart, that you’ll need it soon enough.
Along with my thirty aught rebuffs (a word I prefer over rejection, because it reminds me of polishing, that my work simply needs another run-through and that it’s not me that’s being rejected), I’ve also had successes this year as well—three essays and two memoir excerpts in seven different literary magazines over those same thirteen months. How have I done this? Quality work is only one ingredient to success. But courage and persistence is, by far, key to turning pages in an attic into pages into “print.” By rebuffing your work, and putting that first toe into what can sometimes be murky waters, you’ll be well on your way to becoming published—never immune to rejection, but an author ready to build upon success. After all, a translucent ocean does not reflect like the black sheen on the surface of a dark summer lake, it’s mystery reflecting your own image back at you, an identity that’s actually clear, if you stare long enough and catch the right amount of light.
Time is Relative (A Distant Cousin, Twice Removed)
Excuses are never about time; they’re about energy.
Time, after all, is just a state of mind—we make time for what we want to make time for. “I can’t go to the gym, I don’t have time.” “I can’t cook dinner, I don’t have time.” “I can’t write a query letter, I don’t have time.” I have the same excuses: a full-time job, school, family, which includes a 21-month-old daughter. And I had the same self doubts you may have over your shoulder like a backpack—something to keep your work safe, but oh so heavy to lug around. I used to think one rejection meant my work was “no good.” Giving up is easy. But the only notion you should be giving up at this point is expectation.
A friend and peer, who many of you know from the Wilkes Creative Writing Program, Danielle Poupore’s, MFA (AKA, Danielle E. Curtis), essay, “Lilac Blossoms: A Dead Squirrel Story” was rebuffed fourteen times before being published in Split Lip magazine in March. Persistence, perseverance, and faith in your own words are your greatest tools. Use them to your advantage. Time is not the enemy. It’s simply a distant relative passing through town looking for a place to “crash” for the night. Learn to invite them in with open arms; embrace the time you do have, even if the only room you have left in your soul at the end of the day is a worn couch without pillows. There is pride and reward in effort.
It’s “Submittable” and More
Once you have a submittable story, set of stories, or script, depending on your genre, visit Poets & Writers website (www.pw.org). In the top navigation, find “Tools for Writers.” Underneath that you’ll see “Contests,” “Lit Mags,” and “Small Presses.” Once there, you can segment your search by Genre, Subgenre, Format, and Payment. And don’t get overwhelmed by your search results. There are 885 literary magazines that pop up without conducting an Advanced Search. But if I specify, “Creative Nonfiction” and “Autobiography/Memoir,” then my results are a much more manageable 133. Remember, this is a numbers game, but not a race. Concentrate on upcoming deadlines first, then make a commitment to submit a piece at least once a month. Follow the Rule of 25s, but unlike writing goals, submissions are not supposed to be part of a daily routine. I submitted my essays and excerpts sporadically over an entire year.
Most online magazines have made the transition to electronic submissions, which not only makes it easier to submit your work but also to track them through a system called “Submittable.” Once you make your first submission, and your account is set up, you can check the status of a piece any time of day. Be sure to read each publication’s submission guidelines carefully—word count limits, publication deadlines, and anything else that a specific journal prefers. There are still many “traditional” publications that will require a more detailed project description, query letter, or even a paper submission.
“Simultaneous Submissions” is your best friend. Find magazines that accept them and send, send, send. Just be sure to follow their instructions. If one of your pieces gets picked up, then notify the other magazines immediately so they can take your submission out of consideration—unless, of 
course, they permit reprints. I’ve had two essays “reprinted,” so look for those opportunities as well. And don’t forget about contests. Just be aware, most have submission fees. So, that option can get costly. On the flipside, contests offer monetary awards and oftentimes, major publication opportunities. Look for contests no more than $15 per entry. There are literally thousands, depending upon your genre.
Another word of advice—don’t expect payment, if your work is accepted. We all want to make a living at writing, but right now the focus should be on getting published, putting your name out there into the Universe, and forming a strong identity as an author. As of September, when my seventh piece is scheduled for publication, I will have earned exactly $45 from my yearlong submission/publishing efforts. So, if you’re looking for a mammoth payday, consider becoming an actuary or a nurse anesthetist.
