That the journey is the goal can seem to be the rule of a writing career. If someone would have told me years ago that the path I was taking would lead to where it has, I would have been shocked, maybe even pleasantly surprised. But also, perhaps, disappointed. (Are we ever not somewhat disappointed at the decisions we’ve made? ) Particularly when I can see the other ways it also could have gone.
There are so many easy ways to put one's work out into the world now that there are many more ways to make missteps. Though I could also say there are more options to succeed. It is more likely that a young writer will not go through the process of endless submission until their writing is solid; not doing the work of getting vetted, in a sense. They may not get to where they are able to write something good enough to publish but will publish anyway just because they wrote something. It’s difficult to not publish when there are so many options. But to get to the point where they understand the nuance possible in writing, to where they have read widely and have a sense of how a work can take on a life of its own, where it can be rich and deep—it does not usually happen overnight—and it does not happen when everyone does it or thinks they can.
Added onto this now are all the cultural and political byways to negotiate and belabor. At times this is an area I just want to escape from and bury my head in the sand. Or better yet, to just do my work and try not to pay it too much attention.
The way I began as a writer was in isolation and self-doubt. Maybe today, starting out, I wouldn't have chosen isolation. Maybe the doubt was essential. Today, would I have gotten to where I am, which is a sense that I know what I can do with writing, and to feel confident and competent in it? Starting out, I'm not sure I wouldn't have rushed to publication with half-baked work. As well, I might have thought of getting an MFA, and then thought, why bother?
I think with all the self-publishing opportunities, had I come into writing in 2022 versus 1997, I might have thought I knew all there was to know. Because I did assume, in 1997, that I didn't need much of anything beyond my own will and desire to write. But it would take me seven years of serious aspiration before I recognized an MFA could help structure the work in progress that I was as a writer. And yet, as much as I got out of my MFA, I think with the wisdom of hindsight, that I could have even worked harder to go elsewhere. It often seems important enough that I recognize this now, sixteen years out. (This seems to be my perpetual existential project, wondering if I couldn't have somehow done it better, gone to a more prestigious program.) On the other hand, if I can say I have gotten anywhere with my writing, it is probably because of my MFA. As the years go on, I recognize that I am happy to have stayed with writing, and I can see that I'm still in it for most of the reasons that I was drawn to it to begin with (as inchoate and perhaps unspoken as these reasons were). I am still doing it twenty-five years later.
My MFA was a lot of work which I was at first overwhelmed by. I spent the entire first semester wondering if I was capable of producing. But eventually, I came to love the work: the reading, writing and revision. The packet of pages I sent out every few weeks could feel like a manuscript in itself. (I did a low residency MFA.) That packet contained the extensive explanatory letter I sent along to my advisor that was part of an ongoing, enlightening and encouraging dialogue about process and the tenuousness of my hopes and dreams and fears. My MFA instilled in me a practice. To imagine how much work we were making our advisors take on week after week: at times, they were almost saints; at others, they were unhelpful, resistant to needs and expectations. But the practice helped me see what it took to be a writer. A practice that required striking out with little idea about what I was doing: how to read a book and have something cogent to say about it (usually, I had to read and annotate three books per packet, thus three write ups of several pages for each), and, simultaneously, to somehow generate pages and chapters toward my creative thesis, the manuscript. (Which became this novel.)
I was always trying to have this creative practice that sits alongside a career I have been at even longer, a career that has little to do with writing. I will admit that this career has served as a concession to economics, and I can occasionally regret being defined by it, especially when I realize how much I relish the solipsistic work of writing. This is for a profession, however, that I excel at. Though it takes away from how and when I can write, it also facilitates the possibility to write, to be free in my writing. And that is the kicker for me: when I am writing, my freedom is absolute. I often think of this when I contemplate the alternative lives of my writing. In other words, if I had taken a different path, would the freedom I have now be seriously impinged upon?
When I am writing, my freedom is absolute.
I recall floating the idea of a PhD to my advisors, and to my mother, back in 2006. Almost everyone tried to talk me out of it (I guess it worked). Like any path not chosen, I don’t know if I would have been happier going that route. I might be taken more seriously with a few more letters after my name. Would I still think of myself as an artist? Would I then have felt more pressure to write things I did not want to write just so that I could publish? Would I have eventually resented how much time my administrative duties were taking away from the “real” work (of writing)?
If I had staked it all on writing, would I have found a way to push through? Wouldn't I then eventually make a living from it, and wouldn't I be happier? So many choices we make in life and of course, it's a curious thought game to consider, what if? But to revisit my original thought, which is how the journey is the goal, I suppose the one thing I always return to—and someone may read into this as advice if they choose—is that I am glad to have stayed with it. In writing, I have no idea what's coming, but I have enjoyed the path, and the immensely rewarding journey.