Former instructor, over dinner tonight: "I'm so proud of you." #365daysofrejoicing
Today, as mentioned in yesterday's post, I made good on that respectably-timed reservation for a sea cruise on the east coast of Scotland. Said cruise took place off the shores of a lovely Scottish town called North Berwick. I got there early, and had two hours or so to putter around the streets (and the charity shops, naturally) of the town. I also took pictures of the shore and beachgoers as I puttered along.
I even got a photo or two of the puffins!
Anyhoo. Bass Rock itself is only about 7 acres, all told, and it was_COVERED_in_gannets. And their excrement. The rock looked white from far away -- I initially thought this was because of the birds themselves, but realized the other contributor to the rock's colour as soon as we were close enough to smell it. It was beautiful, but man, did it stink.
It was a lovely trip, and I'm glad I went. I'm ALSO glad -- as foolish as this might sound -- about the fact that I got super touristy after the cruise was over and purchased two photos that the rather attractive (but young -- oh God, am I getting to the point now where men all look young? Already? Surely not! ;) Seabird Centre photographer took of me as I boarded the boat. I have yet to scan them into my computer, but I will be sure to post them when I do. A silly purchase, probably, especially seeing as how I have a perfectly good camera and can take pretty decent photos of myself, but I was sans tripod and I can spend my money however the heck I want (adulthood rules!) and, well, I thought the photos both looked rather nice.
Anyhoo. I then bussed it back to Edinburgh, and showered and changed into one of my charity shop dresses, and went to meet my former writing instructor, the lovely Meaghan Delahunt, at Nile Valley, which is this amazing Sudanese restaurant in Edinburgh's student quarter. It was actually the first restaurant that I visited in Edinburgh, four long years ago. Meaghan came then, too. Craziness!
I hadn't seen her in almost two years, so it was nice to have an entire evening ahead of us in which to catch up. I told her about the book deal and she was so happy, then reminded me to let the English department at the school know, when final details came in, so that they could add me to their boasting roster. :) And she offered more congratulations on the fact that I'd snagged an agent (and such a wonderful agent, too), and generally just seemed pleased with the trajectory that my life has taken of late.
"How interesting," she said, "that this recent bit of movement in your life came right after you'd made your first bit of movement in the eight months or so since being home." I'd have to agree. You might also call it Murphy's Law, of course, but I think the way that she phrased it is much nicer!
We also had a great chat about the gendering of book covers, which leaves me eager and oh-so-interested to see what will eventually become of the cover for my own book. She was in a book festival in France earlier this year, and mentioned that the covers there tend to be more on the abstract side of things, whereas North American/UK covers tend to feature covers that are slightly more gendered, ie. a book that's written by a woman stands a much higher chance of having a photograph of a woman on the cover, things like that. I found it so fascinating. When I think back over the books that I've read over the course of this year, they don't seem particularly gendered. In fact, one might even argue that the only example of this "gendered" kind of imaging occurs most obviously in Trevor Cole's Practical Jean -- but of course that's a satire, so I'm guessing here that it doesn't apply.
What do you think?
And ... we talked about a bunch of other stuff. Plans for the future. Whether I'm going to settle in Edinburgh (insofar as I am ever going to settle, I think), the answer to which, I think now, is most definitely yes. I am definitely going to come back to this city to live. Whether it happens next year, or two years from now, or five, remains to be seen. But I feel happy here in a way that I haven't felt in Canada, 365 project notwithstanding. It's the kind of incandescent happiness that I've droned on and on about since arriving. (Definitely overusing 'incandescent' now. I must find a different word to describe it.)
All this, of course, despite the fact that when I did live in Edinburgh, things were terribly difficult. It was a hard two years. But when I spoke to Meaghan about this, she nodded and said, "but I think that was good for you. Writers need to know what it's like to struggle, and be frustrated. I get so alarmed with the amount of students in the MLitt program now who seem to think that the most terrible thing in the world would be to go out and get a job."
