Happy Holidays, everyone!
Not much going on these past few weeks. We continue to read, read, read those submissions. Keep em coming. We started this business, so we could help discover emerging writers. Nothing makes us happier than reading something great from someone not yet known.
25 December 2009
13 December 2009
So here's what I like...
So here's what I like and dislike about The Metropolitan Opera and the American Ballet Theatre and how they run their business:
1. Great marketing. Sexy ads and opera trailers. The marketing peeps over there have done a lot to make opera and ballet more appealing to everyone.
2. Combination of old and new: every year they show the old classics (La Traviata, Swan Lake, Romeo and Juliet, Nutcracker) as well as new programs.
3. Live HD broadcast of the operas to movie theaters. When will they have this for ballet??? I can't wait. Plays and other types of performance art should soon follow. I'd pay $18 easily to see a live broadcast version of anything out there now, Broadway or off, and I don't think it would cannibalize sales. I can't remember if I deleted this post or not - but for all the talent we have in this country - the thousands of people who are trying to make it in the arts - there's a surprising lack of stuff to watch. Or what I mean is that it's not very accessible. I don't know how many times I've gone to the movies and been unable to find anything I wanted to see. And I'm sure there's someone out there capable of churning out a hundred plays and screenplays to suit my sensibility perfectly. Someone who's dying to work and dying for an audience and who would give anything to just be given the slightest chance. It's a matter of someone facilitating that connection. Once that connection is facilitated, there will be many more opportunities for artists.
4. Educational initiative: I like that the operas are broadcasted for free to schoolchildren.
5. Affordability. $24 for a Family Circle ticket, $18 for the HD. Reasonable compared to the cost of martinis in this town.
Stuff I dislike:
1. Now I'm not sure what exactly is going on, but I know that ticket sales cover only half of their operating cost. The rest comes from donations. Is it really necessary to have costumes designed by Chanel or Valentino? Why not employ the services of emerging artists who are dying to have any sort of audience for their work? Why not make it a contest? Why not make everything a contest? It would be a lot cheaper, probably of the same quality, serve a good social purpose, and make for a leaner business. And contests are entertaining! Why not broadcast the contest? Open it up to the public? Charge admission? The surface area is endless.
Perhaps this is naive, but I just feel that if all the right minds came together, a good number of problems could be solved.
"Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country." JFK said that. Growing up, I never had much of a reaction to that quote. Just lame inspirational bullshit is what I thought. I wasn't the kind of person who ever considered "giving back," community service, charity work, etc. I figured that was for people who were sure of themselves and their place in the world. I used to be one of those writers who just wanted to get published and win prizes. Like most people, I wanted recognition and validation, the usual human nonsense. That used to be my whole life. Then I woke up one day - it was literally that abrupt - and thought to myself, "Alright, this is really lame. There has to be more to life than obsessing over prizes." I still loved creative writing, but I didn't want to love it in the old way - the jealous boyfriend kind of way. Immature, selfish love. That's when I decided to become a publisher, to try and generate a system that would enable others and create opportunities. Honestly, it has been very good for me as a human being. It is a bit like having a child, I think. It taught me about responsibility and humility and forced me to get off my ass and work. I hold my temper now. I think before speaking. I watch my expenditures. I try to do a good job at work, a really good job. It's so oddly healthy compared to what life was like before.
1. Great marketing. Sexy ads and opera trailers. The marketing peeps over there have done a lot to make opera and ballet more appealing to everyone.
2. Combination of old and new: every year they show the old classics (La Traviata, Swan Lake, Romeo and Juliet, Nutcracker) as well as new programs.
3. Live HD broadcast of the operas to movie theaters. When will they have this for ballet??? I can't wait. Plays and other types of performance art should soon follow. I'd pay $18 easily to see a live broadcast version of anything out there now, Broadway or off, and I don't think it would cannibalize sales. I can't remember if I deleted this post or not - but for all the talent we have in this country - the thousands of people who are trying to make it in the arts - there's a surprising lack of stuff to watch. Or what I mean is that it's not very accessible. I don't know how many times I've gone to the movies and been unable to find anything I wanted to see. And I'm sure there's someone out there capable of churning out a hundred plays and screenplays to suit my sensibility perfectly. Someone who's dying to work and dying for an audience and who would give anything to just be given the slightest chance. It's a matter of someone facilitating that connection. Once that connection is facilitated, there will be many more opportunities for artists.
4. Educational initiative: I like that the operas are broadcasted for free to schoolchildren.
5. Affordability. $24 for a Family Circle ticket, $18 for the HD. Reasonable compared to the cost of martinis in this town.
Stuff I dislike:
1. Now I'm not sure what exactly is going on, but I know that ticket sales cover only half of their operating cost. The rest comes from donations. Is it really necessary to have costumes designed by Chanel or Valentino? Why not employ the services of emerging artists who are dying to have any sort of audience for their work? Why not make it a contest? Why not make everything a contest? It would be a lot cheaper, probably of the same quality, serve a good social purpose, and make for a leaner business. And contests are entertaining! Why not broadcast the contest? Open it up to the public? Charge admission? The surface area is endless.
Perhaps this is naive, but I just feel that if all the right minds came together, a good number of problems could be solved.
"Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country." JFK said that. Growing up, I never had much of a reaction to that quote. Just lame inspirational bullshit is what I thought. I wasn't the kind of person who ever considered "giving back," community service, charity work, etc. I figured that was for people who were sure of themselves and their place in the world. I used to be one of those writers who just wanted to get published and win prizes. Like most people, I wanted recognition and validation, the usual human nonsense. That used to be my whole life. Then I woke up one day - it was literally that abrupt - and thought to myself, "Alright, this is really lame. There has to be more to life than obsessing over prizes." I still loved creative writing, but I didn't want to love it in the old way - the jealous boyfriend kind of way. Immature, selfish love. That's when I decided to become a publisher, to try and generate a system that would enable others and create opportunities. Honestly, it has been very good for me as a human being. It is a bit like having a child, I think. It taught me about responsibility and humility and forced me to get off my ass and work. I hold my temper now. I think before speaking. I watch my expenditures. I try to do a good job at work, a really good job. It's so oddly healthy compared to what life was like before.
So many things to do...
So exhausted. We have so much to accomplish. It feels endless. I guess that's part of the fun.
We have a movie-style trailer to make.
We have promotional cards to design.
We have the YouTube channel to start.
We have a movie-style trailer to make.
We have promotional cards to design.
We have the YouTube channel to start.
What Would Make Readings More Interesting II
4. Other art forms: I took a directing class where we staged versions of poems, set to music, etc. Poetry lends itself so easily to theater, music, visual art, dance... readings could easily exploit those connections more.
What Would Make Readings More Interesting
Christina again.
I shouldn't confess this, but where else could I? So here goes: I find readings a little tedious. This is strange because I used to enjoy being read to as a child.
Here's why I think this is:
1. I'm now accustomed to digesting words silently and quickly, so readings are a little slow for my taste. Call it a result of our times and my generation's inability to focus on anything for more than two seconds, but halfway down the first page, and I'm usually gone... Poetry still rivets me, especially when it's performed well, but I'm always lost with stories. Lack of patience? Don't get me wrong. I love action-less, atmospheric stories as much as any literary nerd - what I like to call "clinically depressed fiction of minor epiphanies" - but it's just slow. In undergrad, I always liked professors who lectured rapidly; the words just flew by; it was like scrolling quickly and I could get a sense of the overall contours of the argument. I loved the challenge of note-taking, getting the jist of things, scribbling fiercely to keep up. I guess my problem is that I love form (structure, beam-work, the outline of things). When I hear one sentence at a time, and I'm being read to like a child, it's hard for me to see the whole, and a sense of the whole is part of the beauty.
