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bettsfic · 7 years

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stuff i’ve learned about writing after 1 year in an MFA program

my post “stuff i’ve learned about writing after 10 weeks in an MFA program” was a big hit, so i thought i’d write an updated one after two full semesters in my program, which is halfway through. one more year to go!

find what you’re afraid of and let it hurt you. this is a tall order and it’s one of the most important things i’ve learned. if you’re hesitant, if you’re blocked, if something is keeping you from moving forward, recognize that thing is always fear, and the sooner you put a name to it, the sooner you face it, the sooner you embrace it and let it do its damage to you. you don’t have to be immune to fear, and you don’t have to be stronger than it or better than it. you can let it knock you down and kick you a few times, but you’ve got to stand back up. you don’t need to be impenetrable -- fuck having a thicker skin. you can let shit hurt you. you can drown in how afraid you are. but you have to be tenacious. if your writing is important to you, you’ve got to fight for it.

you can do whatever the hell you want, for whatever reason you want, and you don’t owe anybody anything. in workshop we talk a lot about who can get away with what in writing (and by that we mean, white men can get away with everything). sometimes i read faulkner and i think, i hate this. this is everything i can’t stand about writing. but i respect that he got away with all his weird quirks -- useless repetition of words, minimal revision, overwrought exposition, atrocious pacing. all the rules we give ourselves, all these constraints are useless. like. fine, tell don’t show. use hanging participles and run-on sentences. invert freytag’s pyramid. ramble. lean into your purple prose. it doesn’t matter, none of it matters. if you like it, keep it. you don’t have to justify your own taste. and if someone calls you out? shrug and say, “stylistic choice, buddy. i do what i want.” it’s important to know the rules exist but it’s more important to break them. it’s your writing, nobody else’s. your words answer to no one.

be vulnerable. i’m a little biased since this was also my new year’s resolution, but it’s been a wild ride. i told myself in january that my focus this year was going to be on allowing myself to be vulnerable all the time, take opportunities and communicate with people how i feel about them, and it’s had a huge impact not only on my life and relationships, but on my writing too. opening myself up to non-judgmental introspection and setting down the drive to be tough has made my work way more emotionally nuanced -- i no longer write to tell a good story, but to explore some facet of living i hadn’t previously understood. i’ve found a level of self-acceptance i didn’t think i could ever achieve. reading has become easier, because i no longer get petty or jealous of writing that is better than mine. receiving rejections has become easier, because it’s a reflection on my work, but i still appreciate the work for what it is. it’s kind of amazing living life like this, and some days it’s hard but some days it’s thrilling. but vulnerability, like everything else, takes practice. you know when you confront it because it’s about leaning into discomfort and testing the limits of your own boundaries. being able to write it all down and see how all sorts of interactions affect me now where previously i wouldn’t have let them in is kind of staggering -- the difference is so obvious. i’m a kinder and gentler and more open person because of it, and i think my writing shows that.

become a good literary citizen. being a good literary citizen means watching out for your fellow writers. i subscribe to so many daily newsletters and do so much research every day, and i’m always looking out for my friends, for opportunities for them or resources that might help them. when i read things i like, i try to share them with people who will get something out of them, and i’ve been working harder to get in touch with the author to let them know their work inspired me. i reply to all emails and offer my feedback to writers who want an additional eye on their work. i didn’t realize i guess how much of writing was networking and being a good bro, but i feel like my time is split solidly between reading, writing, and building partnerships with other writers. don’t be afraid to reach out to people you admire and offer whatever you have to give, be it your appreciation for their work or a story or article you think they might like. the writing life is often a lonely one, but being a good literary citizen makes it a much better place for all of us.

talent is meaningless. everyone can learn to write. “you’re so talented!” is a compliment i hear thrown around a lot, and it makes me cringe, because i don’t really believe in talent. i believe that some people might have genetic inclinations or predispositions to creativity, they might fundamentally see the world in a way that would lend itself to beautiful strings of words, but writing, brass-tacks, is a discipline. it is a learned skill, and that means when you start out, you are going to be bad at it. you wouldn’t expect yourself to grab a log and a saw and be able to make a coffee table out of sheer talent, but you might be able to build the table if you experimented a little with it, thought about it, researched it, and maybe took it to someone who had already built a few tables before to give you their input on the project. and then once you’ve built your table, maybe it’s not great, but it’s something, and the next one you build will be sturdier and fancier and maybe have a little drawer for your keys or something. i say this because there are some authors, really famous ones, who believe that you can’t teach writing, and you can’t learn writing. you’re either a writer or you’re not. it’s just not true. you are going to be bad and that’s okay. you’re going to get better and that’s okay too. you’re never going to get better at the pace you want to improve, but the point is as long as you keep writing, keep asking for feedback, keep implementing that feedback, keep thinking about writing, you are going to get better, and you can be just as great as all the famous authors who think otherwise.

battle familiarity. this is more or less the usual “avoid cliches” advice you hear all the time, but on a bigger-picture level. avoiding cliches doesn’t just mean rewording things like “she let go of the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding,” but constantly subverting expected language by pointing to whatever is weird about the scene you’re writing. if you have two characters in a diner, we can see the booths and the coffee and the sassy middle-aged waitress. readers don’t need any of that pointed out. what they need is details they wouldn’t expect. maybe the booths are covered in peeling electrical tape, and the one closest to the door has a spring jutting out, but normally that’s rasheed’s booth anyway, but he isn’t here today for some reason. maybe the coffee has chicory in it. maybe the waitress wears air jordans and has a gold front tooth and a sleeve tattoo, and she’s the mom of a guy you went to high school with and you’re pretty sure he’s a sheepherder in nova scotia now. whenever you’re establishing place or character, the task isn’t fitting them in a box we’re already comfortable with, but constantly asking yourself, “what makes this weird?” then point out all the weird things until you can close your eyes and see every strange inch of this otherworldly diner that doesn’t really exist anywhere but your imagination, filled with people who have full, rounded, fucked-up lives. write in a way that every word defies expectation, and reflects the strangeness of the experiences you want to convey.

TAKE RISKS. this is a repeat from the 10 week article, but good god, it’s so important. take a risk every single day. risks nearly always pay off, especially in writing. if you’ve faced your fears, if you’re vulnerable, then writing becomes more than a discipline. stories get bigger and deeper and more meaningful even if you’re focusing on the microscopic. you can write a 200-word story about a dying houseplant or a 200k novel about a gay Civil War romance, but if you’ve put everything you’ve got into it, it’ll show. you should put so much of yourself into your writing that you’re trembling holding the pages in your hand as you pass them off to someone else to read. you should feel exposed. you should be afraid. you should feel like you’ve just jumped out of an airplane without a parachute. and if you’re not feeling those things, you’ve got some exploring to do. what does the story look like that makes you afraid? that makes you want to take risks? if you stare these questions down and commit to finding their answers, your writing will always improve, and your risks will pay off.

i have a whole writing advice tag if you want to check out my other stuff, and a collection of my writing advice posts from 2016. and always feel free to shoot me an ask if you have any writing-related questions.

#writing advice #dow17

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