Sticks and Stones
Rejection is not a 4-letter word, even though it may elicit a few when you get that response from an editor, agent, publication, or contest. Just remember, reject and accept have the same number of letters. The word you would rather hear is obvious, but one rejection does not an author make. They’re just sticks and stones. But the forest ahead doesn’t have to be so bleak. Turn any rebuff into feathers and leaves falling harmlessly at your feet and keep walking until you reach a clearing—every deep wood has one.
So, what am I really trying to say? Who do I think I am? Today, I hope I’m your drill sergeant, your platoon leader. I’m your inspiration, your mentor. I’m your best friend, your confidante. I’m that devil on your shoulder; I’m that saint.
Today, I’m an author. And so are you.
Being a writer is a complicated relationship. Don’t just look for The One. Find the many—you deserve to be an author for years to come.
So, what now you may ask? In the words of a wise mentor, teacher, writer, author, and friend, Kevin Oderman: “Onward.” I submit to you—there’s no place else to go.
***
Michael J. Soloway grew up eating oranges, catching lizards, and listening to the gasp of tennis ball cans being opened in south Florida. He received his Masters Degree in Creative Writing from Wilkes University and will earn his MFA in January 2014. In addition, Michael has served as 
managing editor of more than a dozen nonprofit magazines and just finished his first memoir Share the Chameleon, about attempting to break his family’s cycle of abuse, as he becomes a father for the first time in his 40s. Brevity Magazine published Michael’s short essay, “Introducing Mother Nature,” in 2012. In addition, Split Lip magazine published his nonfiction essay, “Sticks and Stones,” about his grandmother’s slide into dementia, in March 2013. His work has also appeared in Red Fez, Serving House: A Journal of Literary Arts, and Under the Gum Tree magazines. An excerpt from Share the Chameleon will appear in Split Lip magazine in September 2013.
J. Michael Lennon offers a tour
Fellowship applications are now available for the 2013 season at The Norman Mailer Center. The Center and the Colony offers Fellowships for fiction, nonfiction and poetry writers during the second half of 2013. During a Fellowship period of three weeks, the mentoring faculty will be headed by three highly regarded writers. Greg Curtis will mentor Nonfiction, Meena Alexander, Poetry, and Jeffery Renard Allen the Fiction fellows, each of whom will be in residence.
This year, from July 20 to August 10, 2013, Michael Mailer will host the Center’s fellowship programs at Norman’s home in Brooklyn Heights, New York. Wilkes faculty member J. Michael Lennon will again be leading workshops with NMC. The Workshop schedule and details are also available online:
http://nmcenter.org/pages/view/13/workshops
Previously, Wilkes alum Patricia A. Florio attended the Provincetown sessions. She has this to say:
“We all were in awe of our surroundings as Norman Mailer’s energy filled the room. Dr. Lennon gave us a tour of the home early on Sunday morning. You have to experience this tour through his home to understand the magnanimous legacy that he left behind. His office and writing desk were exactly as he left it on the day he died. Books surrounded him. Papers, drawings, ideas on index cards filled his desk. We were on the third floor of his home looking at the view of Provincetown. A view, we were told, that Norman Mailer loved….
Every morning as we entered the house, the view of the beach and Cape Cod Bay filled our eyes. Dr. Lennon’s voice filled our ears. It was the perfect storm for creative juices to flow. And flow they did.”
For more information about The Norman Mailer Center and available programs, visit
http://nmcenter.org.
“Where dedicated writers take a stand.”
Wilkes faculty member Kaylie Jones has launched a new imprint with Akashic Books!
From the Kaylie Jones Books website:
Kaylie Jones Books is a New York based imprint that will create a cooperative of dedicated emerging and established writers who will play an integral part in the publishing process, from reading manuscripts, editing, offering advice, to advertising the upcoming publications. The list of brilliant novels unable to find homes within the mainstream is growing every day. It is our hope to publish books that bravely address serious issues—historical or contemporary—relevant to society today. Just because a book addresses serious topics and may include tragic events does not mean that the narrative cannot be amusing, fast-paced, plot-driven, and lyrical all at once.