2. I don't hear anything familiar. As with classical music and ballet and opera and the Boston Pops orchestra, sometimes a few old favorites can energize the crowd. I think if contemporary poets recited the work of other poets - or famous poems which everyone is familiar with - that would help a non-literary crowd make a connection between what they studied in school and the work of contemporary American poets.
People who are going to attend a reading should be able to "request" poems the way you would request "songs" before a formal dance. How much more compelling would it be if before readings you logged into a site and requested your favorite poem to be read by a famous poet of choice? It would be cool to see what other audience members picked, too. That would be half the fun. If I enjoyed the event, I might even purchase a recording afterward.
And it wouldn't matter if some of the poems were a little cheesy - or not what we would call great art. It would be worth the increase in attention.
3. Not enough sensual delight. Okay, I know a million people will disagree with me, and it's probably cheesy of me to feel this way, but people today are busy... there are a million things competing for the attention of audiences... strawberries, champagne, wine and cheese, exotic drinks, and goody bags could go a long way... also, if readings were events where people cared to present themselves well... I don't mean in suits or gowns... but I don't know... masks or costumes or something, that would cast a sense of strangeness and excitement on it all. "All dressed up with nowhere to go" is a problem for many people. Just go on craigslist, and you'll see tons of women looking for "Sex in the City" or "Gossip Girl" girl friends. People want to go out and have a good time. They want life to be Romantic and glamorous. They want to dress up and have somewhere to go.
I shouldn't confess this, but where else could I? So here goes: I find readings a little tedious. This is strange because I used to enjoy being read to as a child.
Here's why I think this is:
1. I'm now accustomed to digesting words silently and quickly, so readings are a little slow for my taste. Call it a result of our times and my generation's inability to focus on anything for more than two seconds, but halfway down the first page, and I'm usually gone... Poetry still rivets me, especially when it's performed well, but I'm always lost with stories. Lack of patience? Don't get me wrong. I love action-less, atmospheric stories as much as any literary nerd - what I like to call "clinically depressed fiction of minor epiphanies" - but it's just slow. In undergrad, I always liked professors who lectured rapidly; the words just flew by; it was like scrolling quickly and I could get a sense of the overall contours of the argument. I loved the challenge of note-taking, getting the jist of things, scribbling fiercely to keep up. I guess my problem is that I love form (structure, beam-work, the outline of things). When I hear one sentence at a time, and I'm being read to like a child, it's hard for me to see the whole, and a sense of the whole is part of the beauty.
2. I don't hear anything familiar. As with classical music and ballet and opera and the Boston Pops orchestra, sometimes a few old favorites can energize the crowd. I think if contemporary poets recited the work of other poets - or famous poems which everyone is familiar with - that would help a non-literary crowd make a connection between what they studied in school and the work of contemporary American poets.
People who are going to attend a reading should be able to "request" poems the way you would request "songs" before a formal dance. How much more compelling would it be if before readings you logged into a site and requested your favorite poem to be read by a famous poet of choice? It would be cool to see what other audience members picked, too. That would be half the fun. If I enjoyed the event, I might even purchase a recording afterward.
And it wouldn't matter if some of the poems were a little cheesy - or not what we would call great art. It would be worth the increase in attention.
3. Not enough sensual delight. Okay, I know a million people will disagree with me, and it's probably cheesy of me to feel this way, but people today are busy... there are a million things competing for the attention of audiences... strawberries, champagne, wine and cheese, exotic drinks, and goody bags could go a long way... also, if readings were events where people cared to present themselves well... I don't mean in suits or gowns... but I don't know... masks or costumes or something, that would cast a sense of strangeness and excitement on it all. "All dressed up with nowhere to go" is a problem for many people. Just go on craigslist, and you'll see tons of women looking for "Sex in the City" or "Gossip Girl" girl friends. People want to go out and have a good time. They want life to be Romantic and glamorous. They want to dress up and have somewhere to go.
Recent News
This is Christina here. In case people didn't know, several different members of our staff blog here.
We're doing our best at this point to get as many submissions as possible. It's tough with this time of year because everyone seems to be consumed with paper grading. We saw a flood of submissions around August and September.
One thing I noticed: despite the femininity of the site (it's supposed to be gender neutral), we receive far more submissions from men than from women. Someone once told me that more men submit to literary journals in this country than women (but women still dominate other aspects of the publishing industry). I wonder why that is. Are men more confident about their work? Are they more aggressive about their artistic careers? Do they submit prematurely? It would be interesting to pursue those questions with research and hard data.
We're doing our best at this point to get as many submissions as possible. It's tough with this time of year because everyone seems to be consumed with paper grading. We saw a flood of submissions around August and September.
One thing I noticed: despite the femininity of the site (it's supposed to be gender neutral), we receive far more submissions from men than from women. Someone once told me that more men submit to literary journals in this country than women (but women still dominate other aspects of the publishing industry). I wonder why that is. Are men more confident about their work? Are they more aggressive about their artistic careers? Do they submit prematurely? It would be interesting to pursue those questions with research and hard data.
20 October 2009
Where the Wild Things Are
I always get really nervous whenever my favorite childhood books are turned into movies. Hollywood has a habit of destroying my childhood. One memory I have is of seeing the Golden Compass and leaving the theater in tears because it had been so bad.
So I was a little afraid when I bought my ticket for Where the Wild Things are, even though it's been so long since I read the book that the only sentence I remember is, "LET THE WILD RUMPUS BEGIN," and to be honest I remembered it because it was a Facebook bumper sticker.
When the music by Karen O began, however, and Max began to dig around in the snow nostalgia was stirred up in me. When he slid belly-first into the ice cave, immersed in a private blue-glowing world, I thought, yeah, this is childhood.
And for all of its plot problems-none of the Wild Thing's problems reaching any kind of denouement being the major one-that is the movie's greatest quality. The high-energy music and the creation of a richly unique world brought me back to a time in my life when imagination was for its own pure creative enjoyment, and not something to marketed.
The scene that stands out as a perfect moment was not even from the book but particular to Spike Jonez's creation. It's when Max sticks his head into the world Carol has created out of sticks, perfect mountains painted and little clay figurines, and he pours water that rushes towards Max but at the last moment slides around. The quiet, miniature moment was crystalline and beautiful and entirely Jonez's own.
So yeah, thanks Spike Jonez for not stomping on my childhood. And I really mean that.
-Alyssa
So I was a little afraid when I bought my ticket for Where the Wild Things are, even though it's been so long since I read the book that the only sentence I remember is, "LET THE WILD RUMPUS BEGIN," and to be honest I remembered it because it was a Facebook bumper sticker.
When the music by Karen O began, however, and Max began to dig around in the snow nostalgia was stirred up in me. When he slid belly-first into the ice cave, immersed in a private blue-glowing world, I thought, yeah, this is childhood.
And for all of its plot problems-none of the Wild Thing's problems reaching any kind of denouement being the major one-that is the movie's greatest quality. The high-energy music and the creation of a richly unique world brought me back to a time in my life when imagination was for its own pure creative enjoyment, and not something to marketed.
