I wrote this piece for grad school at the end of 2018.
Stave One:
The Program Head
John, the head of my graduate writing program, had asked me to come to his office, but I was not sure the cause of his request. “Good morrow, John. What do you want with me?” I asked as I walked in and shut the door.
“Much!” replied the Program Head. Suddenly, as though we were in a genre fiction piece, a large chain with lots of contraptions appeared at his feet, but John didn’t seem frightened by it, so I pretended not to notice it. “You don’t believe in your own writing,” observed the program head.
“I don’t,” I replied honestly, but I was shocked that I so readily admitted it.
“What evidence would you have of your writing abilities and practices beyond that of your acceptance into this program?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. I had often wondered this myself.
“Why do you doubt yourself?”
“Because,” I said, “many little things affect me, my confidence, and my writing. A slight comment from a friend about my writing or my writing habits makes me doubtful. There is so much writing I’ve read that is better than my own. My acceptance may be a fluke, a moment of pity, a bit of being badgered by my emails, a fragment of a desire for more international student fees. There could be more of poser than of poise about you accepting me!” While I was in the habit of cracking jokes, the truth is, that I was trying to be funny, as a means of distracting myself and keeping down my unease for the graduate school acceptance had made me oddly anxious.
The Program Head gave a frustrated sigh and then shook the chain that had been about his feet. His office filled with a dismal and appalling noise.
“Oh wise Program Head, why do you trouble me?” I asked, in part to myself as I wondered why this acceptance had confused me so.
“Student with a worldly mind!” replied the Program Head, “Would you believe me if I said that writing is more difficult for writers than for others? Would that make you believe in yourself more?”
“I suppose I should try to believe in myself, but I find it hard to believe that writers are the ones who find writing difficult, wouldn’t that be the case for those who do not write? And I have so many more questions about writing. But why do some authors get published and why do writers write what they write? Are my practices and reasons in line with other authors? Perhaps if I had these answered I could adjust my habits or gain some confidence in my ways.”
“It is required of every writer,” the Program Head began, “that the scribe within them communicate and connect with their fellowmen, and that they write far and wide!” Again the Program Head shook the chain.
“You are frustrated,” I observed. “Tell me why?”
“This chain at my feet is what you have forged in your writing life,” replied the Program Head. “Is its pattern strange to you?”
I trembled as I observed that it was made of my half-written diaries, my abandoned notes of story ideas, my several incomplete novels, my countless empty notebooks, my many beautiful, but unused pens, and several old laptops wrought in steel.
“John,” I said, imploringly. “Help me, please, John!”
“Hear me!” cried the Program Head. “My office hours are nearly done.”
“I will,” I said. “But don’t be hard on me! Don’t be flowery like so many writers, John! Please!”
“You have yet a chance and hope of escaping imposter syndrome as well as the fate of being unpublished. A chance and hope of my procuring, Holly.”
“You were always a good program head,” I said. “Thank you!”
“You will be haun—lectured,” resumed the Program Head, “by three successful writers.”
“Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, John?” I squeaked.
“It is.”
“I—I think I’d rather not,” I said. Even though I needed questions answered, surely coming face to face with successful writers would only worsen my imposter syndrome and hearing their experiences directly from them prove to me that I didn’t belong in my program.
“Without their visits, as well as the visits of other writers in later weeks,” said the Program Head, “you cannot hope to avoid the path of imposter syndrome and the fate of being unpublished. Expect the first Thursday, when the bell tolls three.”
“Couldn’t they come all at once, and have it over with, John?” I asked, hopeful. Perhaps one long session would be more bearable than constantly questioning myself in the presence of successful writers.
“Expect the second on the next week at the same hour. The third upon the next week when the last stroke of three has ceased to vibrate.”
As I absorbed this information, the Program Head got up from his office chair and walked backward towards his door and at every step he took, the door opened a little, so that when he’d reached the door, it was wide open.
I took my cue and left.
