May 16th means something else too: we’re only two weeks away from the start of Camp NaNoWriMo!  Another thirty days of marathon writing.  That’s exactly how I plan to celebrate my fancy pants terminal degree.

If you thought that November was your only chance to participate in the internet camaraderie of trying to write 50,000 words in one month…well, you were wrong. They call Camp NaNoWriMo “an idyllic writers retreat, smack-dab in the middle of your crazy life,” and you can choose to do it in June or August. (Or both!) In August I’ll be busy teaching, so I’m only going to do the June event.

Of course, you can choose to do your own 30-day novel marathon during any other time, but like anything else, the camaraderie and cheerleading that you get from doing it at the same time as the rest of the internet world makes it that much more fun and, I think, that much more successful.

So now: I challenge you to participate in Camp NaNoWriMo with me.  You saw that coming.  Or maybe you didn’t.  Regardless, the question is: are you up for the task?  The question is not can you or can’t you.  It’s will you.  Will you dedicate yourself to writing 50,000 words (or more)?  I don’t care if it’s the start of one novel, or chunks from two novellas, or seven short stories.  The point is to generate the content.  As James Thurber said, ”Don’t get it right, just get it written.”

The past several weeks have been crazy, so I haven’t done anything yet to prep for the occasion, but I’m about to start. I’ll be collecting writing exercises to help give me fuel and inspiration—maybe I’ll share some of them here.  As for the question of what I will be working on?  Well, I haven’t quite decided yet.  I’ll tell you in my next post.

He did things that made it seem like he could read our minds perfectly, though we began to understand that it was really the subtle art of persuasion. Somehow he was able to direct our thoughts, to give us cues, to make us think what he wanted us to think, and to make us believe that we arrived at those decisions completely on our own, with absolute freedom of thought.

He asked someone to think of a card, to just picture it in her mind, and then to think of a number from one to ten. He stepped away from the cards. My classmate told us she had chosen the number eight. Another volunteer spread the deck out and counted out eight cards from the end. My classmate told us the card she’d thought of: six of spades. The other volunteer flipped over the eighth card, and there it was, the six of spades. That was the first trick he did. He did so many tricks I lost count.

Perhaps the most memorable trick: he asked one girl to think of a very significant date. She finally settled on one, and he asked her, “What is the month?” July, she told us. “I knew it,” he said. “What is the day?” The fourth. He nodded, “I thought so.” And then he said, “I have a feeling it was very early on the Fourth of July, it was in the early hours of the day.” And she was astonished. She scrunched up her face and said, “Wait, but how do you know?” He smiled and asked, “What was the time?” Around two o’clock in the morning, she answered. “But it was two-something, right? Just give me an estimate.” And she said, “Sure, it was like 2:34.” And he nodded again, “I knew it.”

And then from the back of his pocket he drew out an old business card of his that had the image of a blank-faced watch on his wrist. He asked to borrow a coin from our audience, and passed the card and the coin to the girl. It turned out the watch face was a scratch-off thing, like a lottery card, and when she scratched it off it read 2:34 AM on July 4th.

He told us how he never makes a mistake in his show. How everything is scripted, even though he works very hard to never make it feel that way. But any mistake that seems to happen is actually an event that occurs very purposefully. He told us how the magic feels more real when it’s not something which is just performed—it is something that exists beyond our expectations, something that surprises us. He talked about the art of persuasion, which is not unlike what we as writers must do.

He set up every trick the same way a story has to be set up, with the build-up and the tension and the climax and the delightful ending. It seemed that his tricks were open-ended, that they could continue on forever, but somehow they always concluded in the perfect moment.

I think the advantage that we have, as writers, is that a reader who picks up a book or story we have written will—most of the time—be prepared to suspend any disbelief. But a magician has to constantly put up with audience members who are out to “catch” him, to identify the trick, to see where he messes up. Those are people who are not satisfied with sitting back and enjoying the show; they are looking for ways to let themselves feel smarter. As writers, I don’t think we have too many readers who are trying to fight with us that way.

On the other hand, there’s something about the performed nature of magic that makes it a better lure, harder to turn away. It’s hard to walk away from a trick when it’s already begun. It can be pretty easy to close a book in the middle of a paragraph. We need to master the same art of persuasion. We need to find a way to use that same type of hook, that same compulsion. We need to learn to work magic.