A year and a half or so ago, when I was considering PhD options, I briefly considering applying to the PhD program in Creative Writing at St. Andrews. I wasn't really seriously considering it, mostly because I knew that I couldn't afford to pay another exorbitant amount of money for yet another postgraduate degree. But I floated the idea by Meaghan, because had I been accepted into the program I would have wanted her to be my supervisor, and she emailed me back and said in no uncertain terms that she didn't approve of the PhD and didn't think it would be a good idea. I confess I was a bit taken aback, at first, but now I completely understand what she means. I didn't do the PhD, but in the intervening two years I managed to write a novel anyway. I did it the "old-fashioned" way, if you will -- writing around a day job, in my lovely garret space, amidst money issues and worry over my future and all of those wonderful things that always sound so glamourous in retrospect but are horrible things to live through. And what do you know, I survived.
It reminded me, too, of that famously scathing article that Ruth Fowler wrote in response to Tea Obreht's Orange Prize win, and which I've blogged about before. Now, I definitely think this article was mean-spirited in a lot of ways. But the fact that Fowler is, in effect, arguing for the "old" method of writing -- ie. the years spent cold-calling agents and submitting to magazines and getting rejected time and time again before you finally get that break, if indeed it does come at all -- is interesting to me. The value of a writing life that's pulled together without the help of connection. I mean, I am a product of the MFA culture that she rails so furiously against. But I can see, as well, where the furor comes from. While I will argue until I die that writing, in many ways, is a skill that can be honed with practice and exposure, and can benefit hugely from the influence of a writing workshop, I wonder if stories themselves are better nurtured through those long hours of isolation, spent alone and harried and in the midst of existential drama. If you could combine the solitude of a UK writing program with some of the structure of the North American MFA, I think we'd get somewhere. There are lessons to be learned from both.
Meaghan talked about how her peers now seem to be the last generation of writers that forged a career for themselves sans MFA. And when I think of the writers that I know back in Canada, there does seem to be something of an age divide between those who honed their skills through other means, and those who apprenticed in a workshop of some sort. Trevor Cole, for example, learned his craft through working at the Globe & Mail. I don't think Alice Munro did an MFA, and while Margaret Atwood has a Master's, I always thought it was in English Literature as opposed to creative writing. (Please correct me if I'm wrong.) Kathleen Winter, to my knowledge, did not do an MFA. Etc. etc.
What am I saying here, especially seeing as how this blog post began with pictures of the sea? Perhaps I'm not sure. But if I've learned anything thus far from my time on this trip, it would seem to be that the writing life is as much about the time spent not writing as it is about that time with paper and pen. And that I have, in the past, been too eager to get myself ensconced in an academic program of writing in order to feel like a real writer, someone of substance. So ... I guess I'm not sure, in the end. Will I ever be sure? Probably not. I do think MFA programs are useful, if for no reason other than they can sometimes fast track things for a writer in terms of learning how to wield language. My time in creative writing courses and my exposure to the world of workshop probably accomplished in five years what might otherwise have taken fifteen to learn. The do's and don'ts of grammar, the rules of POV, the introduction to syntax. I'd probably have learned all of that on my own if I hadn't done a degree, but it would definitely have happened over a much longer time.
But I don't know, now, if an MFA program is essential for a writer. I think they are wonderful in so many ways, not least of all because the potential for community is a good thing for a young writer. (Writing, after all, will be a solitary activity for most of the author's life.) But I also think they are more prevalent than ever now because we live in a culture that is increasingly unfriendly to artists, and an MFA program offers a certain kind of security and validation that would otherwise be difficult to obtain in this day and age. If you are doing a postgraduate degree, you have substance. If you are working a crummy job while writing in the evenings and living on ramen noodles and tea, you somehow seem to be less, even if the notion of the writer's garret still retains some of that romanticism that has dogged it through the ages.
Anyway. At the end of the night, Meaghan hugged me and said, as I noted above, "I'm so proud of you. You did it, and you're doing it even now -- carving a writing life out for yourself even in spite of the odds." And, well, I got all warm and fuzzy inside. It made everything -- the years of struggle in Edinburgh, the worry, the conviction that nothing was ever going to work -- seem worthwhile. Because of course the kicker is this: the years of struggle aren't really ever going to go away. The writing life will always be a struggle in some way or another. But every so often along the way you get a hint of happiness, or a lovely chat with a writing friend in a warm, smoky restaurant, and everything seems like it's meant to be, and even the long nights seem worth it.
Today, as mentioned in yesterday's post, I made good on that respectably-timed reservation for a sea cruise on the east coast of Scotland. Said cruise took place off the shores of a lovely Scottish town called North Berwick. I got there early, and had two hours or so to putter around the streets (and the charity shops, naturally) of the town. I also took pictures of the shore and beachgoers as I puttered along.