The scene that stands out as a perfect moment was not even from the book but particular to Spike Jonez's creation. It's when Max sticks his head into the world Carol has created out of sticks, perfect mountains painted and little clay figurines, and he pours water that rushes towards Max but at the last moment slides around. The quiet, miniature moment was crystalline and beautiful and entirely Jonez's own.
So yeah, thanks Spike Jonez for not stomping on my childhood. And I really mean that.
-Alyssa
24 August 2009
fifteen books in fifteen minutes
I took this from ruth_the_sleuth.livejournal.com
Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen books you've read that will always stick with you. They don't have to be the greatest books you've ever read, just the ones that stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes.
Copy these instructions and tag your friends - because I'm interested in seeing what books are in your head.
1. The Writing Life by Annie Dillard
2. On Beauty by Zadie Smith
3. On the Road by Jack Kerouac
4. The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway
5. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
6. Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid by Bill Bryson
7. Watership Down
8. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (just saw part of the movie)
9. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
10. Tropic of Capricorn by Henry Miller
11. The Diaries of Anais Nin
12. Orlando by Virginia Woolf
13. A sentimental Education by Gustave Flaubert
14. The first Animorphs book (did those have titles?)
15. Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon.
A lot of these I've read recently or just enjoyed a great deal.
I tag anyone who happens to be reading this. Post it in the comments. I want to know.
-Alyssa
Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen books you've read that will always stick with you. They don't have to be the greatest books you've ever read, just the ones that stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes.
Copy these instructions and tag your friends - because I'm interested in seeing what books are in your head.
1. The Writing Life by Annie Dillard
2. On Beauty by Zadie Smith
3. On the Road by Jack Kerouac
4. The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway
5. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
6. Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid by Bill Bryson
7. Watership Down
8. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (just saw part of the movie)
9. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
10. Tropic of Capricorn by Henry Miller
11. The Diaries of Anais Nin
12. Orlando by Virginia Woolf
13. A sentimental Education by Gustave Flaubert
14. The first Animorphs book (did those have titles?)
15. Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon.
A lot of these I've read recently or just enjoyed a great deal.
I tag anyone who happens to be reading this. Post it in the comments. I want to know.
-Alyssa
19 August 2009
Women Hold Up Half The Sky
Not exactly a literary post, but I thought this Times magazine article is definitely something worth advertising.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/23/magazine/23Women-t.html?pagewanted=7&partner=rss&emc=rss&src=ig
I hate it when well-educated girls claim that they hate feminism, because they assume being feminist means being ugly and angry. Part of being a feminist is just being aware.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/23/magazine/23Women-t.html?pagewanted=7&partner=rss&emc=rss&src=ig
I hate it when well-educated girls claim that they hate feminism, because they assume being feminist means being ugly and angry. Part of being a feminist is just being aware.
An Epistolary Post
Dear Blogland,
I am once again preparing to move vast distances in order to finish up my extremely expensive and possibly useless degree. I'm leaving behind a few friends scattered in the West and a few who have temporarily defected to Asia. Now, I've got to figure out how I'm going to stay in touch with all of these people.
No one likes finding out important personal information about a close friend through Facebook. Facebook puts your best friend on about the same importance scale as that random chick who friended your entire class during New Student Orientation. It's insulting, and depressing, but it's also so damn easy, which is why people just change their relationship status instead of picking up a phone and saying, "By the way, I'm getting hitched."
The problem is that I hate my cell phone. It's heavy and gets too hot and I can hear my own strange laugh in it. Deep down, I'm also afraid it's going to give me brain cancer. I also have a problem with emails, mostly that I never write them. In the deluge of mass list-serve messages and emails from professors I always forget to reply to anything that isn't urgent.
The one form of long-distance communication I love but am also bad at are letters. Also postcards, but I am so bad at sending those that I've been known to step off the plane and hand my friends the postcards, written out months ago, that I'd meant to send them.
I have a distinctive memory of one letter I received, which is more than I can say for any message or email. I was a freshman in the middle of my first semester. I came back from class exhausted and went to check my mail if only to delay when I had to go back up to my room and see my roommate, a slim girl who drank yogurt smoothies for meals and told me that, "everything bothered" her.
In the mail slot was a clutter of junk mail and letters for former occupants that I just let sit there. That day, however, a new letter had been slipped in the little aluminum slot. I opened the little door and found that the letter was from a friend from high school. When I turned the envelope around, I was greeted by a cartoon drawing of ghosts chasing a dragon across mountains, with little speech bubbles that said, "RAWR RAWR."
Just the drawing on the letter eclipsed all the dull tired crapiness of the day and is one of my favorite memories of that friendship. I took one small step towards being a happier person because of that letter.
Everyone likes mail, except probably mailmen. Maybe it's not the most "green" thing ever, but I'm slowly filling my address book and gathering together my freedom Liberty Bell stamps. I have some elephant stationary a friend gave me and some nice ink pens, good for drawing ghost cartoons. I'm ready for the new school year.
Sincerely,
Alyssa
I am once again preparing to move vast distances in order to finish up my extremely expensive and possibly useless degree. I'm leaving behind a few friends scattered in the West and a few who have temporarily defected to Asia. Now, I've got to figure out how I'm going to stay in touch with all of these people.
No one likes finding out important personal information about a close friend through Facebook. Facebook puts your best friend on about the same importance scale as that random chick who friended your entire class during New Student Orientation. It's insulting, and depressing, but it's also so damn easy, which is why people just change their relationship status instead of picking up a phone and saying, "By the way, I'm getting hitched."
The problem is that I hate my cell phone. It's heavy and gets too hot and I can hear my own strange laugh in it. Deep down, I'm also afraid it's going to give me brain cancer. I also have a problem with emails, mostly that I never write them. In the deluge of mass list-serve messages and emails from professors I always forget to reply to anything that isn't urgent.
The one form of long-distance communication I love but am also bad at are letters. Also postcards, but I am so bad at sending those that I've been known to step off the plane and hand my friends the postcards, written out months ago, that I'd meant to send them.
I have a distinctive memory of one letter I received, which is more than I can say for any message or email. I was a freshman in the middle of my first semester. I came back from class exhausted and went to check my mail if only to delay when I had to go back up to my room and see my roommate, a slim girl who drank yogurt smoothies for meals and told me that, "everything bothered" her.
In the mail slot was a clutter of junk mail and letters for former occupants that I just let sit there. That day, however, a new letter had been slipped in the little aluminum slot. I opened the little door and found that the letter was from a friend from high school. When I turned the envelope around, I was greeted by a cartoon drawing of ghosts chasing a dragon across mountains, with little speech bubbles that said, "RAWR RAWR."
Just the drawing on the letter eclipsed all the dull tired crapiness of the day and is one of my favorite memories of that friendship. I took one small step towards being a happier person because of that letter.
Everyone likes mail, except probably mailmen. Maybe it's not the most "green" thing ever, but I'm slowly filling my address book and gathering together my freedom Liberty Bell stamps. I have some elephant stationary a friend gave me and some nice ink pens, good for drawing ghost cartoons. I'm ready for the new school year.
Sincerely,
Alyssa
15 August 2009
Some Good Recession Reading
My friend loaned me Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell because I've recently returned from London. She thought the book was completely autobiographical and, knowing my writerly ambitions, said, "Good luck," as she handed it to me. I'm familiar with the grimness of Orwell-the monolithic library in London where I wrote my finals papers was the inspiration for the Ministry of Truth-but for some reason I still assumed the novel would be some glamorized version of poverty, with brilliant Lost Generation-like characters who were completely broke but still managed to get a drink at any time.