During my two years at NYU, I spent every Tuesday visiting the Goldwater Hospital out on Roosevelt Island. There was a group of us who went together to co-teach a poetry workshop session to any interested residents, who are fondly called the “Golden Writers.” Each week there was a new theme or form or style that was taught, and we gave them exercises to experiment with these. In addition we also worked with them one-on-one to help with any projects they were doing on their own. Some were, outside of the workshop, also writing their own novels and novellas and short stories, and were eager to receive feedback on it.

I got to work closely with three people in particular. My first semester, I worked with an older gentleman who first came to the hospital because he had hydrocephalus (water on the brain). He was incredibly passionate about music – also a DJ and a member of the hospital chorus – and every other poem of his was related to music. I think he mostly participated in the writing group for the company, though he glowed with pride whenever we finished a new poem, always so pleased to have produced work.

The next semester I also worked with a young man with multiple sclerosis. He was bound to either bed or wheelchair, and it was at times very sad when it became apparent that he had missed out on so many things because of his MS. I believe he first came to the hospital when he was only 15 years old. He was incredibly prolific, churning out poem after poem. He would speak the lines and we would record them for him. Often he would tell us the exact number of lines he was going to produce before he began dictating.

I spent all of this year working closely with a woman who had a stroke several years ago that paralyzed most of her body. She was entirely unable to speak, and could only move her right foot, which meant that our process of writing together involved her spelling things out with her toes, letter by letter, as we maneuvered an alphabet board and tried to figure out what she was saying.

The best part of working with her was always watching her face break out into these bright expressions of glee right before she was about to spell out something charming or hilarious that she knew we were going to love. She had an infinite amount of patience with us—sometimes it was incredibly difficult to figure out how to move the alphabet board. Her foot was very limited in its range of motion, so we would often get the wrong letters and it could take us a long time to figure out our mistake. It was incredible to see how cheerful she was, always. Even when she was clearly having an off day, when there was too much pain in her hip for her to move her foot easily, she was still positive, and incredibly patient. It was one of the most inspiring experiences I’ve ever had.

We are dedicated artists who have the privilege of living freely and healthily — and it’s so important that we stay socially conscientious and reach out to the communities around us who don’t have the fantastic resources we get from NYU. Those communities have their own dedicated artists. Those residents have their own dreams. And there’s so much that we can do for them just by going out to meet with them once a week.

In addition to Goldwater, NYU also has a few other outreach programs: Starworks, which is similar to Goldwater but is specifically for hospitalized and environmentally at-risk children. And the Veterans Writing Workshop, and a newer one called Writers in the Public Schools, which are both exactly what they sound like.

I believe a handful of people are awarded these fellowships upon acceptance to the MFA program, based on the merit of their writing.  But if you don’t receive one your first year, you are still totally eligible to apply to do one your second year.  The process involves an application with essay-type questions about your experience and your interests, followed by an interview with Zachary Sussman.  You can also volunteer for fun, just to be involved and do something great for the community.

More information on NYU’s literary outreach can be found here.

Yesterday we had our fiction thesis readings at the Lillian Vernon Creative Writers House. It was a fantastic time. Twenty-two of us went up to read for six minutes each, to celebrate the work we’ve done in the past two years. I’d had the wonderful opportunity to workshop with the majority of the people who read, and it was so great to see how much we’ve all improved. There was an incredibly wide range of work showcased, in terms of both style and content. Someone read a novel excerpt about a porn performer. Someone read a bunch of one or two-sentence clips from multiple stories, many of which were quite charming and funny. I read an excerpt from my fantasy novel.

The audience was full of teachers and parents and friends and fellow MFA-ers. There was champagne and dumplings and cake after. We all crowded around the reception area trying not to be sad, letting our parents arrange us for photograph after photograph, trying not to say goodbye just yet.

It feels like a good time to be ending. A few months ago I was still glum about the experience being over. But now it feels complete. It’s just the right amount of time.

So what are my takeaways from the whole MFA experience?

There are several incredibly important things that I’m graduating with, that I don’t think I could have acquired any other way:

Truly fantastic mentors. I have teachers who I have become incredibly close to, who I wouldn’t hesitate to call up and ask for advice on writing or publishing. My thesis advisor and I are actually going to continue working together on my novel this summer. I can’t imagine how I would ever have found such incredible guidance otherwise.