Stave Two:
The First of the Three Authors
A few days later, I sat in the classroom where John had emailed me to meet the first Writer and waited for the clock to strike three. As soon as the hand moved to three, the door of the classroom opened and in walked the first of the three Writers. Even though I’d sat towards the back of the room, I somehow found myself face to face with the author who’d opened it. He was a kind figure with glasses and an easy smile.
“Are you the Writer, whose lecture was foretold to me?” I asked.
“I am!”
“Who and what kind of writer are you?” I asked.
“I am Ndrek Gjini, writer, poet, and past student in your program.”
Feeling awkward, I then made bold to inquire what brought him there.
“The welfare of your writing! I have a few words for you to live by: write, edit, edit, submit.”
“I am an amateur writer,” I replied, “and liable to get rejected by publications. Why even bother submitting when I know the answer?”
“Bear but a touch of my wisdom there and there,” said the Writer, laying it upon my head and heart, “and your confidence and writing quality shall be upheld!”
As the words were spoken, we suddenly passed through one of the classroom walls, and stood in the cargo bay of a spaceship with science fiction rogues on either hand. The classroom we had been in was entirely gone and instead, we found ourselves on a spaceship of my own creation: Scion.
“My god!” I said, clasping my hands together as I looked around. “I started writing about this spaceship in high school. It was my most beloved story and longest thing I’ve ever written!”
The Writer observed me quietly. I was conscious of the nine characters traipsing about the ship, each one connected with a thousand words and plotlines and hidden secrets and plans long, long, forgotten!
“They’re headed to the dining area. You recollect the way?” inquired the Writer.
“Remember it!” I cried with excitement; “I could walk this spaceship blindfolded.”
“Strange to have forgotten it for so many years!” observed the Writer. “Let us go on.”
We walked through the cargo hold and I recognized every hidden storage space, bedroom, and specialized room like pool, garden, and infirmary. Finally, we reached the dining area. The nine characters I’d created were walking towards me and the Writer with smiles upon their faces. All these characters were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the room was full of jovial laughter. They must be in one of the scenes I’d written where I let them have a happy meal together as a found family in between the more dramatic plot points I had for them.
“These are but shadows of the things that you have written,” said the Writer. “They have no consciousness of us.”
We then left the dining room, by a well-remembered hallway with rooms of five of the crew members shooting off of it, and soon approached the bridge of the ship. The Writer and I looked out into the vastness of space and soon saw that the stars were disappearing and nothing else was taking their place; not a ship nor satellite was in the sky ahead of it. The blackness opened before us, and disclosed a long, bare, unwritten path.
“I wish,” I muttered, twisting my hands and looking about, “but I guess it’s too late now.”
“What is the matter?” asked the Writer.
“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing. I got feedback on this piece once, but became discouraged. I should like to have discussed it more and worked out a future for this ship and story: that’s all.”
The Writer smiled thoughtfully and waved his hand: saying as he did so, “It’s never too late, but let us see another piece!”
The panels of the spaceship fell away and we found ourselves in a dark, dank alleyway. A man high on drugs entered the alley and a slight young woman, much younger than the man, came darting out of the shadows. She then put a blade to his throat and darkly threatened him with vague words.
“Always a delicate creature you are, whom a critique might wither,” said the Writer. “But you have large ideas!”
“So I do,” I admitted quietly. “You’re right. I need to work on taking critique, but I do like my ideas.”
“This piece died a forgotten prologue of an unwritten novel,” said the Writer, “but helped you, I believe, get into a writing program.”
“One program,” I returned, “but helped me get rejected from another.”
“True,” said the Writer. “But it helped you get into the beloved program you’re now in, yes?”
My self-conscious mind didn’t want to admit it, but I answered briefly, “Yes.”
The scene of the story quickly ended and then it began to repeat itself. Since the scene was so short, I quickly grew weary of watching it go nowhere. “Writer!” I begged, my voice cracking from embarrassment, “remove me from this piece.”
