Creative is the Power

I was watching Mad Men the other night and having a nice bit of joy at the power Don Draper wields as a creative director. In my life as a creative (adjective become noun) in advertising, the account team has always held the power. My contributions are respected but, when it comes to a break point, I lose.

I'm freelance, so my power is limited. But it's really not the freelance vs. staff member dichotomy. It's the profit vs. idea/creativity/art dichotomy. The point of any ad agency is to make money. And, like it or not, satisfying a client is how an agency makes money. Sometimes it's just not worth it to the account team to force a creative idea at a client who would rather have a standard idea.

In the world of Mad Men, Don Draper shits on clients who want a standard idea. Maybe that's a 1960s thing; most likely it's a fiction thing. In today's world, safe ideas often sell better than creative ideas.

And the thing is ... I'm okay with that.

I'm okay with the idea that what I do for money is not always art or even creative. I'm okay that I sometimes am asked to push work that is less than my best work. It's not that I'm just in it for the check (I'm not; I always love a truly original campaign), it's that commerce is commerce and profit is profit and you either accept that or you make yourself miserable

In my fiction, I can do whatever I want. I can be as wildly creative as my brain is capable of being. But in copy writing, I'm a tool of a greater system. Creativity is only valuable in its ability to appeal to clients and, ultimately, sell product.

What I don't know is whether making my money this way is a bad thing or a neutral thing. I lean to neutral but some days I wonder. Some days I just want to be creative and not, for a moment, worry about the earning possibilities behind my work.

"A People's History of Martin Zansamere" in MAR

So, if you haven't heard, the new Mid-American Review is out. This would excite me no matter what. But it's extra-double exciting because my story "A People's History of Martin Zansamere" appears in the issue.

I love all my stories. But this one holds a special place in my writing life. I wrote it a little over a year ago at a time when I was really struggling with what kind of stories I wanted to write. I had been trying very hard to replicate voices like Alice Munro and Raymond Carver and Amy Hempel and Edward P. Jones -- all wonderful writers, for sure, but my immitations were falling flat. Instead of writing what came up from within me, I was writing what came down from outside of me. If that makes sense.

I was only sort-of aware of this problem. And when I wrote "Zansamere," I didn't have any kind of ah-ha moment about my writing. In fact, I worried that the story was too far removed from what I should be writing. Then a mentor at Antioch was kind enough to read 15-20 of my stories all at once. "Zansamere" was his favorite. It was very different from everything else I showed him and his appreciation of the story got me to thinking: other than "Zansamere" being non-realist, what the hell had I done differently?

The answer, I realized, was stupidly simple: I'd written "Zansamere" because it was fun to write. The idea for the story had struck me while folding socks (yeah, socks play a part in this story). I wrote the story in a week or so without care for anything other than making it the kind of story I'd like to read.

That realization changed my writing life. Almost everything I've published was written after I wrote "Zansamere." Sure, I've written reams of crap since then, too, but I haven't written any more blatantly imitative stories. In fact, I don't write anything that I don't enjoy writing. And that, as they say, has made all the difference.

I have no idea why it took me so long to figure out such a simple truth, but there it is. And I wanted to share. Because, you know, this is a weblog and all.

Gradumicated

Last Sunday I officially finished my MFA in Creative Writing at Antioch University Los Angeles. Since Antioch is low-res, the week leading up to graduation was a beautiful mess of lectures, readings, drinking, talking, tears and toasts as my fellow cohort members and I (the Cobalts) rushed through our final residency.

I could make this post snarky. Be all ironic and detached and throw out nothing but shrugs and grunts. But that wouldn’t be what I really want to say. Here’s the inside of it:

Thank you, Antioch, for changing my life, for giving me the direction and confidence and wherewithal to turn a passion into something tangible, something I can see carrying me through the rest of my life. Thank you to all the mentors and workshop leaders and fellow students who made these last two years two of the most transformative years of my life. And thank you to my family who not just tolerated but supported me ceaselessly through this degree.

I leave Antioch a vastly better writer. I leave with friends I know I’ll have for a lifetime. And I leave with writing habits that I know can sustain a career. There’s that pejorative use of “MFA story” that I hear bandied about. I know what people mean when they say that. I’ve written stories like that. But Antioch pushed me to write away from that, to find my own voice, to write what is true to me rather than reaching for the simple, the artificial. And they taught me how to do that as not just a hobbyist, but as a professional.

I wouldn’t be where I am now in my writing career if not for Antioch.

That’s truth.

Splinter Reading This Thursday

If you're in L.A. and want something fun to do this coming Thursday, June 24th, come on out for the Splinter Generation reading.

20 Under 40

So, apparently, I didn’t make the New Yorker’s much-talked about list of 20 Under 40 fiction writers worth watching. Such a shame. They only do these things once a decade or so and I’ll be 40 in a little more than 4 years.

There is, of course, a lot of criticism of this list. I’m not going to link to it because it’s easier to summarize (and I’m lazy): The list is predictable. It’s boring. It’s boringly predictable. It represents nothing more than New Yorker’s staid aesthetic. It’s too concerned with token diversity. It’s too full of writers with big agents and a knack for self-promotion. It doesn’t include _______ or ________ or __________ who are clearly superior to the collection of two-bit hacks actually chosen.

