Recent correspondence with a well-know author (who will remain nameless, not by request but because I don’t like to attribute quotes unless given permission, and I don’t feel like even asking permission) revealed several interesting opinions about MFA programs.

1. They are almost certainly used as an excuse to not get any writing done; that is, once the program ends, so does the writing.

2. They don’t teach plot.

3. They should teach plot.

4. They are either very helpful, useless, infuriating, or all three. At the same time.

I’m not entirely sold on any of the four, though #3 sounds the most accurate. We’ve been down this path before; “literature” often ignores plotting, as if that’s a pursuit for airport authors (god forbid) and television writers (even more gods forbid). But if you can name me one book of any merit that managed to insert great writing into a lousy plot…well, then I’ll still insist I’m right.

So why isn’t plot taught? It might be that most writers can’t. Joseph Campbell helps, as does McKee’s Story, as do any number of movies (read any Billy Wilder script), pulp novels (avoid Chandler), and comic books. Yes, I said comic books. Comic books are all about plot. It’s what keeps them going. Where to start? Moore is as good a place as any, though Mignola and Gaiman are certainly up there.

My point (and, I’m assuming, the point of that anonymous author) is simple: if you want to become a “writer” then you must become a student of any and all aspects of the writing profession. I’m only lecturing because of this email:

Hi Mr. Nathan:

I am writing to you from Norway, where I finished reading your short story “The Love Life of Tigers” in a journal my friend brought. I was a little confused about the plot. Was it a dream? I ask because my friend insisted it did not matter. For serious writing, style is the most important.

What are your thoughts about this? Thank you, and I look forward to reading more.

Sincerely,

Jonas

My first email from Norway. Nice.

We’ve veered slightly from the beginning of this post, where I was talking about MFA programs (yet again). But that phrase “serious writing” raises my hackles. Is “serious” one of those hierarchical adjectives, used to defend a lack of sales/public attention? I think so. Of course I’m neither a best-seller (domestically, at least) nor do I receive any public attention, so maybe I should be defending the honor of “serious writing.” I dunno’, Jonas. Tell your friend the most important thing is enjoyment. If you enjoy a story, the author did his/her job. I’m glad you enjoyed mine. And no, it was not a dream.

ridiculous. Edits were supposed to be a breeze–thanks to the careful eye of my new editor Heather–but something happened on the way to the office. I got better.

I wrote Memphis is Burning (by the way, we’re working on a new title; how does Losing Graceland sound?) two years ago, and haven’t looked at it since June ‘09. It sold, I waited, I wrote some good and not-so-good short pieces, started my next book, finished editing Jack the Bastard, etc. The details are unimportant. Bottom line: sometime between selling and now, I became a better writer.

Of course, this should always happen. It certainly happened after I sold Gods. This is why authors don’t read their work once it’s allegedly-immortalized in print. We can’t fix it, so why bother?

But bad habits do linger, which I like to call stylistic quirks, and no matter how much we keep writing and reading, they stay hidden. Enter a group of new readers (my classmates), who throw back that dusty curtain and shine a light on the old stylistic quirks. We could also call those quirks words that suck. I wouldn’t argue. No, they haven’t read Memphis is Burning AKA Losing Graceland. Doesn’t matter. They still exposed my bad habits.

Now what? Chopping, that’s what. I’d hoped to get the edits done by this weekend. Pshaw. Instead, I’m chewing my nails and hoping the word count doesn’t plunge too low. We began at a trim 60k. Halfway through it’s dropped to 57k. Still trim, but getting close to anorexic…

At this rate, the next book should be finished by summer’s end. Along with enough short stories to fill a collection, and a new screenplay (more on that below).

If for no other reason, the MFA experiment has been successful because it forces production. Sure, I’d like to think I remain perfectly self-motivated, but isn’t believing in your own “perfect” self-motivation a sign of laziness? My increased output may also be–and here’s when this site is forever taken in a new direction–the result of lingering, profound sadness.