“These are shadows of the pieces that you have written and abandoned,” said the Writer. “They are what they are because you have not edited, edited, and, eventually, submitted in completed form, do not blame me.”
“Remove me!” I begged again, “I cannot bear to see this abandoned story repeat once more!”
“If you remember my advice, these fragments of stories and novels will no longer haunt you. Writing will remain difficult, but it will only be more difficult if you do not see it go anywhere. Submitting is not the eternal damnation that you fear. Rejection is part of every writer’s life, just take the chance and dust yourself off when some rejections come. Look, you submitted a fragment and got into a program, do you not see how submitting a completed story could end in publication?”
I turned upon the Writer and saw that he looked upon me with a face, in which, in some strange way, there were fragments of all the stories I had written. I took a pause and thought for a moment before replying, “I will try to act upon your words, Writer.”
The Writer smiled as the clock struck five and, just like that, my time with him was over.
Stave Three:
The Second of the Three Authors
The next week as the clock struck three, I opened the door to the classroom tentatively. Inside there was the second Writer John had spoken of.
“Come in!” exclaimed the Writer. “Come in and know me better, woman!”
I entered the classroom and slowly approached this Writer. I had already met with a successful Writer and had felt somewhat shamed about my abandoned pieces. What would this one make me reflect upon?
“I am Morag Prunty, also known as Kate Kerrigan,” said the Writer. “Look upon me!”
I reverently did so. John had emailed me her name and so I had looked her up and knew her resume: it was filled out with several successful commercial novels under her pseudonym.
“You have never met the like of me before,” observed the Writer.
“Never,” I replied quietly. I had met writers before as I had worked in publishing, but having worked at an academic publishing company I had mostly dealt with academic authors.
“Have never talked with younger authors in my genre?” asked the Writer.
“I am afraid I have not,” I said. Before working at the publishing company, I had worked at a local bookstore and the events at the bookstore tended to be for “literary” authors. “Writer,” I said submissively, “take me where you will. I went forth last week with another Writer into my own writings, and I learned a lesson which I am working on now. Today let me profit by your lesson.”
“This week we shall explore a place of writing rather than your own writings. Take hold of my notebook!”
I did as I was told and held her notebook fast.
Tables, chairs, and white board all vanished. So did the classroom, the florescent lights, the hubbub of college, and then, suddenly, the Writer and I stood in a coffee shop where the customers made brisk and pleasant music by clacking on their keyboards as they produced works of romance, fantasy, high literary fiction, memoirs, and even fan fiction. The room smelled of chocolate and chai and coffee. I inhaled all the scents deeply and sighed in contentment.
The people who were writing away on their laptops were jovial and full of inspiration, messaging one another from their screens and occasionally exchanging bits of feedback and encouragement. The sight of these hopeful authors interested the Writer very much. I stood beside her in the coffee shop’s doorway and watched as she ripped pages from her notebook into little pieces and then sprinkled confetti on their laptops. Perhaps by the magic of the Writer, this action, as well as our presence, went unnoticed by the typists.
“Is there a particular kind of writing in what you sprinkle from your notebook?” I asked.
“There is: whatever kind of writing is inspiring them at the moment.”
“Even if their inspiration isn’t literary?” I asked. I had often felt that professional authors, even those of commercial genres, tended to think of literary writing as the only true kind of writing. I had also assumed that literary authors looked down upon commercial authors.
“Of course,” replied the Writer, “Any genre or idea is worthy as long as it is excitedly written.”
“But don’t literary writers look down commercial writers?” I asked, voicing the notion that I had been holding.
“Not at all. Writing is immensely personal and even though writing is more difficult for writers than for others, perhaps because it is so personal, writing should always feel good on some level. If it does not, it should not be written. All writers, regardless of genre, know this and desire to help one another.”
Suddenly, I noticed something trying to escape the Writer’s notebook. “Forgive me if this is rude to ask,” I said, looking squarely at the Writer’s notebook, “but I see something odd protruding from your notebook. What is it?”
“Look here.”