I think people are mostly jealous. Not just of the list itself but of what often seems like the random way certain writers break through while others do not. And, yeah, that part sucks. It sucks to think someone of lesser talent and lesser work ethic and even lesser savvy might hit it big while you pluck along unnoticed forever. But then again, a lot of things suck and we can either dwell on the general shittiness of the world or we can try to shovel some of it out of our way.

I didn’t mean for this to collapse into a “chin up, bucko,” diatribe. I just prefer to channel my own jealousies into motivation instead attacking those who make me jealous. I suppose not being jealous at all would be a better choice, but, yeah, there’s only a select few people of whom I’ll never be jealous. When it comes to the greater game, I want to play, too, and I envy those who already have a seat. That’s just how I’m wired.

Again, this post is going all tangential. Sorry.

What I meant to say is how damn lucky I feel to be working in a profession where being in your thirties is considered being early in your career. A 35 year old writer is “one to watch.” A 35 year old NFL player is on the brink of retirement.

I didn’t write much in my 20s. And what I did write was really bad. In fact, it wasn’t until just a couple of years ago that I really committed myself to writing. I often think that means I squandered more than a decade. Maybe I did. But the good news is, assuming good fortune, I have many more decades left to write. Regardless of who is and isn’t on The New Yorker list, all of us under 40 should note that, by choosing that auspicious year, The New Yorker is acknowledging that most writers don’t bloom until later in life. They picked writers they think have already shown signs of become exceptional. But imagine how many they missed.

Weird

I wrote a story about Japanese porn and masturbation. It's here at Thirst For Fire and it's not really about Japanese porn and masturbation. Although, it is.

Good issue. Weird. I like weird. In fact, I'd say that weird is the number one thing I look for in fiction. When I'm in a workshop and I read something strange, I circle it and get all excited with my red pen in the margin. Give me alternate worlds. Zombies. Magical realism. Perversities. Desperate people with unstoppable urges. Take me by the neck.

I'm overstating it. Or stating it poorly. It doesn't all have to be tattoos on the face (and probably shouldn't ever be tattoos on the face). It can be lizards in the gut. Quiet little lizards.

Coming Out of a Fog

Been absent for awhile as I've been working towards my MFA. But I just finished my last packet today and now it's just about doing a reading and teaching a lecture at the June residency and I'll be a proud recipient of an MFA.

"An MBA? That's great!"

"No, an MFA."

"Oh. What do you do with that?"

"Um. Buy a nice frame."

But, really, the MFA program at Antioch L.A. has been a life changer for me. It's taught me the big difference between WANTING to be a writer and actually BEING a writer. I feel like I'm leaving the program as someone who has a chance to make a career at this. Not just because I'm a far better writer than when I went in (which I am) but because I'm a far more disciplined writer as well.

Plus -- or maybe "most importantly" -- I come out of this with some amazing friends who I know will support me for the rest of my writing life.

Two years have gone fast. But I can't imagine spending them in any better way.

Oh, and in my silence, two stories have gone live.

"Incubus" over at Dogzplot and
"That Kid" over at Staccato

Thanks to Barry Graham for working with and publishing the former. And thanks to David Erlewine for working with me on the latter and the guys at Staccato for publishing it.

One last thing: Storyscape has an anthology out. You can get it here. I have a story in it about the Dust Bowl.

Atrophy

I hurt my finger two weeks ago. It came out of its splint yesterday and I can’t bend it very well. Apparently, two weeks of disuse is enough time to start causing the ligaments to atrophy. It’s reversible of course. But here’s the thing – does writing work the same way? Can your writing atrophy?

If you take time off from writing – to handle work or take care of life issues or go on a bender or whatever – are you stiff when you come back? If you used to be able to write for 4 hours a day, do you find you tire out at two?

I write just about every day. And I write a lot of words most days Sometimes I think it would be nice to take a month off and catch up on my Entertainment Weeklys and episodes of Anthony Bourdain and, I don’t know, yard work. But then I think, could I go right back to it after an extended break? Or would the process hurt?

The finger is stiff. I mean, really, I can’t make a fist right now. I suppose it’s a terrible fallacy to equate physical conditions with mental ones. But it makes me think. Especially with the large amount of work I’m getting these days and with the end of my MFA life coming up in June. Lots of reasons to take time off. But I don’t think I will. I don’t think I could risk the effects.

Whatcha Want to Know?

So, Tres Crow over at Dog Eats Crow recently conducted an interview with me.

It's now live.

Everyone should be so lucky as to have someone else ask them in-depth questions about their work. Tres's questions really made me think about what I write and why I write it. I can only hope my answers lived up to the questions.

"My Father Believes" at > kill author

Love > kill author and I'm excited to have a little piece in Issue 6.

It's "My Father Believes and it is surrounded by some incredible company. Really. Check out the issue. Good stuff. Thanks to the mysterious editors for letting me be a part of it.