Ah, there you have it. My wife and I have been trying to make babies for seven years. I slogged, distracted, pretended, and hoped. The debt has finally come due, in the form of chaotic grief. Our seven years has been, from a strictly baby-making p.o.v., a failure. The worst part? Watching my wife suffer through it. And before the self-righteous types fire off the usual round of emails dripping with pseudo-outrage (”the world has enough children!”), her grief has been the most incredible thing to watch. She maintains optimism and joy, while I descend–with much shame at times–into cynicism.

It’s true, you know. Cynicism is much easier; it remains the refuge of cowards.

So I intend to find hope in my writing, which seems to be the prereq for young writers. I’m a grizzled veteran at retreating into a fantasy world. It got me through much of my childhood, so why stop now? Does this mean my stories will all be marked by sad men who cannot become fathers as soon as they’d liked? God, no. Blech. I loathe fiction that smacks of autobiography. Strike that–I loathe fiction that obviously smacks of autobiography.

The paradox: we mine material from our lives, but must refine that material into something else entirely.

I’ve spouted much bullshit on writing, art, etc. But the single sentence above just might be the one true, and good thing I’ve ever said.

Onward. I finally saw Låt den rätte komma in (Let the Right One In). Forget the horror label–if you like your films perfect, queue it up. After one viewing it made my top 20 all-time.

Now, as for that screenplay. I’m doing an adaptation of a short story written last semester. Rachel (who, despite my insistence that I know better, really does have a keener sense of what works and what doesn’t) insisted I just-get-the-damn-script-written, and send it off to Sarah Self. Last December I promised Sarah something in March. I didn’t know why I promised, or what I promised. Now I do. Sort of.

Micah,

You mentioned in a previous post that you might put some of your student’s work on this site. Would you consider one of my short stories? Especially if it’s really, really good (I’m not saying it is, I’m just saying)?

Waiting Patiently for That Elvis Book,

Caroline

Well Caroline, if it’s really, really good, why on earth would you publish it here? Send it someplace that pays, and enjoys a large readership. I’m not looking to make this site into a literary journal of any kind; the student story experiment would serve as a lesson in revision. I want to post one of my student’s stories that I think almost worked, then post the second draft. We’re not even halfway through the first round of stories, so I’m holding off.

Okay. Time to shovel snow. Our front walk is buried, and it looks like another sunny Holliston day. Mornings like these almost make me not miss Brookline.

So I’m awaiting the first splash page of a graphic novel project. Plate remains full, even without scripting duties. And yet there’s always time for comic books, right?

It got so cold in my writing shed over winter break, that my shark-in-a-jar froze. I should’ve taken a photo. Remember that scene in “The Thing”? The alien encased in blue-grey ice? Said shark bore a resemblance. Here’s a scene: friend and sometimes-muse Brian Jenkins standing at my white board, outlining potential ideas for next novel (among the rejects: “Jefferson 2030″: Thomas Jefferson time travels to America in the year 2030 and leads a revolution) when he glances at the frozen shark and says: That’s kinda’ creepy.

What would he have thought of a frozen head? Ah, missed opportunities.

Salinger died. I’m surprisingly wistful. Romantic notions of tortured artists are often (99%) hype and hooey, and yet this one was different. He was the last old giant. I’m sad to see him go.

Some viewer mail:

Micah,

I hope you can give me good advice. I’m a young writer with two finished novels. One is a fantasy, one is sci-fi. I’d like to self-publish but I’m worried that no one will take me seriously because I’m not a literary writer, and I got self-published. Should I just go ahead and self-publish, or submit to an agent and keep my fingers crossed?

Thanks,

Don

Don,

I’m of two mind in regards to self-publishing. One, it’s a wonderful resource for writers who want to get their work “out there” (as long as they understand that “out there” is confined to friends & family 95% of the time). But I also wonder how much these self-publishing companies prey on the hopes of aspiring writers, who, for whatever reason (lack of talent, poor timing, wrong approach, etc.) can’t find a traditional publisher, and are promised a “just as good” alternative.