From the pages of her notebook, the Writer brought two crumpled pieces of paper. They were smudged, scribbled on, and portions were scratched out. The pieces of paper fell down at her feet, and clung to her.
“Oh, Woman! Look, look, down here!” exclaimed the Writer.
I started back, appalled. I tried to say they were fine and clever pages of writing and surely had brilliant ideas on them, but my words choked themselves, rather than be parties to such an enormous lie.
“They’re yours?” I asked as I couldn’t think of what else to say.
“They were,” said the Writer, looking down at them. “And they do sometimes still cling to me. They are pages from a literary thriller I once wrote. Beware them, and all of their kind. I wrote them and while I do not regret creating them, for they are part of the first novel I finished, I hated writing them. Literary writing does not please all and not all value it. Sometimes ideas and genres need time and sometimes they are not fit for you,” explained the Writer, “Slander those who tell you otherwise! Admit it if literary writing is not for you and embrace the kind of writing that calls to you, otherwise you will be covered in and haunted by pages such as these.”
I thought on this and realized that I had been holding myself back from one of the ideas for novels that made me smile: a cozy mystery novel taking place at a bookshop. I had feared that others would judge me for writing something of that kind, but perhaps I was wrong.
The bell struck five.
I looked about me for the Writer, but she was gone. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, I remembered John’s curriculum and began to count the time until next week, when the final Writer would appear.
Stave Four:
The Last of the Authors
The next week, a bespectacled Writer slowly and almost silently, approached me. He was, as he explained to me, suffering from a cold and wanted to save his voice for a story telling session he was conducting later. When he came near me, I bent down upon my knee; for the very air through which this Writer moved seemed to scatter mystery and intrigue and I could not help but respect that.
This was especially impressive to me as this Writer was already known to me. His name was Rab Fulton and I had seen him perform at the very story telling sessions he was saving his voice for. The Writer was distinct with his thick Scottish accent, broad smile, and effervescent humor. It would have been difficult to detach his figure from the stories with which he surrounded himself. I felt that he was expressive and greatly engaging when he came beside me, and thus his captivating presence filled me with intrigue.
“I am in the presence of the final Writer that John spoke of?” I confirmed timidly for I didn’t know what else to say.
The Writer answered not, but pointed down the hall with his hand.
“You are about to show me shadows of things that perhaps I have not employed or have employed without confidence, but should employ boldly in future writings?” I asked “Is that so, Writer?”
The Writer inclined his head. So expressive was his movement, that that was the only answer I needed.
“Lead on!” I said. “The afternoon is waning fast, and time is precious to me!”
The Writer began to walk away and I followed in his shadow and quickly found that we were in yet another of my stories, just like I had been with the first Writer. This though, was a scrap of a story that I was working on and it took place in a clearing in the woods.
The clearing seemed to pop up about us with the woods encompassing both us and it. We watched the story go by. It at first appeared to be the story of Snow White, but when the Prince came to wake her, it is revealed to be the story of Hades and Persephone and that Snow White never truly woke, but, in fact, perished from the poison apple.
The Writer stopped beside the dais my Snow White/Persephone character had been lying on. Observing that he pointed to the dais, I advanced to the Writer’s side. I saw then that his pointed hand had turned into a thumbs up sign.
I was at first inclined to be surprised that the Writer should approve of any bit of writing I had done, but feeling assured that he must have some message to impart, I decided to speak once again.
“Writer,” I said, “I see, I see. You like this idea of a story that I have. I am trying to modernize an older tale and I know you do the same. Is that what where your approval comes from?”
Still the Writer gave me a thumbs up.
“I understand you,” I returned, “and I will do it, if I can. Past stories still resonate with us, but often a twist or a tweak will make them even more compelling and could make them my own. But I have not the story telling power that you do.”
The Writer frowned. He again gestured to the story as it began to play on repeat and again held a thumbs up. Still unable to accept his praise, I found myself staring at him. He sighed heavily and then, with a snap of his fingers, took us to another piece of my writing.