The sea cruise/tour of Bass Rock started at 1pm, so I was there bright and early to board the boat. Bass Rock is a tiny island off the coast of North Berwick's shore. A few centuries ago it operated as a prison, but more recently, it's become famous for the 150,000 gannets that call it home. Apparently Sir David Attenborough has called it "one of the wildlife wonders of the world", or some such thing.I went to see the gannets, and hoped to see some puffins along the way. (The next time I come to Scotland, I'll be off to the Isle of May to see them in full splendour.) I saw plenty of both, which was exciting. I also managed to snag a photo or two (hundred):
I even got a photo or two of the puffins!
 | ||||
| The younger gannets stayed on the south side of the island. Our tour guide called it "Singles' Corner" |
It was a lovely trip, and I'm glad I went. I'm ALSO glad -- as foolish as this might sound -- about the fact that I got super touristy after the cruise was over and purchased two photos that the rather attractive (but young -- oh God, am I getting to the point now where men all look young? Already? Surely not! ;) Seabird Centre photographer took of me as I boarded the boat. I have yet to scan them into my computer, but I will be sure to post them when I do. A silly purchase, probably, especially seeing as how I have a perfectly good camera and can take pretty decent photos of myself, but I was sans tripod and I can spend my money however the heck I want (adulthood rules!) and, well, I thought the photos both looked rather nice.
I hadn't seen her in almost two years, so it was nice to have an entire evening ahead of us in which to catch up. I told her about the book deal and she was so happy, then reminded me to let the English department at the school know, when final details came in, so that they could add me to their boasting roster. :) And she offered more congratulations on the fact that I'd snagged an agent (and such a wonderful agent, too), and generally just seemed pleased with the trajectory that my life has taken of late.
"How interesting," she said, "that this recent bit of movement in your life came right after you'd made your first bit of movement in the eight months or so since being home." I'd have to agree. You might also call it Murphy's Law, of course, but I think the way that she phrased it is much nicer!
We also had a great chat about the gendering of book covers, which leaves me eager and oh-so-interested to see what will eventually become of the cover for my own book. She was in a book festival in France earlier this year, and mentioned that the covers there tend to be more on the abstract side of things, whereas North American/UK covers tend to feature covers that are slightly more gendered, ie. a book that's written by a woman stands a much higher chance of having a photograph of a woman on the cover, things like that. I found it so fascinating. When I think back over the books that I've read over the course of this year, they don't seem particularly gendered. In fact, one might even argue that the only example of this "gendered" kind of imaging occurs most obviously in Trevor Cole's Practical Jean -- but of course that's a satire, so I'm guessing here that it doesn't apply.
What do you think?
And ... we talked about a bunch of other stuff. Plans for the future. Whether I'm going to settle in Edinburgh (insofar as I am ever going to settle, I think), the answer to which, I think now, is most definitely yes. I am definitely going to come back to this city to live. Whether it happens next year, or two years from now, or five, remains to be seen. But I feel happy here in a way that I haven't felt in Canada, 365 project notwithstanding. It's the kind of incandescent happiness that I've droned on and on about since arriving. (Definitely overusing 'incandescent' now. I must find a different word to describe it.)
All this, of course, despite the fact that when I did live in Edinburgh, things were terribly difficult. It was a hard two years. But when I spoke to Meaghan about this, she nodded and said, "but I think that was good for you. Writers need to know what it's like to struggle, and be frustrated. I get so alarmed with the amount of students in the MLitt program now who seem to think that the most terrible thing in the world would be to go out and get a job."
A year and a half or so ago, when I was considering PhD options, I briefly considering applying to the PhD program in Creative Writing at St. Andrews. I wasn't really seriously considering it, mostly because I knew that I couldn't afford to pay another exorbitant amount of money for yet another postgraduate degree. But I floated the idea by Meaghan, because had I been accepted into the program I would have wanted her to be my supervisor, and she emailed me back and said in no uncertain terms that she didn't approve of the PhD and didn't think it would be a good idea. I confess I was a bit taken aback, at first, but now I completely understand what she means. I didn't do the PhD, but in the intervening two years I managed to write a novel anyway. I did it the "old-fashioned" way, if you will -- writing around a day job, in my lovely garret space, amidst money issues and worry over my future and all of those wonderful things that always sound so glamourous in retrospect but are horrible things to live through. And what do you know, I survived.