The first book to be released is Unmentionables, by Laurie Loewenstein. The story takes place on the 1917 Chautauqua circuit, in rural Illinois, on the verge of US involvement in WWI. While the larger topics are race and women’s suffrage, the characters and their courageous stands against oppression and reactionary bigotry could not be more relevant today.
Learn more at the Kaylie Jones Books website.
True Story
By Tara Caimi
Tara Caimi
As I settle into somewhat of a writing comfort zone after completing a creative writing degree, I find myself drawn to a form I never would have anticipated or thought to consider writing—the essay. Admittedly, I wasn’t aware of all the possibilities with regard to essay before I returned to school to pursue an MFA. I’d always thought of essays in the traditional sense of the formula: introduction of an idea, explanation of a claim, statement of facts or opinions to support the claim, conclusion repeating the main points and reinforcing the original claim. We all learned this formula in high school, and none of us could wait for the day we’d never have to use it again. As students, we were always so worried about adhering to the formula that we could not have cared less about the claim itself. And constructing the supporting arguments—well, that just became an exercise in creative deduction. Half of the time, even I didn’t know what I was talking about. I knew how to follow the formula, though, and that earned me a respectable grade more often than it did not.
Twenty years later I found myself in front of an audience, reading a passage to practice my oratory as part of the MFA requirement. I had chosen a five-minute excerpt from the previous semester’s nonfiction reading assignment—a piece with which I’d fallen instantly in transformative love—Jo Ann Beard’s The Fourth State of Matter. During my introduction I referred to the work as a story, not only because it featured an obvious beginning, middle, and end comprising the requisite narrative arc, but also because Beard’s piece was lyrical, character-driven, and emotionally hyper-stimulating. It was everything I thought a story should be. Barring a chronic absence of self-confidence, I would have been proud, borderline smug, to have performed my reading, having chosen from such an obviously worthy piece. As it was, I suspected (or rather hoped) the work was sufficiently acclaimed as to make it impossible for anyone, of decent intellect, to fault the choice.
The raw terror that clutched my heart during the reading loosened its hold as I returned to my seat. Lowering myself into the folding chair, I noticed a professor in front of me turn to offer what I thought would be words of comfort and/or congratulations at my having successfully read such a riveting piece of work. Still jittery from the public speaking experience, I anticipated the compliment by prematurely smiling as the words thank you formed on my lips.
“It’s an essay,” the professor said.
Descent halted, my rear end hovered an inch above the aluminum seat.
“You called it a story,” he finished, as I forced my now rigid body the rest of the way down into the chair.
Perhaps I nodded in agreement, smile still plastered to my face; tongue, having been stopped, in its part, from contributing to the words of thanks, perched lightly behind my two front teeth. By the time my confusion made its way from neurons, through synapses, and on to its facially expressed destination, the professor had already turned toward the front of the room and was actively absorbed in whatever the next student was reading.
I’ve grown to welcome these moments of discomfort in my life, but only in hindsight. I’m nowhere near the level of self-actualization it would take for me to recognize opportunity in such moments of extreme humiliation. Little did I know at the time that the comment would send me on an extended exploration of the varying styles, structures, and voices of essays.
I soon found myself plowing through works not only by Jo Ann Beard but also by George Orwell, Joan Didion, Virginia Woolf, David Sedaris, Abigail Thomas—there are too many to name. Though I now knew better, I could not stop thinking of these works in terms of story. What constitutes the difference? I obsessively wondered.
In their book Creating Nonfiction, Becky Bradway and Doug Hesse point out that narrative is “often the most important” (p. 39) organizational strategy for creative nonfiction and that “very often it (creative nonfiction) reads like a story” (p. 3). “Most creative nonfiction relies, almost inevitably, upon narrative. Narrative is story” (p. 41), Bradway and Hesse go so far as to proclaim, deepening the mystery entirely. If essays rely on story, I considered, why is the label separating the genres so important?
