On the Other Side of the Academic Gauntlet

In May 2012 I went back to school because at 90+ credit hours, it was kind of dumb not to finish. I switched my major from Respiratory Care at Texas State University to English with an emphasis on Creative Writing from the University of Missouri. I changed schools because we moved, and I changed majors because I’m terrible at math (absolute truths proven by inviolable laws) and pretty good at literature (saying pretty much anything you want in a way that sounds plausible). At the time my wife and I were expecting our first child. I had written about three chapters of a middle grade children’s novel, but I didn’t know if it was any good. We were new in town, and didn’t have any real friends though we did have acquaintances that showed some promise. I didn’t know about Aldi, Hot Box Cookies, or where exactly the Hinkson joined with the Katy Trail. I learned some things.

I learned about annotated bibliographies and the precise amount of pucker needed to properly kiss professorial bohonkus. I learned a little about how to use a research engine, a lot about Chaucer, and that most instructors are so tired of reading the same thing in every paper, they are typically appreciative of a little self-aware sass. I learned how much time it takes to get to any given section of campus on foot; walking, running, or flat out sprinting. I learned about the Stith-Thompson motif index, in text citation, and the sensitivity of liberal arts professors concerning the value of what they teach. I learned that clever prose and flowing style will only get you so far, but it’s usually far enough. I learned that literary types love Tobias Wolff’s “Bullet in the Brain” because, they claim, it is an excellent example of time suspension as literary device. This time suspension just happens to occur while a bullet pierces a literary critic’s skull and painstakingly shreds through his dura mater. On a completely unrelated note, I have learned that plot oriented wish fulfillment is a cheap way to manufacture interest and is in fact frowned upon. Speaking of that, I learned a ton about writing.

The majority of what was said in my fiction classes regarding craft made so much sense, and I was gratified to go through my previous work and find I did a lot of things right. Then again, I did a lot of things wrong. The workshop can be a terrifying and embarrassing time for inexperienced writers as they are systematically disabused of the illusions they, and perhaps their friends and family, have engendered about their writing ability. I have been concerned about this from the beginning, especially after I read the work that others put forward. Some were ok, some were pretty bad, only two in my first class had what I considered to be potential, though I take issue with a lot of the stuff that is published so I apparently don’t know anything about good literature. I was typically one of the last to go, but my work was always well received. I had kind instructors who never shamed a student for their work, even if it was objectively terrible. Still, I tried to read my instructors and figure out which stories and authors they liked, and I believe I was always one of those. I learned many things about writing, both craft and theory, but perhaps the most valuable thing I picked up in my entire college experience at Mizzou was confidence. Every creative writing instructor I had encouraged me to pursue publishing. One English/Anthropologist professor asked to use my paper as an example for future students to emulate. A folklorist suggested I submit my final paper to a contest. A religious studies TA tried to talk me into grad school based on my essays. A medievalist did both. Of course I’m not going to grad school. I’m out of money, I have no desire to be a permanent academician, my wife would kill me and my kids would continue to wonder where I was. Basically no one at this address wants me to do any more school.

Now what?

I have no idea. After spending a lot of time reading, researching and thinking, I’ve decided literary success is a combination of skill, marketability and luck. Any book sold has at least a little of each, and if you want to sell enough books to make a living, you’d better have a lot of at least two. I’m doing my best with skill and marketability, both of which have dozens of layers and nuance and are tough to nail down.  Public tastes are always in flux, and currently the book market is also in turmoil. Then remember that I haven’t finished any novels ever, which might be a problem. It’s safe to say that the odds of being able to make a living writing fiction is roughly equivalent to successfully training a duck to operate heavy equipment. That is to say, it’s probably possible, but I would have to devote a lot of time to it and success is no guarantee. Maybe I will get a real job, maybe I will stay being a full time dad. Whatever options present, however, I will write. It’s just what I do.