I was completely wrong, of course. The book is beautifully written but made me feel dismal, which works because I feel like real literature should make you feel something and dismal tends to be the emotion of choice.
The book starts out with the narrator living in Paris and down to his last few hundred francs, and details the hell of pawnshops and seventeen hour workdays in restaurants (which, by the way, made me never want to eat at a restaurant again). When his job back in England is delayed, he begins tramping, which vaguely reminded me of my youth hostel days.
I'm not sure whether I entirely agree with Orwell's beliefs, but the book does make you rethink the way poverty works. I also now have a greater appreciation of food. And Orwell shows characters with an unshakable optimism and ability to stagger through a difficult life. My favorite was Bozo, the sidewalk artist who knew all the names of the stars. He gives the narrator a lovely speech, particular for the reader in a recession, about how you may have no money but if you have your humanity you can still be happy.
So yeah, not my favorite book, but something to definitely check out. Just make sure you have a fridge full for groceries first.
-Alyssa
I was completely wrong, of course. The book is beautifully written but made me feel dismal, which works because I feel like real literature should make you feel something and dismal tends to be the emotion of choice.
The book starts out with the narrator living in Paris and down to his last few hundred francs, and details the hell of pawnshops and seventeen hour workdays in restaurants (which, by the way, made me never want to eat at a restaurant again). When his job back in England is delayed, he begins tramping, which vaguely reminded me of my youth hostel days.
I'm not sure whether I entirely agree with Orwell's beliefs, but the book does make you rethink the way poverty works. I also now have a greater appreciation of food. And Orwell shows characters with an unshakable optimism and ability to stagger through a difficult life. My favorite was Bozo, the sidewalk artist who knew all the names of the stars. He gives the narrator a lovely speech, particular for the reader in a recession, about how you may have no money but if you have your humanity you can still be happy.
So yeah, not my favorite book, but something to definitely check out. Just make sure you have a fridge full for groceries first.
-Alyssa
13 August 2009
An introduction to a Surprised Blogger
I originally typed up an entry about the beauty of blogs and the enrichment of Print, but then I realized how incredibly boring it was. I'm not sure if what I'm going to write instead will be any more interesting, but I'll certainly try.
I never thought I would be a blogger. I'm one of the vaguely hipster-ish people wandering around your college campus in clothes bought from Goodwill, the kind who owns a record player not because it is useful but but basically because it is old. My bicycle is vintage and weighs twenty pounds, and I work in a library with huge dusty tomes from the fifteen hundreds. I've spent most of my life around old, heavingly physical things, the exact opposite of what a blog is.
But we must move forward, and I think literature is adapting quite well to this new digital age. Hopefully I will adapt as well. There is a sense in budding writers of my generation that if we don't somehow adapt to the internet, we will all go the way of the wooly mammoth.
And so here I am, your new literary blogger, a title that may make some old-fashioned tweed wearing professors reel. I'm still trying to figure out exactly what that title means, and hopefully I will be at least mildly entertaining and informative along the way.
-Alyssa
I never thought I would be a blogger. I'm one of the vaguely hipster-ish people wandering around your college campus in clothes bought from Goodwill, the kind who owns a record player not because it is useful but but basically because it is old. My bicycle is vintage and weighs twenty pounds, and I work in a library with huge dusty tomes from the fifteen hundreds. I've spent most of my life around old, heavingly physical things, the exact opposite of what a blog is.
But we must move forward, and I think literature is adapting quite well to this new digital age. Hopefully I will adapt as well. There is a sense in budding writers of my generation that if we don't somehow adapt to the internet, we will all go the way of the wooly mammoth.
And so here I am, your new literary blogger, a title that may make some old-fashioned tweed wearing professors reel. I'm still trying to figure out exactly what that title means, and hopefully I will be at least mildly entertaining and informative along the way.
-Alyssa
06 May 2009
Musings on my vision for Cavalier
I want the brand to reflect a precocious, child-like sensibility. There should be an aspect of fantasy to it, wish-fulfillment: "Yes, we really are going to do that. We really are going to go there." When you talk to children, they often make outrageous plans, extend logic too far, and proliferate out of sheer momentum (ask a child to describe his/her vision of the perfect ski resort, vacation destination, amusement park, and you'll get something that doesn't quite make sense in places). I want Cavalier to be a grown up version of this exuberant envisioning. It should almost not make sense. A little stretched and strained in places (so that it's as if we're begging the question, "how far can a literary mag go? can it be a whole world?") and yet, polished in every respect. Child-like in ambition but adult in execution.
So please write to me. Tell me what you've always dreamed a lit mag might accomplish (oh I know, you're wondering why I chose to start a lit mag as opposed to some other business like a cafe or a boutique; what better venue for fantasy and adventure than creative writing, which for me is synonymous with those words; there is simply nothing more inherently FUN; certain writers manage to articulate the world in such truthful terms it feels inappropriate and illegitimate to be so deadly accurate; it becomes emotionally erotic to read, a real adventure, whether or not the work at hand actually concerns the subject of adventure).
Or write to me and just tell me something you wish existed in the world. A product, a service, a place, a community. At the very least, I will write back.
A word about our editorial tastes: yes, we love stories and poems that fit the aesthetic of our site snugly but we're looking for pieces that don't, as well. That jaggedness is important to us. So yes, stories and poems about hunting and fishing told in spare minimalist prose could definitely win us over.
So please write to me. Tell me what you've always dreamed a lit mag might accomplish (oh I know, you're wondering why I chose to start a lit mag as opposed to some other business like a cafe or a boutique; what better venue for fantasy and adventure than creative writing, which for me is synonymous with those words; there is simply nothing more inherently FUN; certain writers manage to articulate the world in such truthful terms it feels inappropriate and illegitimate to be so deadly accurate; it becomes emotionally erotic to read, a real adventure, whether or not the work at hand actually concerns the subject of adventure).
Or write to me and just tell me something you wish existed in the world. A product, a service, a place, a community. At the very least, I will write back.
A word about our editorial tastes: yes, we love stories and poems that fit the aesthetic of our site snugly but we're looking for pieces that don't, as well. That jaggedness is important to us. So yes, stories and poems about hunting and fishing told in spare minimalist prose could definitely win us over.
05 May 2009
What we can learn from hedge funds
I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I'm moved by the rhetoric on the websites of Bridgewater and D.E Shaw, two hedge funds which are known for their all-around excellence and meritocracy. Bridgewater has a culture which encourages openness, fierce quantitative talent, constant improvement, criticism of superiors, and lack of hierarchy. D.E Shaw actively seeks top performers across fields: artists, scientists, scholars, etc. People you wouldn't typically associate with a financial institution. There is an openness in the hiring procedures, a belief that ability transcends category, that true creativity is not at odds with capitalism. Also, there is supposedly not the sort of bias against young people you find at most corporate places ("let the kids do the bitchwork and move up one inch at a time until they're so bitter at the top, it makes them happy to abuse their inferiors"). They probably hire more MFA graduates than publishing houses do (well maybe). I don't want to be anecdotal, but I just don't see that sort of organizational intelligence and flexibility at publishing houses. They seem in contrast hierarchical, old-fashioned, and rigid. I'm surprised they haven't learned to anticipate most of the major stumbling blocks and trends the industry has faced lately. They should have seen it all coming a decade ago. Blogs, self-publishing, Amazon, longtail, e-reader, etc. It must be someone's job to anticipate. I've been thinking a lot about brands--image and brand loyalty lately. Even though I don't work at the funds mentioned above and have little or nothing to do with them, I somehow feel loyal to their visions.