Is it “just as good?” Depends on your goal. If your only goal is to have your work converted into a book, and you don’t care about making money, or critical praise, or pursuing a writing career, then self-publishing is perfect. It’s certainly much less of a hassle than the traditional route. But if you dream of becoming an “author” (whatever that means), with your work reviewed by the critics, and the opportunity to add your name to the allegedly-hallowed literary ranks, then self-publishing is probably the worst way to go about it.  Sure, once in a great while we hear about a self-published book discovered by a big house and made into a bestseller. We also hear about someone winning the lottery. It’s a long shot. A very, very long shot.

So I say submit to some agents, keep your fingers crossed, and if nothing happens (be patient), ask yourself which is more important: being published, or sharing your book with friends and family. Neither is “better” than the other–it’s all contingent on what you hope to get out of the process.

Either way, congrats on finishing two novels. That’s no small accomplishment. Tell your friends they owe you a night out. Or at least some movie tickets.

In no particular order:

Oja Santangelo, Twirlsters McGee, Hoos, Crazy Legs Johnson, Eduardo Retardo, Lopers, Crazers, Cornwall, Who’s-Good-Who’s-Bad, Scoutsters, Crazy Boy, Hoser, Moser, Loopy, Chompers, Loungers, Snickle Snoo Snickle Snee.

Sources inform me that Memphis is Burning will be TRP’s lead spring title. I am currently on a mission to find the erstwhile-makers of Skeleteens Soda (remember them?) for a promotional tie-in. Skeleteens used to do promotional tie-ins, beginning with From Dusk Till Dawn and ending with…well, From Dusk Till Dawn. But just because it was a one-shot doesn’t mean it wasn’t a good idea.

Archived Skeleteens for sale here. Sort of.

What else. Second semester begins, and I’m teaching an intro. course on creative writing. If my students agree to it, I may post the occasional student story, complete with edits, and then post the edited version.

More what else. I interviewed Tommy Wiseau of The Room fame. If you’re not familiar with the unique genius of Tommy Wiseau, no amount of explanation will do his talent justice. You must, must see “The Room.” I’d like to call it post-modern, but “The Room” devours whatever label one attempts to attach. Don’t bother with another Michael Bay flick. Embrace the Wiseau.

Upcoming: an original translation of a Kobo Abe novel, some freshly-published short fiction, and an attempt to use the phrase “def poss” without grinning.

I have, by all indications, the dread swine flu. One week of fatigue, coupled with a low fever, hideous things leaking from my nose, and one of those dry, hacking coughs usually reserved for B-movie foreshadowing.

Are you feeling okay?

Yeah. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.

You sure?

Just keep walking. If we don’t get to the ruins by nightfall…

Cut to a white handkerchief held to mouth and stained with blood.

No, it’s not that bad. It’s just annoying. And boring. My patient dog waits, longing for the days of yore when we played fetch. My wife continues to do everything. She’s cooked, and cleaned, and walked, and hooked up Netflix to our TV so we can watch Lost. I am spoiled. I confess.

I am also a recent convert to Tommy Wiseau’s The Room. We’ve discussed good-bad films before–R.O.T.O.R. being a bad film that’s fun to watch, The Hours being a “good film” that’s torture to watch–and yet The Room defies categorization. More than that; it reinvents cinema. Yes, Troll 2 was terrible and we all laughed at how terrible it was. Snarky satisfaction becomes tiresome, however. We stop laughing at terrible movies because it’s one-note humor.

But The Room is different. It’s so different, on so many levels, that it nearly devours it’s own existence. And yet, somehow, The Room transcends itself and becomes…well, I’ll just go ahead and say it. It becomes genius.  It lays bare the skeleton of nearly every drama I’ve ever seen.

Yielded this:

So the monster blizzard trod gently. Holliston does that to monsters.

Back to work.