Determined to decipher this enigma, I attended the 2011 Association for Writers and Writing Professionals Conference, where I packed in as many sessions on essay as I could reasonably attend. During the panel presentation, “The Essayist in the 21st Century,” Robert Atwan pointed out that most people regard “essay” as “a four-letter word.” The comment struck a note in the recesses of my mind like a mallet hitting a xylophone bar. The moment he said it, I realized, so did I. Apparently, my junior-high-induced essay-equals-boring mental model had relegated essay, as an entire genre, to a dusty shelf in the back of a dark, moldy, subconscious closet where it had lived, neglected and alone, for twenty-some-odd years. Poor essay.
When I was twelve years old, I found a cat. More to the fact, a cat found me. She was black with orange spots and a checkerboard face; skinny and shy and at first appearance homely. She hung around the house until my parents were forced to acknowledge her presence in our lives. My first real pet. It didn’t matter that she had to live outside. I named her Gypsy and built her bed out of a cardboard box and a ratty old blanket—the only one my mother was willing to spare. I put the bed under a chair on the back porch where, less than a month later, Gypsy had her kittens. I watched those kittens emerge, and I sat on the porch with Gypsy on my lap as she fed those kittens every day until they went to live in different homes. The night the last of her babies were taken away, I stayed with Gypsy in the kitchen, crying desperately as she howled. The little stray cat that nobody else wanted pulled at my heart. I guess I’ve always been a sucker for the underappreciated.
With essays, I have to believe it’s a matter of semantics (and perhaps the same is true for strays). In reality, essays are diverse, entertaining, and rich with poignant potential. In the mental model remnants from early education, essays are formulaic, boring, and emotionally vacant. These are the models that pervade. I suppose, as writers, we could take the easy way out and label narrative essays as true stories. It wouldn’t be deceptive—not by definition that rings true to me—and it might bolster readership, which would be a win for everyone. But I suppose that wouldn’t be the point.
Those of us brave or curious or outright lost enough to re-enter the closet where our preconceptions lie might find ourselves dusting off the mental models, washing away the mold, and uncovering a treasure that will, forevermore, pull at our hearts. We will embrace the essays that find us, champion those that do not, and truly hope they all find homes.
Work Cited: Bradway, Becky, and Douglas Dean. Hesse. Creating Nonfiction: a Guide and Anthology. Boston, MA: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2009. Print.
***
Tara Caimi is a freelance writer with a B.A. in journalism and an M.F.A. in creative writing. Her essays, stories, and articles have appeared in journals and magazines including the Writer’s Chronicle, The MacGuffin, Fire & Knives, and Oh Comely magazine.
It’s conference time!
If you plan on attending the annual AWP Conference and Bookfair, taking place in Boston MA, March 6-9, 2013, you’ll find ample Wilkes representation. Also, Jim Warner, alum and former assistant program director, will once again host the All-Collegiate Poetry Slam and Open Mic every night of the Boston conference.
Bonnie Culver, program director, is on the AWP national Board of Trustees and was a member of the Boston Conference committee. She noted, “There are more presentations this year than any other year in AWP history. It promises to be another fantastic conference.”
The following panel discussions include members from the Wilkes community:
“The Ten-Minute Play: the Essential Ingredients”
Panelists: Gregory Fletcher, Jean Klein, and L. Elizabeth Powers
For both playwrights and non-playwrights who may want to try their hand at a shorter genre, the ingredients of the ten-minute play will be compared and contrasted to the full-length play and sketch writing. Also, exploration will be given to finding the right size of a story and cast, as well as to the art of economy, how it looks on paper, and the production and publishing opportunities that could follow.
“Second Sex, Second Shelf? Women, Writing, and the Literary Marketplace”
Panelists: Christine Gelineau, Erin Belieu, Julia Glass, Tayari Jones, and Meg Wolitzer
Statistics suggest a gap still exits but is there a problem and if there is, what is its nature? What changes/ remedies/ metamorphoses can/ should be imagined? Do you think about this issue differently in terms of your writing vs. in terms of your career? Accomplished writers, who happen to be women, theorize and report out of their own experiences and analysis of the current literary scene.