I don't know how possible this is , but I want to run CAVALIER with a little of that spirit. We already have some great unpaid interns from Dartmouth working for us, but my big dream is to employ some college kids and actually pay them decent money. So that there are no compromises, no sacrifices involved in working for my organization. Great paycheck, great company, great product, great values. A place where everything is perfectly aligned. No matter how big we ever get (and believe me, it will grow by the time I'm through), we're never going to have a slush pile we don't read. And we'll never just resort to publishing famous people because we don't have the energy to go through submissions (I will make it a point to discover emerging writers). There simply won't be any laziness. And when I hire these paid interns, it will be very meritocratic. No nepotism. Connections won't sway me. I will actually go through every single resume and pick the smartest, most passionate and hardworking person. And like the above-mentioned firms, I will aggressively seek out the best people to join my team.
And prizes/contests. Need to do something about that. Definitely need to reinvent how that is handled. Just think it's a wasteful enterprise. I hate the winner-take-all mentality (and this is not sour grapes; even when I do win something, it strikes me as arbitrary). So one person gets $2000 and everyone else, nothing. Because some judge decided he liked it (and probably for some very subjective reason). What does this accomplish?
I'm blessed to be working with my current group. I deliberately assembled a board composed of people with diverse interests (but a unifying commitment to literary art) because I knew the jaggedness and fresh insight would be productive. My only criteria was the following: 1) excellence in some chosen field 2) interest in literary fiction or poetry.
I don't know how possible this is , but I want to run CAVALIER with a little of that spirit. We already have some great unpaid interns from Dartmouth working for us, but my big dream is to employ some college kids and actually pay them decent money. So that there are no compromises, no sacrifices involved in working for my organization. Great paycheck, great company, great product, great values. A place where everything is perfectly aligned. No matter how big we ever get (and believe me, it will grow by the time I'm through), we're never going to have a slush pile we don't read. And we'll never just resort to publishing famous people because we don't have the energy to go through submissions (I will make it a point to discover emerging writers). There simply won't be any laziness. And when I hire these paid interns, it will be very meritocratic. No nepotism. Connections won't sway me. I will actually go through every single resume and pick the smartest, most passionate and hardworking person. And like the above-mentioned firms, I will aggressively seek out the best people to join my team.
And prizes/contests. Need to do something about that. Definitely need to reinvent how that is handled. Just think it's a wasteful enterprise. I hate the winner-take-all mentality (and this is not sour grapes; even when I do win something, it strikes me as arbitrary). So one person gets $2000 and everyone else, nothing. Because some judge decided he liked it (and probably for some very subjective reason). What does this accomplish?
I'm blessed to be working with my current group. I deliberately assembled a board composed of people with diverse interests (but a unifying commitment to literary art) because I knew the jaggedness and fresh insight would be productive. My only criteria was the following: 1) excellence in some chosen field 2) interest in literary fiction or poetry.
Recession
The recession is a blessing in some ways. It has collapsed boundaries, encouraged risk-taking and entrepreneurship, and toughened us so that we will operate with superb efficiency once this is over. Bootstrapping is great because it ensures a nice return on investment. Running a business is so "artistic" in a sense; so much of it is about execution, "craftsmanship," the small things. Everyone has great ideas; very few have the drive to follow through on them. I've run a number of small operations in the past, and I use the same mentality I use for creative writing, whether I'm checking for glitches on the site, organizing documents, preparing correspondences, running around the city with countless errands: "This is it. This is what it means to run a business. If you don't enjoy this, you're a fake. One of those people who talks a lot and never gets anything done." So intense is my fear of becoming one of those people I'm incapable of procrastination (to my detriment at times). And this is what I think when the going gets tough with writing: "This is it. This is what it means to be a writer. If you can't handle it, you're one of those people who only loves the idea of things and not the work itself. And above all, you believe in work."
Work. Muscle. Density. There is nothing I love more than a sense of productivity. That a day has passed and left behind a lasting product of some sort.
I am grateful for everyone who resonates with me on this note. People who are swift, polite, and hardworking. This project has given me a new found appreciation for technicians, plumbers, fixers, and factotums of every variety. There is just something to be said for people who do their job well. Impossible to function without their efforts.
Some will argue with this, too, but art is usually a compressed version of life. I won't try to define it here, but I think I can come close by saying it involves a concentration, a process of taking out, whittling away. All the old paradoxes are at work: limitations strengthen the creativity muscle, discipline brings freedom. The less cash I have, the more I am forced to make each dollar mean something.
In some ways, I am glad certain opportunities did not work out for me and that I am thrown off the old track.
Work. Muscle. Density. There is nothing I love more than a sense of productivity. That a day has passed and left behind a lasting product of some sort.
I am grateful for everyone who resonates with me on this note. People who are swift, polite, and hardworking. This project has given me a new found appreciation for technicians, plumbers, fixers, and factotums of every variety. There is just something to be said for people who do their job well. Impossible to function without their efforts.
Some will argue with this, too, but art is usually a compressed version of life. I won't try to define it here, but I think I can come close by saying it involves a concentration, a process of taking out, whittling away. All the old paradoxes are at work: limitations strengthen the creativity muscle, discipline brings freedom. The less cash I have, the more I am forced to make each dollar mean something.
In some ways, I am glad certain opportunities did not work out for me and that I am thrown off the old track.
Decisions
This goes for books as well as for movies: there seems to be a real lack of scientific basis behind the decisions that go into which books are published (and which movies are produced). I read an article in the New York Times (maybe it was a year ago) describing all the major flops in the book publishing industry. Books with advances of 600k or 700k that for some reason didn't sell. I get the sense that people in charge are so focused on replicating successes of the past ("The Horse Whisperer did well? Oh, let's publish 10 more books about horses!") they don't realize that sometimes the products which perform well are successful in their strangeness and idiosyncrasy, something very particular about the execution itself. People in charge make conservative, sloppy (short-sighted and fear-driven) decisions that don't reflect good business acumen OR a commitment to art and quality. I doubt extensive polls or comprehensive data are used and who knows if the conversation producing these decisions is primarily anecdotal and intuition/emotion driven--or if there is really a substantial discussion concerning the style and form of the work at hand. Capitalistic greed I can understand. Purity and idealism I can understand, too. But something vague, lukewarm, and murky in the middle I can't.
