Adventures in Rejection: Writing, Merritt Tierce, and Reality Checks

Once in awhile, an article comes along that resonates so profoundly I have to share it and add my own thoughts. In this case, it's Merritt Tierce's September article for Marie Claire, "I Published My Debut Novel to Critical Acclaim--and Then I Promptly Went Broke."

Tierce is the author of Love Me Back, a novel that was well-received by critics and blurbed by the likes of Roxane Gay. According to Tierce, she sold around 12,000 copies in two years, which was not enough to earn back her advance. Now, she is struggling to pay her bills and is suffering from self-doubt and lack of writing time while "hustling" freelance pieces to the best of her ability. Tierce has no desire to work in academia, which she is qualified to do but might tear her even farther away from family and writing.

This is the stark, terrifying truth of life as a writer in this day and age. Even when the acceptance letters arrive and the publication contracts are signed and the galleys are approved, there is no guarantee that your book will find any sort of success. If you primarily write poetry, your audience is exponentially smaller and the chances of earning money from your work are so slim as to be nonexistent. To date, I have made somewhere in the neighborhood of $250 total across ten years of actively seeking out publication.

But those of us who are serious about it--that is, the craft of writing--have accepted these facts, as unsavory as they are. If you are very lucky, you will see a handful of novels or poetry collections published in your lifetime and perhaps win some awards. If you are less lucky but still diligent, stories, essays, and poems will appear in any number of print or online literary journals, and perhaps even be anthologized. Even if you take steps toward publication, you may be able to achieve little more than one or two placements.

Do I dream of winning a National Book Award, being touted as the next Sylvia Plath, or being legitimate enough to have someone like Nikky Finney blurb me? You bet your ass I do, and if any writer tells you they don't have similar (hopeless) aspirations, they are lying. But for the sake of my own sanity, I have to shelve those fantasies. If I didn't, I would descend into despair with each new rejection letter and give up hope altogether. And I've worked too long and too hard to abandon the written word. 

I commend Merritt Tierce for telling the truth, and I wish her all the luck in the world. Her struggle is that of most writers, and I don't want that for any of us.

-Cate-

On Perfection

Am I perfect? Hell, no. 

If this unfiltered picture of my feet with flip-flop lines and cracked nail polish isn't evidence enough, here's another example: I ate pineapple with a knife last night because I haven't gone out to buy plastic forks (real flatware requiring too much effort for my life). And yet another example: I called AAA awhile back to ask for help with a flat, as I could never be bothered to learn how to change a tire myself. And those are only two instances. Extrapolate out and feel your brain melt from the sheer amount of failure.

However, no one feels my shortcomings more keenly than I do, and I know when I have done wrong. Because I have an anxiety disorder, my brain quite literally will not allow me to stop thinking about anything I have done to fuck up. But also know this: what may seem like a character flaw to some--my chronic inability to keep my mouth shut on occasions when something is really, truly problematic--is an asset, in my view. 

Without it, I would be unable to determine which people are toxic and which are worth fighting for, and I would be unable to live with my own self for the shame of having stood idly by. Whether the situation is political, professional, or personal, I am--not proud, exactly, but certainly willing to face the consequences of this quirk of mine. Whether I inspire or infuriate you, I don't think I could ever be anyone else.

The Book (Buying) Ban

On 16 July, I declared to the world that I was going on a book-buying ban, and I asked everyone to wish me luck. Book-buying bans are, of course, unnatural to anyone with a preference for reading over anything else. But there came a point when I desperately needed to do something. 

This crisis was triggered by the state of the bookshelves I maintain at my parents' house. The bulk of my reading material resides there, far from my actual residence in Louisiana. It, of course, pains me to be separated from my books, but needs must. During my summer visit to Michigan, I became overwhelmed by the disarray and the fact that so many of my tomes remained boxed up in the basement, victims of both multiple moves and a lack of shelf space.

And then I went on a rampage.

Every single book I had access to came out and was stacked, sorted, and rearranged in the living room. Little Dog was so freaked out that she went and hid in my bedroom to avoid the chaos. I toiled for the better part of a week, until I had weeded out volumes I no longer wanted or needed, things I realized I would never read, or duplicates I'd collected over the years.

The bulk of those discarded books were either donated to the local library for their thrice-yearly fundraising book sale or shipped out to three of my friends who were fascinated by my stash and not averse to their own piles growing larger. This worked out in everyone's favor, which relieved me.

At that point I reorganized, reshelved, and reboxed as necessary. Things I had yet to read were all put out on the bookshelves so I would have easy access to them. The problem with this strategy was that I then came to the realization that I had a huge "to be read" stack. Big enough that I might possibly have enough to keep me going for the rest of my life. (As if that's even possible. Please.)

I blame my mother, who taught me to read when I came home disgruntled that I hadn't learned in school. I blame my father, who has never not bought me a book when I asked for one. I blame Visa, which company should have cut me off long ago when they saw how many transactions I was making at bookstores. And I blame myself, for not having the self-control to say, "No, I do not need to buy these seven books at once."

Hahahahaha, no. That last part isn't true at all. Vive les livres!