AWP Highlights

A good few days out in Denver. Saw a lot of interesting panels. Bought a bunch of books. Had a few drinks. Heard many, many great writers read. A few highlights:

Buying Hobart 11 straight from Aaron Burch (and getting a free shot of whiskey with my purchase).

Meeting the great PANK people in person.

Attending DOGZPANK reading where 15 amazing writers shared their words.

Hanging with my Antochian friends.

Seeing Dan Chaon on a panel.

Seeing Brian Evenson on a panel.

Shaking Richard Bausch's hand.

Buying Kyle Minor's In the Devil's Territory from Matt Bell at the Dzanc table

And that's just a bit of it.

Will I go again? Maybe. I got my pass for free through my MFA program this year and Denver is easy to get to from San Antonio. I'm glad I got to go -- and got to meet people in person that I wouldn't have gotten to meet otherwise. Of course, it's good to return home. And now it's back to the writing.

And Away We Go ...

Heading off to Denver tomorrow for AWP. Never been. Don't know what to expect. Hope to meet in person people I've only met on line. And hope to meet all kinds of new people who've never heard my name. Mainly, I hope to talk writing. And listen to people read their writing. I probably won't do much writing, but inspiration is an invaluable thing. I hope to get me some of that while I'm there. Or, if not that, then I hope someone I've never before met buys me a drink. And lets me buy them one, too.

Conventional vs. Experimental -- SmackDown 2010

I love a good literary/writing discussion. Yesterday at HTMLGiant, Roxane Gay got one going with her defense of conventional narrative and Christopher Higgs hit back with a conventional narrative/realism sucks post. And, of course, hundreds of brilliant comments came flooding in. I never have time to get into comment threads, but I’ll get into the conversation here in my own little space.

So, in short, Roxane says some experimental writing just flat-out confuses her and that she still likes good stories, plainly told. Christopher says conventional storytelling has little worth because it’s too controlling of the experience of reading/story-creation. He also claims there is no such thing as a good story or a bad one and that all attempts to communicate through language are futile in their own ways.

(at this point let’s just note that we are working with extremely loose definitions of “conventional” and “experimental” but that should in no way slow us down – cool?)

Here’s the thing: some experimental writing is written in clear, direct sentences (that link up in strange, often non-narrative ways) and some experimentalist writing reads like a string of nonsense. I many not always “get” the former kind in terms of its meaning, but at least it gives me something to work with and build around and, more often than not, I enjoy this kind of writing.

The nonsensical writing is, in my opinion, interesting only in an intellectual way. Or a music-as-language way where almost all the meaning is stripped from the words and we’re left with a kind of musical response – the story feels like something but isn’t about anything other than that feeling. Those kinds of stories are pleasant enough in tiny bursts but it’s hard for me to enjoy more than a few sentences worth before I tire and decide that putting on Tchaikovsky would be easier. (In my less-generous moments, I think that nonsensical writing and the famously unclothed emperor might have something in common.)

As for conventional narrative, I love a good story with a traditional beginning, middle and end – if there’s something new/unexpected about the story. I have a strong dislike for the type of story that is often pejoratively referred to as an MFA-type story (although my MFA program has actively pushed me away from writing such stories). These are the ones where there is a mostly internal conflict, symbolism in every gesture, low-gradient rising action and a climax/conclusion that ends on a soft epiphany usually revealed through a beautiful, lingering image. And, most importantly, the style of these stories are interchangeable from one writer to the next. Voice is subservient to structure and rules of language. Ugh. I’ve written plenty of stories like that. And now I have a visceral repulsion to them (probably, in part, a self-hate thing for having written too many stories in that tired style).

If that’s conventional realism/narrative, leave me out of it.

But we all know Roxane isn’t defending cliché and mimicry. She is, I think, defending the idea that there’s still value in stories written in a manner that doesn’t require forehead-creasing consideration to comprehend (or that doesn’t require a belief in aforementioned magical clothing). I agree with Roxane on this. Plot has a purpose. Language that is not overly self-conscious has a place. There is room in the great world of literature for both the experimental and the traditional. Why wouldn’t there be? Why shouldn’t there be?

Final point: I reject the relativistic idea that there is no such thing as a bad story. That’s nice and pretty and progressive and all – but it’s wrong. We cannot give all things equal value just because we wish to place art on some higher plane. Judgment has its place. And arguing over what is good and isn’t good has its place, too. Saying such considerations are invalid is, in my opinion, a copout – not to the mention a strange aside in a discussion that seeks to rate the merits of experimentalism vs. conventionalism.

And that’s what I have to say about it.

And now to make it good ...

Just finished the first draft of my first novel. 155,000 words. Each one requiring revision. Maybe not each. I suspect most of the characters names will stay the same.

Onwards.

Damn Fine Fiction from Ethel Rohan

Some stories crackle under each sentence, the story emerging not so much in some linear ascension but in some exponential expansion until the whole of it overwhelms. That’s Ethel Rohan’s How to Kill currently over at the Hobart website.

Just take this line: “He pushed away his breakfast plate, the leftovers looking violated.”

Amazing. Read it.