“International Women’s Day Reading from Becoming: What Makes a Woman”
Panelists: Jill McCabe Johnson, Dinah Lenney, Nancy McKinley, Bibi Wein, Nadine Pinede
Authors read from what Dinty W. Moore describes as an astonishing array of gifted writers who explore intimacy, doubt, love, joy, and sorrow to form this exhilarating anthology. Edited by Jill McCabe Johnson, Becoming: What Makes a Woman (University of Nebraska Gender Programs, 2012) features essays of pivotal life experience.
For more information about AWP and the conference schedule, visit www.awpwriter.org. And, don’t forget to stop by Wilkes/ Etruscan Press booth in the Bookfair!
Back to the Start: Reclaiming Your Voice
and Confidence in Writing
by Chris Campion
Chris Campion
Some time ago, I couldn’t stand the sight of anything I was writing. I’d turn out paragraphs, even pages, only to delete nearly everything without hesitation or remorse. I’d stare at the blank computer screen for an eternity, and after I’d mustered some kind of confidence and managed to write maybe a sentence, I’d edit it to death, and then delete even that. I just couldn’t seem to get started. And when I finally got some kind of workable material, I wasn’t able to finish it. My writing desk was littered with openings and random scenes that led nowhere. And they weren’t even darlings—things I loved and didn’t want to murder—they were more like failed science experiments that yielded no gain.
Nothing I was writing looked or sounded right. Nothing in my voice moved me. And none of my characters-in-progress held my interest for more than two seconds. I wanted to write but couldn’t. I was completely stuck, and I soon fell into a kind of depression since I was no longer able to do what I loved.
Not to be outdone by, well, myself, I went back and scoured my bookshelves for inspiration and fresh approaches.I tried Cormac McCarthy’s Biblically-voiced run-on sentences and larger-than-life similes; I raised the bar on my diction and attempted Jonathan Franzen’s The New Yorker-style magniloquent prose and modern cynicism; I tried Raymond Carver’s über-bare bones writing and slice-of-life issues of domesticity. Thinking that maybe I was writing in a far-too-limited point of view, I tried grandiose omniscience like that of Tolstoy, Ayn Rand, and Thomas Wolfe. Of course, I tried my hand at creating pulse-pounding plots like that of James Patterson, Dan Brown, and John Grisham. Finally, I thought that perhaps I should produce something completely off-the-hook and redefining like James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake.
But, alas, all the reading and mimicking I’d hoped would rejuvenate me had only pulled me deeper into my own pit of artistic malaise. It seemed that every writer I was reading just had this natural ability to construct perfect sentences and stories that would knock me on my ass. Whatever it was they had—that je ne sais quoi—I sure as hell didn’t have it.
This soon brought on fears of becoming a coffee-shop lizard, quoting passages from novels and telling everyone how I “used to write.” Or better
yet, a Dostoyevsky-looking flaneur in heavy beard and long pea coat, wandering the streets and trying to figure where my mind had gone; everyone passing me and seeing the irreversible battle damage from attempting to be a writer. Okay, maybe I’m getting a little carried away here, but I was pretty upset.
Anyway, feeling like I had nowhere else to turn, I went back to my old files and (you may want to cover your eyes for this) read the first few short stories I’d ever written. Yes, it was as painful as you can imagine. Things like tense consistency, point of view, show and don’t tell, punctuation, and so forth were pretty much nonexistent. It was one step shy of being the ramblings of a lunatic; and I hope I’ve learned a thing or two since then. But, I was noticing that I had almost no inhibitions on what I wrote. It seemed like, at the time, I was fearless and completely captivated with writing. It’d seemed raw, untamed, and well … moi.
It was as if each noun, pronoun, verb, adjective, adverb and so on was a gorgeous lady at some extravagant ball. And the ladies put up no refusal to dance with me for as long as I’d wished. Every dance—every word written down—made me evermore in love with creating art from words. And I remembered further that my urge to read and revise pieces had been unquenchable. I think it was because I was never second-guessing myself or my voice. More specifically, I had great confidence (as much as I could have possessed at the time) in who I was, what I was going to write, and how I was going to write.