I was expecting to go to another piece of my fiction, but with anxious surprise, I found that we had entered a nonfiction essay about my brother. At length I saw the essay play out, and was surprised that, even though I was in the story itself, I did not experience much. Where were the smells of the scenes like the crayons of our childhood bedrooms or the sterile smell of hospital rooms? How could I not have included the sensory experience of taste when cooking our family’s recipe of tuna spaghetti is an important tradition for my brother and me? Why did I not describe the intricacies of the pictures he used to draw for me that calmed my childish brain? How had I missed the feel of his blanket that he still uses when he visits home when this blanket is so beloved by him? Why did I not describe the various voices he does when he reads to me from an online comic?
Yes. These details would deepen and enrich this story. Even though I was having difficulty in critiquing a piece that was so personal to me, perhaps this was part of what the Program Head and Ndrek had meant when he said writing is more difficult for writers than for others, we constantly see aspects we should improve. The Writer somehow knew that I had come to this realization. His face was brighter and he was a happier soul for my understanding his lesson!
However, having a flair for the dramatic and weird, the Writer conducted us to, not quite a story of mine, but a fearful fantasy of my mind’s creation. We found ourselves in a desolate churchyard. The Writer stood among the graves, and pointed down to one. I advanced towards it, trembling.
“Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,” I said, “answer me one question. While this is fear of mine, it is a shadow of a thing that may be only, right?”
Still the Writer pointed downward to the grave.
I crept towards it, trembling as I went and following the finger, read upon the stone my own name: Holly Smith, unpublished writer.
“Writer!” I cried, “Hear me! I am not the writer I was. Why show me this, if I am past all hope?” I took a breath and then continued, “Good Writer, assure me that I may change this shadow you have shown me by an altered writing life!”
The kind hand trembled.
“I will honor writing in my heart, and try to keep it all the year, no matter how difficult I find it. I will write, edit, edit, submit as Ndrek advised. I will write what moves me and makes me feel inspired, no matter the judgment of others as Morag/Kate taught me. I will look to old tales that can be modernized and deepen the sensory detail of all my stories as you instructed me. The teachings of all three of you shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!”
Holding up my hands in a last prayer to have my unpublished fate reversed, I saw an alteration in the Writer. He shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a desk.
Stave Five:
The End of It
Yes! The desk was my own. At least, it was the desk I most commonly sat at and would think to call my own.
“I will heed Ndrek, Morag/Kate, and Rab!” I repeated, as I scrambled out of the classroom. “The lessons of all three shall strive within me. Oh John Kenny! Heaven and your learned soul be praised for this!”
I was so flushed and so glowing with inspiration, that I ran all the way to my apartment and straight to my laptop. “My writings!” I cried, “They are here—I am here—the shadow of being unpublished, may yet be dispelled. It will be. I know it will!” My hands were busy with typing all this time, turning phrases inside out, putting them in new places, editing them, sending them out to friends for critique, making notes for the cozy mystery I finally felt confident and not ashamed in writing, searching for old stories and tales that had inspired me, but could use with an update, and deepening details wherever I could.
I vowed to be better than my word. I hoped to do it all, and infinitely more no matter how difficult I found writing, for that made me a writer. And to my course mates, I decided I would become a second set of eyes, trying to bring the lessons of the three into my feedback to them. I vowed to become as good a writer, as good an editor, and as good a student, as the program knew, or any other program, school, or class, in the world. Some people may laugh to see the alteration in my writing, especially at the ambition to write a cozy mystery and not a literary stream of consciousness novel, but I will let them laugh. My own heart laughed at the joy I was now taking in my writing (and editing, editing, and submitting) and that was quite enough for me.
I looked forward to the further discourse with Writers that John had promised, for surely I would only become a better and more confident writer by them. I hoped that ever afterwards it could always be said of me, that I knew how to keep writing well, if any person possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of all of us who aspire to write! And so, as all writers should observe, God bless our writings, every one!
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