With my MFA thesis due
on Tuesday, I’d spent my weekend in full-panic revision mode. I wrote until the
letters became blurry, chugged energy drinks, and wrote some more. When the
call came, I was dead asleep. I even tried to hit snooze to make the noise
stop. That’s when I noticed that caller ID said: Seattle, Wa.
I woke
up.
“Hello? Is
this Liam?”
“Yes?”
“Do you
still want to come to Clarion West this year?”
The caller
introduced herself as Leslie, and for the next several minutes, as Leslie very
calmly explained things, I spoke exclusively in stupefied fragments. I remember
saying “Yes” a lot. We hung up, and I focused on little things, like breathing.
Thesis?
What thesis?
To be
honest, I’m still in shock. It breaks down like this:
- 50% Delight: “My writing was
good enough?!”
- 40% Delirium: “I get to work
with those artists!”
- 5% Panic: “But I’m an
introvert…”
- 5% Fretting: “Which organs can
I sell on eBay…”
Writing
professionally is a dream I’ve only recently begun to pursue. I haven’t won any
contests; I have nothing in print. I’ve heard it said that the largest obstacle
a new writer faces is losing confidence. Mine was pretty fragile. Without my
wife’s relentless encouragement, I wouldn’t have even applied to Clarion West.
I didn’t
believe in me.
The call
from Clarion represents more than just an opportunity to work with my literary
hero and other legendary writers. For me, it was validation, a little message
from the universe saying, “You really can do this.”
I can’t
post the story I used for my application, but I can share my introductory
letter. So, here’s me:
***
Hi. I’m Liam.
At the age
of ten, I invented the moon. Later, inspired by Jimi Hendrix, I stood up next
to a mountain and chopped it down with the edge of my hand. I’ve beaten the
devil at cards (I cheated), hitchhiked my way across Atlantis, and chased the
waves back into the sea. What I haven’t done, however, is publish any of those
things. That’s what brings me to you.
As an
adolescent, I knew that I wanted to write. I sat in the back row of my classes
and scribbled epics. At recess, I ran role-playing games because they gave my
stories an outlet and an audience. Don’t laugh. D&D taught me the
importance of keeping your audience interested. Junior high gave way to high
school. D&D gave way to Vampire: the Masquerade, which taught me to mix
drama into my adventures. I stopped calling myself a “dungeon master” in favor
of “storyteller.”
High school gave way to college. Then, life got in the way. Somehow, I forgot writing for a time. It got lost in machinery of clocking in, clocking out, and finding the time in between to make breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I’ve been a mobile DJ, which led to becoming a stagehand, which, in turn, led to becoming an AV lighting technician—only, I hate heights. Lights are always high up. A few odd jobs later, Hurricane Katrina gave me a new one: involuntary nomad. After that came academic specialist, AmeriCorps volunteer, and public school teacher. I’ve worn a lot of hats and walked many miles, but the shoes I wore were always ill-fitting. It took me years to puzzle out why: they were other people’s shoes.
High school gave way to college. Then, life got in the way. Somehow, I forgot writing for a time. It got lost in machinery of clocking in, clocking out, and finding the time in between to make breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I’ve been a mobile DJ, which led to becoming a stagehand, which, in turn, led to becoming an AV lighting technician—only, I hate heights. Lights are always high up. A few odd jobs later, Hurricane Katrina gave me a new one: involuntary nomad. After that came academic specialist, AmeriCorps volunteer, and public school teacher. I’ve worn a lot of hats and walked many miles, but the shoes I wore were always ill-fitting. It took me years to puzzle out why: they were other people’s shoes.
They were
a technician’s shoes, a salesman’s shoes, an educator’s shoes. I could walk in
them all, but they weren’t mine. Not really. In 2011, the ghost of my childhood
conspired with my wife. Together, they suggested that I go back to school. Come
May, I’ll be the proud owner of a MFA in creative writing--only, I write “genre
fiction”. My instructors don’t get genre fiction. Not really. They fed me a
banquet of Henry James, Chekhov, Carver, and other brilliant illustrators of
the existentially profound, but demigods or other worlds? Heavens, no.
Don’t get
me wrong; I learned a lot during my MFA candidacy. The program honed my
instincts into skills. It made me articulately aware of craft elements, things
like causality, character arc, and voice. I also learned the value of technical
polish. When I began the program, my manuscripts resembled the crime scenes in
slasher flicks: red everywhere. The red taught me something invaluable: other
writers can help me. They’re allowed. It doesn’t compromise the creative
integrity of my work. I don’t have to be an island. For me, that was an
epiphany.
I was safe
in my nest, and the ground was such a long way down. Without the constructive
input from peer workshops, I might never have taken that leap of faith. I
certainly wouldn’t have dusted myself off and tried again. And again. And
again. So, maybe I can fly now. Maybe, not. I don’t think I’ll ever really know
until I spread my wings among birds of a feather. My MFA peers encouraged me,
but I was always the ugly duckling among them.
I am not a
duck.
That’s why
I’m applying to Clarion West. I want the opportunity to work with successful
authors who write the kind of fiction that I want to write. I want to work with
peers who share my interests, who can say “genre” without making it sound like
a dirty word, who understand the sensibilities of my target audiences. To date,
I have only submitted two works in the hopes of being published; both entries
in the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future contest. Both stories earned
Honorable Mentions, which feels a bit like being friend-zoned by success. I
genuinely believe that I can do better.
I have to
do better. For me, there is no Plan B. This is my calling. These are my
shoes.
Please
help me fill them.