Thankfully, after this uncomfortable yet necessary act of rereading my old stuff, something struck my prima donna ego, and told me how I’d lost my edge: I was trying too hard to write like everyone else. I’d forgotten I had a unique voice and perspective of the world. And those are the most powerful and, arguably, most important things a writer can possess. Of course, you have to study and practice your craft; you can’t write any old thing and expect it to be gold just because your muse was really cooking that day. And you can’t put on the blinders and say to yourself: I don’t need advice, I know everything. But I do believe you have to keep a raw side—an untamed side that isn’t afraid to go beyond your self-placed artistic constructs for the sake of the story. A side that’s not afraid to lose yourself to be yourself.
In other words, too much studying and overanalyzing your approach, too much trying to incorporate learned techniques can actually not be a good thing. Asking yourself what this writer or that writer will think or whether this craft book will nod its head to your scribbling will always leave you questioning your work.
Therefore, I studied my old prose—amateur errors aside—and retaught what it was that seemed very natural, what glided like a stick of butter on a warm frying pan. Honestly, I can’t completely tell you what you should look for; it’s a very personal thing. But you’ll know it when you see it. I can tell you it usually sings like a song you’ve always wanted to hear, it excites you, makes you once again lose yourself just like the first time you had written it. There should be a sense of belief and wonder. There should be something in it that will make you feel empowered again and fired-up to write.
If you can’t find your old stories, you can try a kind of express approach by looking at some of your favorite Facebook posts. They’re usually the ones you’re most proud of, the ones that really display your voice and beliefs, and will probably have multiple “likes” and comments. You can go back and look at your favorite text messages (preferably not the drunk ones). You can also reclaim your confidence and hone your voice by starting a blog and write for no one but yourself. Keep in mind you don’t have to publish anything. You can find your old journals and reread the entries in which it looked as if it were your last day on earth, and you were going to write until the end.
It really doesn’t matter where you may have to go back and find it, just as long as you do. And to capitalize on a teachable moment here: try and save everything you write. Your taste will change over time, and what may have seemed like bunk last week could possibly be gold this week. You will constantly grow as a reader and a writer, and you need time to let your material congeal like a hot casserole pulled from the oven. It will taste different once cooled. So no need to immediately bite in only to burn your tongue.
En route, having gone back to the start, I felt the curse slowly lifted. Once again, I fell back in love with writing and had no trouble (mostly) putting words to the page. And when that annoying, overly-critical mental editor started yapping about how much I sucked compared to others and how I should just quit while I was ahead, I simply treated him like a telemarketer, hung up, and got back to work without any kind of second-guessing or remorse.
You might ask if all that reading and experimenting with other authors was for naught. I’d say no and yes. No, in the sense that you should experience other authors and see what makes their prose shine (or not shine). Yes, in the sense that the only person who you can write like—and should be writing like—is yourself. I read because it puts me in the proverbial “zone” that the movie White Men Can’t Jump so shamelessly taught the world back in 1992. It also builds my vocab, reinforces grammar and punctuation (which I will never profess to be a master at), makes me a better writer, and constantly opens my eyes to other approaches. I think Stephen King said it best in his book On Writing: “It’s all on the table.” And I’ll say it again: Don’t stop reading everything you can get your hands on. Consider reading as training for a UFC fight. Okay, less intensely stated, like a musician listening to music to become a more well-rounded musician and appreciator of music.
Now, as I look back on that lack-of-confidence spell or depression (or whatever we’ll call it), I believe I had suffered from some mutated form of writer’s block. I say this because at the time I had plenty of ideas stewing. Words were constantly flowing through my brain. My nose was always planted in a book. But, again, everything I wrote would soon be destroyed. I did find some of that material that had survived, and it wasn’t that bad. Like I said before, there’s a very personal but unmistakable quality that screams, “That’s a keeper! Don’t delete that! We’re on to something!”