A lesson from the parents
Last night I re-read a chapter from one of my favorite writer's bibles, On Becoming A Novelist by John Gardner. Gardner discusses the various day occupations that are suitable for a literary writer. Office work is draining. Journalism "may undermine the writer's prose and sensibility." High-school teaching is "draining" and burdensome, the responsibility too great. Teaching at the college workshop level, he writes, has become very popular but will make the serious writer strive to out-do his students with academic showiness and artiness. The teacher/writer may also ruin his own creativity with the kind of over-analysis and explanation that teaching often entails (and even then there aren't many of these opportunities, considering the hundreds of writers MFA programs pump out every year and the number of teaching slots available). The Guggenheim and the NEA might work, but this is only for writers of a certain level, and the judging process might be unfair. Finally, marriage or long-term commitment to a wealthy significant other is an option, but the writer in this case should be careful to find someone he/she respects and desires (as this sort of prostitution might chip away at his self-respect and affect the quality of his prose)... What I find interesting about all this is that it makes writing (and the urge to write) out to be some fragile thing which one must approach delicately, almost with superstition, as if inspiration will fly away at the slightest hint of... gasp... high school--over-analysis--college workshops!--unfairness--responsibility--office work--sex-with-someone-you-don't-respect (that last part was meant to be funny). Not that I encourage people to prostitute themselves in the name of art, but responsibility and draining work are a reality for most. Most people have never known a perfect cohesion of passion, work, and cash flow. Why should writers have it any better, especially since so many refuse to engage with the economic side of art and shy away from the business of promotion (so let me get this straight: you expect to sit in the wilderness and crank out poems and stories and magically, thousands of people should be interested in this and spend their hard-earned cash on your work when a million other things are vying for their attention?). People will disagree with me, of course, but I think writers need to be tougher about this work business. If it's real, the impulse to write should survive no matter what. And I think this toughness, this engagement with life as it really is is good for a writer's sensibility. I think that working writers (writers who have jobs across industries, not just academia) and writers who have worked (some undoubtedly no longer need to) will naturally infuse their writing with energies that engage other working people. And this should help make the literary world less stale and incestuous.
04 May 2009
Directing Process Class
Here are my thoughts in some preliminary, undigested form.
Several years ago, I enrolled in a very intense, upper-level undergraduate directing class. Every class, we were responsible for presenting a one-act play to the other students. Frequently, the "plays" were compressed versions of classics like Our Town, Suddenly Last Summer, Desire Under the Elms, Spring Awakening, etc. Sometimes they were staged versions of poems. I always found these presentations immensely riveting, stripped down and bare and hastily prepared as they were. And I think everyone else did, too. I remember being shocked by the intensity of my own engagement (wondering why I often spent $12 at the movie theater watching stupid blockbuster movies which cost millions to produce when I already had perfectly thrilling FREE entertainment from my own classmates every other afternoon). So my question is this: is there some way to package and distribute those student performances... locally at least, so that anyone might enjoy them on a Friday or Saturday night at a local theater? (We already have YouTube which has made film a very democratic experience.) All you need is a surface on which to project.
I'm sure there is a good reason for why this hasn't happened yet... but let's take a look at the situation. 1) what I hear from most young people is that they hate their jobs, wish they were doing something creative, miss the good old days when they used to act or paint or dance 2) almost everyone I know has had the experience of going to rent a movie or checking in at the RedBox (that DVD renting machine) at Price Chopper or whatever and not finding a single good movie to watch. 3) it is supposedly very hard to "make it" in the arts.
Assessing the situation on an intuitive level, I feel like we have plenty plenty plenty of talent in this country (how many aspiring artists will basically kill themselves for free just to get exposure, just to be read or watched by a few hundred people?), cheap means of distribution (technology has made it so), and an audience which deserves niche offerings designed for very specific tastes. There is so much artistic talent in this country, it seems a waste I should spend an ounce of energy watching Meet the Spartans for the 3rd time just because it's readily available. In short, we should make other things readily available, too.
In MFA programs, we train hundreds and hundreds of artists. But we devote so little energy to training managers of the arts, cultivating entrepreneurial urges within student artists, and thinking critically about the economics of art (whenever I talked about starting this or that initiative in my program, the dominant response I got was "just shut up and write; that's what you're here for"; true, of course, but I found after a certain point that I just didn't want to devote all my energy to a world that didn't regulate itself, run itself independently, that relied so heavily on its ties to academia and the charity of rich people, on private donations). At a point, it became ludicrous to go on in the old way.
People assume they aren't powerful, well-connected, or rich enough to execute their visions. A few decades ago, this might have been true, but technology has changed everything. Bottom line: content is cheap, distribution easy. Tastes can be made, needs created. Today there are no excuses.
Several years ago, I enrolled in a very intense, upper-level undergraduate directing class. Every class, we were responsible for presenting a one-act play to the other students. Frequently, the "plays" were compressed versions of classics like Our Town, Suddenly Last Summer, Desire Under the Elms, Spring Awakening, etc. Sometimes they were staged versions of poems. I always found these presentations immensely riveting, stripped down and bare and hastily prepared as they were. And I think everyone else did, too. I remember being shocked by the intensity of my own engagement (wondering why I often spent $12 at the movie theater watching stupid blockbuster movies which cost millions to produce when I already had perfectly thrilling FREE entertainment from my own classmates every other afternoon). So my question is this: is there some way to package and distribute those student performances... locally at least, so that anyone might enjoy them on a Friday or Saturday night at a local theater? (We already have YouTube which has made film a very democratic experience.) All you need is a surface on which to project.
I'm sure there is a good reason for why this hasn't happened yet... but let's take a look at the situation. 1) what I hear from most young people is that they hate their jobs, wish they were doing something creative, miss the good old days when they used to act or paint or dance 2) almost everyone I know has had the experience of going to rent a movie or checking in at the RedBox (that DVD renting machine) at Price Chopper or whatever and not finding a single good movie to watch. 3) it is supposedly very hard to "make it" in the arts.
Assessing the situation on an intuitive level, I feel like we have plenty plenty plenty of talent in this country (how many aspiring artists will basically kill themselves for free just to get exposure, just to be read or watched by a few hundred people?), cheap means of distribution (technology has made it so), and an audience which deserves niche offerings designed for very specific tastes. There is so much artistic talent in this country, it seems a waste I should spend an ounce of energy watching Meet the Spartans for the 3rd time just because it's readily available. In short, we should make other things readily available, too.
In MFA programs, we train hundreds and hundreds of artists. But we devote so little energy to training managers of the arts, cultivating entrepreneurial urges within student artists, and thinking critically about the economics of art (whenever I talked about starting this or that initiative in my program, the dominant response I got was "just shut up and write; that's what you're here for"; true, of course, but I found after a certain point that I just didn't want to devote all my energy to a world that didn't regulate itself, run itself independently, that relied so heavily on its ties to academia and the charity of rich people, on private donations). At a point, it became ludicrous to go on in the old way.
People assume they aren't powerful, well-connected, or rich enough to execute their visions. A few decades ago, this might have been true, but technology has changed everything. Bottom line: content is cheap, distribution easy. Tastes can be made, needs created. Today there are no excuses.
02 April 2009
Quotes that resonate with us
Quotes that resonate with us:
"Love is the bridge that leads from the I sense to the We, and there is a paradox about personal love. Love of another individual opens a new relation between the personality and the world. Love is affirmation; it motivates the yes responses and the sense of wider communication. Love casts out fear, and in the security of this togetherness we find contentment, courage. We no longer fear the age-old haunting questions: "Who am I?" "Why am I?" "Where am I going?"--and having cast out fear, we can be honest and charitable."
-Carson McCullers
"“You’ll get over it…” It’s the clichés that cause the trouble. To lose someone you love is to alter your life for ever. You don’t get over it because ‘it” is the person you loved. The pain stops, there are new people, but the gap never loses. How could it? The particularness of someone who mattered enough to grieve over is not made anodyne by death. This hole in my heart is in the shape of you and no-one else can fit it. Why would I want them to? "
-Jeanette Winterson
“I detest and despise success, yet I cannot do without it. I am like a drug addict if nobody talks about me for a couple of months I have withdrawal symptoms. It is stupid to be hooked on fame, because it is like being hooked on corpses. After all, the people who come to see my plays, who create my fame, are going to die. But you can stay in society and be alone, as long as you can be detached from the world. This is why I don’t think I have ever gone for the easy option or done things that were expected of me. I have the vanity to think that every play I have written is different from the previous ones."