And yet. I was--and remain--absolutely serious about this. But I admit that I have broken twice so far. Still, two books in three and a half months is not bad. I am trying my best to focus on the books that are already at hand, and I hope I can stay strong.

-Cate-

Adventures in Rejection: When Literary Magazines Die

In this wild world, where large publishing houses are closing or consolidating and small presses face huge hurdles to keeping their doors open, it should come as no surprise that literary magazines often fail. 

And yet, somehow, that feels like the worst rejection of them all.

It's one thing to see an individual poem turned down for publication. But when an entire lit mag tanks for whatever reason--lack of funding, low readership, the demands of the editor's day job--it hurts me. Even when an outlet has declined to disseminate my work, I like to see them succeed, because it means that other writers are getting exposure and that other readers are discovering new pieces that move them. If a lit mag shuts down, those opportunities are negated for everyone involved.

Is this because of a lack of interest from the larger public? Because no one has surplus funds to donate? Because the editors are being crushed at their other workplace (let's be honest: most people are doing this as a passion project, a side gig that is often thankless)? I can't say. What I do know is that it makes the literary world a less diverse place, and that is never a positive thing.

-Cate-

Updates, Links, Et Cetera

- Remember awhile back when I discussed the limits of nostalgia and how throwback fever is affecting current television shows? Turns out that Nathan Fillion, star of the much-beloved, much-mourned Firefly, is totally on board with me. Bless.

- There are plenty of fall offerings for adult arts programs at Interlochen, so check them out!

- Last month, the MacArthur fellowships for 2016 were announced. There are tons of cool people on the list, including Gene Luen Yang, author of  American Born Chinese, which is an excellent graphic novel.

- Here is a list of finalists for the National Book Awards.

- Bob Dylan was awarded this year's Nobel Prize for literature!

- The Louisiana State Fair starts soon. Hit it up 27 October - 13 November.

- Leaving Kent State, written by Sabrina Fedel (a fellow graduate of Lesley University's MFA program!), will be available in November from Harvard Square Editions.

-Cate-

Who Are You

When I was in college, a classmate of mine turned to me, apropos of very little, and said, "You were a goth in high school, weren't you?"

I gotta tell you: in my head, I heard an actual record scratch. And then I turned to him and said, "What?"

Apparently I give off a certain vibe, because at least two more people have brought this up independently of each other over the years. There is also a popular idea floating around out there that I am the real-life version of Amy Farrah Fowler from The Big Bang Theory, possibly prompted by my fleeting resemblance to her in both looks and demeanor (I don't know; I've only seen like two episodes of the show). 

As a side note: when I was in the process of writing this post, my friend Melissa sent me a picture of Amy Farrah Fowler making a face because she has been in on this conversation since the first time someone compared me to that character:

And here is a picture of me:

Honestly, I don't see the resemblance.

At any rate, neither of these assumptions is correct, at least in my view. While it is true that I wear a great deal of black, I never did the pale skin/raccoon eyes thing, I wasn't a fan of Marilyn Manson with the exception of two or three tracks, and I wasn't part of the Hot Topic scene. To my knowledge, I've never undertaken a course of study in physics, nor do I havea doctorate. (It's just me and my lowly MFA over here. Wait, did I say lowly? I meant MOTHERFUCKING AWESOME.)

For the most part, I am just me: an amalgam of quirks and influences, personality traits and genetic materials. This is true of everyone else in this world, as well. Try as you might to label anyone, they will always find a way to subvert your expectations, whether it's the "goth" girl who has a soft spot for pop music or the "nerd" who appreciates sports as much as science. So don't go making judgments based on your interpretation of the evidence at hand. Just let people be who they are (unless they're jerks, in which case it's totally okay to gently recommend that they be less mean.)

-Cate-

Your Adverbs Are Literally Killing Me

It would seem that I have not published a true writing post in some time, and I would like to address that deficiency! Here, you will find my opinions about the use of adverbs in fiction (and, I suppose, in poetry).

If you've taken a creative writing class at anything beyond the beginning level, you have heard that adverbs are bad for your writing. But why is that true? Another adage that writing instructors employ is that old one we all get sick of hearing: "Show, don't tell." By combining this with the directive to avoid adverbs, we have our answer.

Consider the following sentences:

1) She walked swiftly to the edge of the field, breathing heavily.

2) She jogged to the edge of the field, her breath coming in short bursts.

Which seems more informative to you? The one where the adverbs are doing the work, or the one where the verbs and adjectives take the reins? If you think the answer is the former, you may need to reconsider your affinity for adverbs.

You see, "walked swiftly" could mean a few different things: power-walking, a slow jog, a panicked shuffle, and so on. Jogging, on the other hand, indicates a specific type of movement. This is why precise verbs are more important than modifiers, which are often vague.

The same is true in the second half of the sentence, where "breathing heavily" may mean panting, gasping, or over-filling the lungs. Replacing this with "short bursts" clarifies the picture for the reader.

Next time you're writing, keep this in mind. It will help you weed out weaker spots and improve your sentences!

-Cate-