A part of me wants to kick my own ass. How could things have gotten that bad? I guess I can’t blame myself too much. Before I had even stepped into day one of my MA, I had to read three books about writing: On Writing, Becoming a Writer, and Writing Down the Bones. Once class began, we jumped right into “workshopping” in which we ripped each others’ pieces apart like hungry dogs; we heard from panels of published authors and agents whose advice and approach to writing varied like the spectrum of species in the animal kingdom. Once we “pitched” to countless writers and realized how little we knew, we then picked our mentor and would go on to survive at least a year’s worth of artistic hazing, self-doubt, reevaluating, and the occasional I-am-awesome moment that lasted about four seconds because it was replaced by the I-still-suck moment. Okay, I’m once again being too dramatic. Actually the mentor experience was amazing. It was the meat and potatoes of the 
course. And I loved the personal attention and opportunity to finally begin to understand writing, as well as developing a newfound respect for my art. Honestly my mentor was probably the only one in my corner who really understood what I was going through. But all that never made writing any easier. In fact, it actually got harder because more was required of me.
Keep in mind the hurdles I’ve just mentioned are within the safe confines of an academic setting. As we all know, the world outside: rejections, querying agents, and the I-don’t-read-books discussions with people can be equally as harsh and as lonely to cope with.
Having said and experienced all this, it’s no wonder I had a moment where I was afraid to give birth to even a single sentence without having some kind of mental Cronus gobble it up like one of his newborn children. It’s no wonder I had a phase where that me in my writing no longer seemed to be important or even valuable to myself. But I am not the kind of person who goes around blaming everybody for my hang ups. I guess I’m kind of existentialist in that I believe it’s always my decision who and what I choose to be. However, I think I’m safe in saying that there are many snares and dark alleys that can side track a newbie writer and make them feel like it’s not worth it anymore. I think we all know how brave and lone-wolfish we’ve had to become because we are writers.
In the end, I believe the whole experience—this loss of confidence in myself—was a necessary evil. I had to lose what I didn’t even know I had in order to fully appreciate, cherish, and use it. Thankfully I was allowed to do that, because writing is different from losing something in the real world. Rarely can you reclaim what you once had in your short time on this earth. Fortunately, in your writing life, you can go back at any time and reclaim your creativity and make it even better than before. I believe writing can rejuvenate us like that.
And so, if you ever find yourself doubtful or feeling like what you are writing is horrible and not worth it, then go back to the start and find the material in which you were burning to write and let it ignite you once again. Although your ability as a writer will have no doubt improved since then, those pieces should have some kind of unique quality that will reset your urge to chain yourself to a desk and squeeze that story out as if your life depended on it. And once you reclaim that passion and confidence in your voice and jonesing to write, then guard it. I had lost mine and I barely knew how it had happened. This doesn’t mean that you should be closed-minded as a student of writing (I feel like I’ve hardly scratched the surface in terms of getting “decent”), but you should learn to sift through the “advice” and “suggestions” and “comments” and pick out what will truly help and what will not. And you shouldn’t be afraid to stand your ground if you feel that what you have written truly holds up. Because, again, writing (in my opinion) is largely subjective; the only (let’s say) “gauge” should be whether it’s effective or not. And still, you won’t please everyone, so make sure you are at least pleasing yourself. I think that’s all writing should truly be about. If you’re doing it just to make money, there are so much easier ways. I, for one, will not be quitting my day job anytime soon. But I suppose my day job keeps me running back to my books and keyboard.
So, to wrap it all up, guard your voice and guard your passion. And should you lose it, remember to go back to the start, or find something that reminds you of how much you love or used to love writing—whatever it is. I believe once a writer always a writer. And be careful of too much advice. I’m a hypocrite in that my desk is lined with books on craft, grammar, and literary philosophy. My Facebook has post after post from famous writers on technique, purpose, and what is effective writing. And I will always try and get someone else’s opinion on a piece that I’m working on. But I always try to guard the side of me that will truly know whether it passes or not. I hope that if I lose that side, I’ll now know where to find it. I pray that you will never lose your confidence in your voice and passion. It’s a very soul-crushing experience. However, should it happen, I hope this essay will help you find your way back.
Chris Campion has a MA in creative writing from Wilkes University. His fiction can be found at Fiction365.com and East Meets West, American Writers Journal. He is currently an MFA candidate at Wilkes.