It reminded me, too, of that famously scathing article that Ruth Fowler wrote in response to Tea Obreht's Orange Prize win, and which I've blogged about before. Now, I definitely think this article was mean-spirited in a lot of ways. But the fact that Fowler is, in effect, arguing for the "old" method of writing -- ie. the years spent cold-calling agents and submitting to magazines and getting rejected time and time again before you finally get that break, if indeed it does come at all -- is interesting to me. The value of a writing life that's pulled together without the help of connection. I mean, I am a product of the MFA culture that she rails so furiously against. But I can see, as well, where the furor comes from. While I will argue until I die that writing, in many ways, is a skill that can be honed with practice and exposure, and can benefit hugely from the influence of a writing workshop, I wonder if stories themselves are better nurtured through those long hours of isolation, spent alone and harried and in the midst of existential drama. If you could combine the solitude of a UK writing program with some of the structure of the North American MFA, I think we'd get somewhere. There are lessons to be learned from both.
Meaghan talked about how her peers now seem to be the last generation of writers that forged a career for themselves sans MFA. And when I think of the writers that I know back in Canada, there does seem to be something of an age divide between those who honed their skills through other means, and those who apprenticed in a workshop of some sort. Trevor Cole, for example, learned his craft through working at the Globe & Mail. I don't think Alice Munro did an MFA, and while Margaret Atwood has a Master's, I always thought it was in English Literature as opposed to creative writing. (Please correct me if I'm wrong.) Kathleen Winter, to my knowledge, did not do an MFA. Etc. etc.
What am I saying here, especially seeing as how this blog post began with pictures of the sea? Perhaps I'm not sure. But if I've learned anything thus far from my time on this trip, it would seem to be that the writing life is as much about the time spent not writing as it is about that time with paper and pen. And that I have, in the past, been too eager to get myself ensconced in an academic program of writing in order to feel like a real writer, someone of substance. So ... I guess I'm not sure, in the end. Will I ever be sure? Probably not. I do think MFA programs are useful, if for no reason other than they can sometimes fast track things for a writer in terms of learning how to wield language. My time in creative writing courses and my exposure to the world of workshop probably accomplished in five years what might otherwise have taken fifteen to learn. The do's and don'ts of grammar, the rules of POV, the introduction to syntax. I'd probably have learned all of that on my own if I hadn't done a degree, but it would definitely have happened over a much longer time.
But I don't know, now, if an MFA program is essential for a writer. I think they are wonderful in so many ways, not least of all because the potential for community is a good thing for a young writer. (Writing, after all, will be a solitary activity for most of the author's life.) But I also think they are more prevalent than ever now because we live in a culture that is increasingly unfriendly to artists, and an MFA program offers a certain kind of security and validation that would otherwise be difficult to obtain in this day and age. If you are doing a postgraduate degree, you have substance. If you are working a crummy job while writing in the evenings and living on ramen noodles and tea, you somehow seem to be less, even if the notion of the writer's garret still retains some of that romanticism that has dogged it through the ages.
Anyway. At the end of the night, Meaghan hugged me and said, as I noted above, "I'm so proud of you. You did it, and you're doing it even now -- carving a writing life out for yourself even in spite of the odds." And, well, I got all warm and fuzzy inside. It made everything -- the years of struggle in Edinburgh, the worry, the conviction that nothing was ever going to work -- seem worthwhile. Because of course the kicker is this: the years of struggle aren't really ever going to go away. The writing life will always be a struggle in some way or another. But every so often along the way you get a hint of happiness, or a lovely chat with a writing friend in a warm, smoky restaurant, and everything seems like it's meant to be, and even the long nights seem worth it.
Hey, you had a visitor from Tottenham here! That's my hometown! Cool!
ReplyDeleteAgain, not going to answer this post here. Will email.
No, you don't need an MFA to be a writer. Writers are, in a sense, born that way, I believe. Some writers benefit from the MFA and become better writers. Some people will never be any good at writing no matter how much school they do.
ReplyDeleteI am considering the MFA because I like the idea of going back to school, having that structure, and the requirement for schooling, the deadlines, the learning. Also it will be beneficial writing biz-wise.
I am going to finish my first master's though, before i start a second.