-Eugene Ionesco
“Barthes construes writing as an ideally complex form of consciousness: a way of being both passive and active, social and asocial, present and absent in one’s own life.”
-Susan Sontag on Roland Barthes
"Love is the bridge that leads from the I sense to the We, and there is a paradox about personal love. Love of another individual opens a new relation between the personality and the world. Love is affirmation; it motivates the yes responses and the sense of wider communication. Love casts out fear, and in the security of this togetherness we find contentment, courage. We no longer fear the age-old haunting questions: "Who am I?" "Why am I?" "Where am I going?"--and having cast out fear, we can be honest and charitable."
-Carson McCullers
"“You’ll get over it…” It’s the clichés that cause the trouble. To lose someone you love is to alter your life for ever. You don’t get over it because ‘it” is the person you loved. The pain stops, there are new people, but the gap never loses. How could it? The particularness of someone who mattered enough to grieve over is not made anodyne by death. This hole in my heart is in the shape of you and no-one else can fit it. Why would I want them to? "
-Jeanette Winterson
“I detest and despise success, yet I cannot do without it. I am like a drug addict if nobody talks about me for a couple of months I have withdrawal symptoms. It is stupid to be hooked on fame, because it is like being hooked on corpses. After all, the people who come to see my plays, who create my fame, are going to die. But you can stay in society and be alone, as long as you can be detached from the world. This is why I don’t think I have ever gone for the easy option or done things that were expected of me. I have the vanity to think that every play I have written is different from the previous ones."
-Eugene Ionesco
“Barthes construes writing as an ideally complex form of consciousness: a way of being both passive and active, social and asocial, present and absent in one’s own life.”
-Susan Sontag on Roland Barthes
23 March 2009
Welcome
Dana Gioia, MFA Programs, and Why I Decided to Start Cavalier
Quotes from “Can Poetry Matter?” by Dana Gioia originally appeared in the Atlantic Monthly, 1991:
“AMERICAN POETRY now belongs to a subculture. No longer part of the mainstream of artistic and intellectual life, it has become the specialized occupation of a relatively small and isolated group.”
“What makes the situation of contemporary poets particularly surprising is that it comes at a moment of unprecedented expansion for the art. There have never before been so many new books of poetry published, so many anthologies or literary magazines.”
“But the poetry boom has been a distressingly confined phenomenon. Decades of public and private funding have created a large professional class for the production and reception of new poetry comprising legions of teachers, graduate students, editors, publishers, and administrators. Based mostly in universities, these groups have gradually become the primary audience for contemporary verse. Consequently, the energy of American poetry, which was once directed outward, is now increasingly focused inward.”
“Moreover, the engines that have driven poetry's institutional success--the explosion of academic writing programs, the proliferation of subsidized magazines and presses, the emergence of a creative-writing career track, and the migration of American literary culture to the university--have unwittingly contributed to its disappearance from public view.”
“The established rituals of the poetry world--the readings, small magazines, workshops, and conferences--exhibit a surprising number of self-imposed limitations. Why, for example, does poetry mix so seldom with music, dance, or theater?”
“The history of art tells the same story over and over. As art forms develop, they establish conventions that guide creation, performance, instruction, even analysis. But eventually these conventions grow stale. They begin to stand between the art and its audience.”
“It is time to experiment, time to leave the well-ordered but stuffy classroom, time to restore a vulgar vitality to poetry and unleash the energy now trapped in the subculture. There is nothing to lose. Society has already told us that poetry is dead. Let's build a funeral pyre out of the dessicated conventions piled around us and watch the ancient, spangle-feathered, unkillable phoenix rise from the ashes.”
I learned early on that I must (if this is going to be a long-term endeavor) care about something as much or more than I care about creative writing—whether it’s a human relationship, a cause, another career. Too many delusions of self-importance or artistic grandeur—self-mythologizing—is counter-productive to the task, which, for me, is to inhabit the minds and bodies of different characters and convey their struggles in vivid, exact terms. As John Gardner once said, a writer shouldn’t suffer from writer’s block any more than a sand-castle-builder suffers from sand-castle-building-block. Why the anxiety? What’s the big deal? Unlike some people who criticize MFA programs for producing same-old, same-old “workshop” stories, I found that it generated a productive state of mind for me. I’m not a rebel, and I’m not anti-establishment in this sense; yes, of course there are downsides to any structured environment and of course there are many great artists who dropped out of school, but I appreciate it for what it is: an imperfect space to read some books, talk about them, work on one's craft, and share it with others who presumably care. It was also a kingdom in itself, a bit like being "at court" (think The Other Boleyn Girl, The Tudors) with the usual mix of ambition, jealousy, rivalry, incest, and intrigue. At arm's length and through a certain lens, a bubbling little laboratory of emotion.
Maybe it was just the simple desire to impress that kicked in and made the endeavor worth it. This is what I told some students at a panel for emerging writers: I think the best mentality for writing is to pretend there’s someone in workshop you have a huge crush on; you want to make him/her fall in love with you. In other words, just a little positive pressure. You want every line to be the best thing he/she has ever read, you’re not thinking of prizes or publications; you just want to be memorable in a humble, person-to-person sense. I like the naturalness of this mindset.
One thing that did bother me about studying creative writing in a formal, academic setting is the way it kind of encouraged me to be depressed, neurotic, suspicious, anti-social, cynical, arbitrary, unmeritocratic, ambivalent, and willfully subjective. All of a sudden, it was bizarre to be social, outgoing, cheerful, balanced, energetic, ambitious, and optimistic--to desire love, success, and community like other people who don't have the luxury of spending 2 years getting paid to obsess over comma placement. Why shouldn’t an MFA program function more like a sports team or a business—like other organizations designed to achieve a goal? (I know the answer, because we can’t decide on a goal, or something like that; seemingly innocuous concepts like "teamwork," "unity," and "agreement" are questionable) But what is the price of this endless self-justification, this childish insistence on intellectualizing weakness and romanticizing neuroses? No wonder MFA programs are known for producing clinically depressed fiction of minor epiphanies. Things are far from perfect out there. There aren’t many opportunities for literary writers—not really, when 3/1500 is the acceptance rate, everything is winner-take-all (in the harshest sense) and most of the educated world doesn’t know what a literary magazine is. There simply isn’t enough money flowing through our stale system. I’m not one of those people who thinks there are too many writers and too many wannabes who need to be cut down harshly—in my dreamland, a career in literary fiction would be entirely feasible with a little work. Just like pursuing law or becoming a real estate agent. Would it really hurt writers to be a bit more entrepreneurial and take responsibility for the survival of their art? To begin with, writers should at least buy books and subscribe to literary magazines and consider volunteering at local high schools to increase adolescent interest in literary fiction and drive up the demand for their art. Here in New York, my friends drop $200 on drinks in a single night and buy bottle service for $480 a night at nightclubs. And yet, it’s tough to sell a $15 book of poetry to the same crowd. I refuse to believe poetry is as inherently undesirable and unpalatable as this comparison would make it seem. Perhaps those people selling bottle service are just better at selling their product? More creative? Not that it should even require this sort of effort--but people out there have evidently found a way to make cigarettes and tobacco "glamorous" and popular... If only we had the same forces behind literary art.
Maybe the problem is that reading is considered "good" for you. Maybe if it weren't so good, people would want more of it.