A network of dedicated writer friends. People who will be my readers and supporters, whose writings I will in turn read and support—for years to come. People who I can turn to for encouragement when I’m trapped in one of those agonizing writing phases, and people who I can babble to when I’ve had a breakthrough.

Confidence.  Belief in my ability to identify problems in my work, and to edit the shit out of something. Confidence that I can produce something good if I just don’t quit.

Discipline. I was a fairly disciplined person before, but the two years spent in the MFA environment seriously upped my work ethic. In fact I’ve turned into a workaholic. And I think it’s important to be a workaholic, to be that obsessed with what you’re writing.

And I’ve come away with something else, too, that I can’t really figure out how to summarize or describe. It’s this feeling of growth. Like I’ve aged a lot, mentally, and I know so much more. I’ve learned so much about myself, about what I can do. And I think that has always been the point of doing a program like this. To give yourself the gift of two very focused years, and see what you’re capable of.

I’m extremely interested to see how this new program goes. I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it on this blog, but when I initially applied to MFA programs, almost all the schools I considered applying to were low-residency options. NYU was the one exception. I was accepted to my top choice, Vermont College of Fine Arts, and I was this close to saying yes to them when I got the phone call from NYU.

I really believe in the low-residence pedagogy. It feels much more representative of how the real world works. You have to learn balance a job and relationships and family and other important aspects of your life with your writing. That’s the point of a low-residency experience: to teach you that discipline. To let you continue on with everything else and practice fitting your writing into the cracks.

The traditional MFA program is much more dream-like. Two luxurious years to dedicate to long conversations with friends over a few too many drinks. Two luxurious years to slowly chip away at a novel or two. Workshopping until you’re sick of it. Debating about the craft. Going to readings and master classes and panels and other literary events and letting yourself soak up everything like you’re just on vacation.

The traditional program of course has many benefits. It’s crucial if you want to be immersed in a tight community, and if you actively want to pause everything in your life to work on and think about writing. Having not experienced it myself, I don’t know how mentorship might be different between the two kinds of programs, but my instinct is that if your relationship with your teacher exists only in the mail and on the phone, it’s going to be hard to build as strong a connection. There’s something important about the face-to-face interaction, about being able to go out for dinner or coffee or frozen yogurt or sit on some random stoop and talk for four hours.

But again, the discipline. Ultimately, isn’t that perhaps the most important thing?

You can find out more about NYU’s new low-residency program here.

It was the most nerve-wracking workshop I’ve ever had. I’d before never submitted something I that cared this much about. And I wasn’t even sure what I was afraid of — critique in general doesn’t upset me, and I have a pretty thick skin. I think my fear was the same fear I always have: that I would be judged for writing something fantastical and commercial.

I won’t sugarcoat it. It’s a ridiculous fear that no writer should ever have to suffer . . . but it will always be valid in this kind of an environment. Many hoity-toity highbrow literary folk will judge you for it. The question is whether you can handle it. And you absolutely can. If you stop to think about the reasons why you’re being criticized, it becomes much easier to step away from your insecurity. You are judged because, according to them: You are not upholding the great literary tradition. You are not pursuing a great form of art. You are not trying to operate at the level of the masters. You have poor taste. You’re falling into the trap of consumerism, whoring yourself out. All or some combination of the above.

But here’s what I don’t think they realize (and if you’re reading this I’m guessing might be true of you too): I have a much greater passion for writing fantasy than I have for literary work. My fantasy love stretches for acres and acres, while my literary love fills just a few square miles. I truly do appreciate literary work, and I’ve got my own such novel on the backburner, simmering slowly. But I don’t have the gushing adoration for literary masterpieces that I have for epic fantasies. I will stand in line for twelve hours to meet George R.R. Martin, but I probably wouldn’t stand in line for more than two hours to meet my favorite contemporary literary writers.

My mentor is always reminding his students what John Updike said: that a writer’s main obligation is to get into print. My fantasy writing has a much higher chance of someday being turned into perdurable print.  And I know, objectively, that my literary work is nowhere near as strong — it’s just not as intuitive for me.  So why should I feel obligated to turn all my time and energy over to writing stuff I’m not as good at, not as excited about, and which will be much more difficult to sell?

The answer is: I shouldn’t. I should write what I love most, what I do best.

I decided to do an MFA program so that I could spend two years developing discipline and immersing myself in a community of writers.  I didn’t do it so that people could tell me what to write and what not to write.