On the first day of a workshop last year, a professor of mine casually asked the class if we could conceive of coincidence as being an aesthetic strength rather than a weakness in the construction of a story. (We're usually taught that every move must be incremental and inevitable.)
In undergrad, I learned all the traditional, John-Gardner-rules of good fiction. Grad school was about breaking them.
This is where CAVALIER comes in. After awhile I started to ask myself: What’s wrong with happiness and optimism? What’s wrong with perfection? And striving? And unabashed ambition? And teamwork? All the qualities of robustness that are generally admired among non-literary, real people? I think the literary world needs to stop being clinically depressed and insular. I don’t think certain trade-offs and sacrifices are necessary. Why can’t something be fun, playful, serious, sexy, lucrative, artistic, elite, democratic, surreal, real, extraordinary, down-to-earth, communal, social, dangerous, safe, experimental, established, sensual, cerebral, wise, and youthful all at once? Paradise is here, now, or never. Let's call CAVALIER an experiment in optimism.
Quotes from “Can Poetry Matter?” by Dana Gioia originally appeared in the Atlantic Monthly, 1991:
“AMERICAN POETRY now belongs to a subculture. No longer part of the mainstream of artistic and intellectual life, it has become the specialized occupation of a relatively small and isolated group.”
“What makes the situation of contemporary poets particularly surprising is that it comes at a moment of unprecedented expansion for the art. There have never before been so many new books of poetry published, so many anthologies or literary magazines.”
“But the poetry boom has been a distressingly confined phenomenon. Decades of public and private funding have created a large professional class for the production and reception of new poetry comprising legions of teachers, graduate students, editors, publishers, and administrators. Based mostly in universities, these groups have gradually become the primary audience for contemporary verse. Consequently, the energy of American poetry, which was once directed outward, is now increasingly focused inward.”
“Moreover, the engines that have driven poetry's institutional success--the explosion of academic writing programs, the proliferation of subsidized magazines and presses, the emergence of a creative-writing career track, and the migration of American literary culture to the university--have unwittingly contributed to its disappearance from public view.”
“The established rituals of the poetry world--the readings, small magazines, workshops, and conferences--exhibit a surprising number of self-imposed limitations. Why, for example, does poetry mix so seldom with music, dance, or theater?”
“The history of art tells the same story over and over. As art forms develop, they establish conventions that guide creation, performance, instruction, even analysis. But eventually these conventions grow stale. They begin to stand between the art and its audience.”
“It is time to experiment, time to leave the well-ordered but stuffy classroom, time to restore a vulgar vitality to poetry and unleash the energy now trapped in the subculture. There is nothing to lose. Society has already told us that poetry is dead. Let's build a funeral pyre out of the dessicated conventions piled around us and watch the ancient, spangle-feathered, unkillable phoenix rise from the ashes.”
I learned early on that I must (if this is going to be a long-term endeavor) care about something as much or more than I care about creative writing—whether it’s a human relationship, a cause, another career. Too many delusions of self-importance or artistic grandeur—self-mythologizing—is counter-productive to the task, which, for me, is to inhabit the minds and bodies of different characters and convey their struggles in vivid, exact terms. As John Gardner once said, a writer shouldn’t suffer from writer’s block any more than a sand-castle-builder suffers from sand-castle-building-block. Why the anxiety? What’s the big deal? Unlike some people who criticize MFA programs for producing same-old, same-old “workshop” stories, I found that it generated a productive state of mind for me. I’m not a rebel, and I’m not anti-establishment in this sense; yes, of course there are downsides to any structured environment and of course there are many great artists who dropped out of school, but I appreciate it for what it is: an imperfect space to read some books, talk about them, work on one's craft, and share it with others who presumably care. It was also a kingdom in itself, a bit like being "at court" (think The Other Boleyn Girl, The Tudors) with the usual mix of ambition, jealousy, rivalry, incest, and intrigue. At arm's length and through a certain lens, a bubbling little laboratory of emotion.
Maybe it was just the simple desire to impress that kicked in and made the endeavor worth it. This is what I told some students at a panel for emerging writers: I think the best mentality for writing is to pretend there’s someone in workshop you have a huge crush on; you want to make him/her fall in love with you. In other words, just a little positive pressure. You want every line to be the best thing he/she has ever read, you’re not thinking of prizes or publications; you just want to be memorable in a humble, person-to-person sense. I like the naturalness of this mindset.
One thing that did bother me about studying creative writing in a formal, academic setting is the way it kind of encouraged me to be depressed, neurotic, suspicious, anti-social, cynical, arbitrary, unmeritocratic, ambivalent, and willfully subjective. All of a sudden, it was bizarre to be social, outgoing, cheerful, balanced, energetic, ambitious, and optimistic--to desire love, success, and community like other people who don't have the luxury of spending 2 years getting paid to obsess over comma placement. Why shouldn’t an MFA program function more like a sports team or a business—like other organizations designed to achieve a goal? (I know the answer, because we can’t decide on a goal, or something like that; seemingly innocuous concepts like "teamwork," "unity," and "agreement" are questionable) But what is the price of this endless self-justification, this childish insistence on intellectualizing weakness and romanticizing neuroses? No wonder MFA programs are known for producing clinically depressed fiction of minor epiphanies. Things are far from perfect out there. There aren’t many opportunities for literary writers—not really, when 3/1500 is the acceptance rate, everything is winner-take-all (in the harshest sense) and most of the educated world doesn’t know what a literary magazine is. There simply isn’t enough money flowing through our stale system. I’m not one of those people who thinks there are too many writers and too many wannabes who need to be cut down harshly—in my dreamland, a career in literary fiction would be entirely feasible with a little work. Just like pursuing law or becoming a real estate agent. Would it really hurt writers to be a bit more entrepreneurial and take responsibility for the survival of their art? To begin with, writers should at least buy books and subscribe to literary magazines and consider volunteering at local high schools to increase adolescent interest in literary fiction and drive up the demand for their art. Here in New York, my friends drop $200 on drinks in a single night and buy bottle service for $480 a night at nightclubs. And yet, it’s tough to sell a $15 book of poetry to the same crowd. I refuse to believe poetry is as inherently undesirable and unpalatable as this comparison would make it seem. Perhaps those people selling bottle service are just better at selling their product? More creative? Not that it should even require this sort of effort--but people out there have evidently found a way to make cigarettes and tobacco "glamorous" and popular... If only we had the same forces behind literary art.
Maybe the problem is that reading is considered "good" for you. Maybe if it weren't so good, people would want more of it.
On the first day of a workshop last year, a professor of mine casually asked the class if we could conceive of coincidence as being an aesthetic strength rather than a weakness in the construction of a story. (We're usually taught that every move must be incremental and inevitable.)
In undergrad, I learned all the traditional, John-Gardner-rules of good fiction. Grad school was about breaking them.
This is where CAVALIER comes in. After awhile I started to ask myself: What’s wrong with happiness and optimism? What’s wrong with perfection? And striving? And unabashed ambition? And teamwork? All the qualities of robustness that are generally admired among non-literary, real people? I think the literary world needs to stop being clinically depressed and insular. I don’t think certain trade-offs and sacrifices are necessary. Why can’t something be fun, playful, serious, sexy, lucrative, artistic, elite, democratic, surreal, real, extraordinary, down-to-earth, communal, social, dangerous, safe, experimental, established, sensual, cerebral, wise, and youthful all at once? Paradise is here, now, or never. Let's call CAVALIER an experiment in optimism.
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