Most of my peers were able to shift gears and move away literary critique to instead focus on the things that are important in genre fiction. They talked about world-building, the rules of magic, the cultures and the histories, the consequences of the situations I set up, the structure of my plots. They told me which scenes they loved, which scenes needed to be slowed down and filled out. They told me which twists were working, which myths didn’t fully come together. They confirmed many things I suspected to be problematic.

I couldn’t believe how useful the workshop was. I very nearly didn’t submit my novel because I thought my classmates would have no idea how to discuss it. Now I’m grateful to have had the experience.

There were also other factors that made it a good workshop: I was already quite a few full drafts in, deeply invested in this project. I had the rare opportunity to workshop an entire novel in one sitting, and not merely a chunk of a few chapters, which meant I could show everyone the full story arc that I intended.

What ended up being most helpful to me was sharing the  feedback with my mentor and getting his thoughts in response. We ended up spending a total of about eight hours over the phone brainstorming ways to fix the problems my workshop peers identified.

I’m not sure I would go so far as to recommend submitting genre writing for critique in a high-brow literary environment. I tried it a couple of times in undergraduate workshops and both times the experience was useless. I think often the problem with workshop is that if you turn in something too rough — a story not yet fully realized — and then it gets slammed, it can be extremely tempting to just toss the work entirely. And in the case of genre writing being critiqued by a bunch of literary readers . . . you’re probably even more likely to end up feeling deflated.

But if you’ve got a thick skin; if you’re pretty good at filtering out the helpful from the useless comments; if you are confident in your ability to write in that particular genre; if you’ve got the energy and backbone to face a potential bloodbath — well, what’s the worst that could happen?  I’d say go ahead and do it.

When I’m working on a novel I’m always juggling a million documents: the current draft, my outline, a place to throw the scraps I’m cutting, a list of things I already know I need to fix, a list of terms of the world that I’ve created, a document with all my characters’ backgrounds, a map of the world the story takes place in, maybe an old draft for reference, a document for miscellaneous brainstorming, research notes…the list goes on.

I have a folder to contain all these, but it often becomes impossible to organize. I have three documents listing cuts and edits I want to make, and I can’t combine them because they clash against each other, but I also can no longer remember which document is which without opening it up and reexamining the contents.

Scrivener gives you an open “binder” for easy access to all your notes, all your collected pieces of research. It makes tearing apart and restructuring chapters a piece of cake. You can split the screen so that you’re writing in one document while looking at another document or image or other miscellaneous reference material. You can divide things up by scene, by chapter, by groups of chapters — however you want. You have “note cards” on which you can write little reminders and synopses — allowing you to visually spread out your novel. It helps you to remember what’s contained in that chapter/scene/chunk plus the problems you still need to solve.

It’s super easy to import old documents into the program. I just did this with my fantasy novel, after doing three drafts using only Microsoft Word and physical paper printouts. I pulled the whole thing in from one gigantic document, and it took me less than five minutes to split that up into its twenty-two chapters. I imported all my notes and research materials simply by dragging and dropping. With my fourth major draft I was feeling stuck, but putting everything into Scrivener felt like drawing a big map. It suddenly became so much easier to navigate through the writing again.

Also, you can have the thing you’re working on fill up your screen and black out everything else so that you are completely focused on your writing. (It’s a little bit like using OmmWriter, except that Scrivener gives you way more capabilities and tools. However, I did miss OmmWriter’s meditative feel, with its pretty backgrounds and calming soundtracks and cute variety of typing sounds.)

Scrivener has a million different functions. I’ve barely even scraped through the basics. I was trying to learn to use all of it — there’s a very detailed tutorial you can read through with twenty or thirty steps, but it was slightly overwhelming. There is so much you can do with the program. They’ve thought of almost everything. I’m going to go back periodically and try to read through everything in the tutorial, but for now the basics already have me 100% sold.

If you’re like me and you hate lengthy text tutorials, here is a quick video that shows you all the basics of Scrivener in less than 10 minutes. The video title specifically says “for Mac” but actually the demo shows features available in both Mac and Windows versions:

So what are you waiting for? Check it out for free! It’s a pretty generous trial period: “The trial runs for 30 days of actual use: if you use it every day it lasts 30 days; if you use it only two days a week, it lasts fifteen weeks. Once the trial expires, you can export all of your work or buy a license to continue using Scrivener.”

You can find the free download plus more info about the program at Literature & Latte.