Category Archives: Writers and Writing

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What part of the autofiction is fiction?

Is it appropriate, in a work of autofiction, to ask, Which part is the fiction?

I think it is. Because of how people read.

The great thing about fiction is it frees the author of the ethical considerations of autobiography and memoir. When people read something that’s about something that actually happened they read one way. When they read about something that’s not supposed to have ever actually happened they read another way. They use them for different purposes. People read books that are supposedly true to get information about how to live their own lives. People read fiction sort of that way I guess but it’s different and they probably shouldn’t. The author doesn’t owe them to get the facts right. The author is free. Hooray for fiction! Hooray for freedom!

But in “a novel from life,” like Sheila Heti’s How Should a Person Be? it seems totally normal to ask, what parts of this are “from life?” and how?

Don’t you think?

Like, maybe, given how it’s likely to be consumed, it should have a consumer label, showing the ingredients?

I don't mind! Why would I mind? It's fine! Everything's fine! Reject me! Go ahead and reject me! There's always tomorrow! The future is bright! Don't give it another thought. Just go about your day like nothing happened. I'm OK. Really. I'm fine! It's a miracle!

Poets and Writers Live: Of writers and political conscience

I write from passion and desperation; my heritage is as a punk and a hippie, a fan of visionary and beat poetics, a lover of revolutionaries and rebels. I also am drawn to the severe aesthetics of writers like Nabokov and Wallace Stevens. I straddle worlds.

But let’s have a little context.

The Friday before the Jan. 10, 2015,  Poets and Writers Live event at the Brava Theater in San Francisco, I walked up and down 24th Street distributing cards and posters  for my business of giving writing workshops and arranging international retreats.

I went to Adobe Books, Alleycat Books, and Modern Times. At Modern Times I ran into journalist Denise Sullivan, and asked her about prospects for survival at the venerable progressive Modern Times bookstore. Prospects are tolerably grim as usual. This, of course, brings to mind the volatile cultural and economic changes we are living with but let’s not go there quite yet.

I mentioned to Denise that I was going to the Poets & Writers event up the street the next day. Denise mentioned that Modern Times is hoping to find a coalition of public and private support to continue playing its role as a purveyor of books geared to left and progressive sensibilities. I thought that maybe one of the panels dedicated to talk about community and support might touch on this issue but I did not formulate any plan to bring it up. I just sort of thought it would be an obvious issue. That’s not so smart, really, but it’s the truth.

So, Poets and Writers magazine is sort of the main trade magazine for graduates of writing MFA programs. I have come to love Poets and Writers magazine, actually, despite occasional exasperation at its quiet tone. It lists all the major literary competitions and who won them, as well as all the upcoming submissions deadlines for writers hoping to have their work accepted by journals. This is indispensable career intelligence. Its articles, to my mind, are a bit mild. But as I said, I burn with impatience and long to read mad, hallucinatory, transcendent voices.

This matter of taste is not evident always in my role as an advice columnist, though I have used the column as a platform to soar when possible. Nor is the fiction and poetry I write openly “political.” Yet it has always been difficult for me to sit in a room full of writers talking about process and not feel like screaming. Especially those writers who have prestigious degrees, awards and publishing arrangements. So it was difficult to sit in the Brava Theater and listen complacently.  Yet I lacked the courage to ask those questions I considered important. I thought it was more important to behave, to try to be an adult about it.

Kevin Larimer, editor in chief of Poets and Writers, opened the event by introducing former poet laureate Kay Ryan. Kay Ryan was charming and her poems were enjoyable. But neither mentioned recent events in Paris that have rocked the world.

I should have stood up and said, What about the 12 murdered cartoonists in Paris? Can we have a moment of silence?

But, timid, half-asleep me, being a good student, I sat quietly in the balcony, remembering the early 1980s when Laurie Parker (who went on to become a movie producer!) and her sister, who worked there and always carried sandwiches, would let us in to the York Theater and we would smoke cigarettes in the balcony and watch  matinees.

I sat up there in that same balcony, enjoying Ryan’s poems and reminiscing sleepily. And the whole idea of writers’ roles in the larger society, the immediacy of it and its omnipresence — the fact that it’s not a writer’s role sometimes and not other times but all the time —  got away from me. I never spoke up or even raised my hand. I just kinda went with the program

To be fair, it was a beautifully run event in terms of efficiency, the politeness and well-behaved nature of the audience, the sticking to times, and the focus. Any political discussion would have been, in this setting, a disruption. Yet disruption is necessary at times. That is what writers are supposed to do, isn’t it? To disrupt? To speak the disruptive truth? To hurl insults from the balcony at power?

It was surprising that no one stood up and gave a speech or hurled insults, or cried or shouted.  Isn’t this crazy San Francisco? Maybe the $100 price tag kept out all but the most determined, commercially minded, career-oriented young fiction writers and poets? Anyway, I felt out of place in the  well-behaved crowd. Of course, if one feels generally out of place anyway, that’s part of it. But here is my beef:

I believe at gatherings of writers that some mention ought always be made of the larger global political context in which we work. Is this an outdated expectation? Perhaps the Poets and Writers staff discussed whether to mention the slaughter of 12 cartoonists in a Paris office building less than a week ago and decided to avoid getting sidetracked? It’s possible. This is not a reported piece so I haven’t asked them. Anyway I sat through the three morning panels,  skipped the first two after-lunch panels and returned for the last panel with Joyce Carol Oates, which involved Oates reading a poem that has been published in the New Yorker, musician Ben Arthur playing and singing an “answer” to that same poem, then a film using the poem as a leaping off point and then a dance performance, or maybe the other way around.

I had stopped listening and was scribbling away in my notebook, defensively.  That was interesting: That my creating is sometimes a defensive move, a way to reclaim creative space in response to the creations of others. Like I did as a kid!

Also had major realization about songwriting: need to jump in passionately again. So it was useful in that way. As to taste, I guess I just didn’t get it.

What’s not just a question of personal taste is this:

What customary obligation obtains for prestigious publications for writers to make space for vital political matters?

Is it not heartening at gatherings of poets to hear at least a token acknowledgement of world events that affect us? Does it not reaffirm a crucial truth? I think it a custom worth upholding. It says, to the uninitiated, that those of us who write recognize our global role, our responsibility to speak on behalf of others. And it reminds those of us involved in the daily practice that we are indeed doing it in a larger context.

As I was walking to the cafe this morning thinking about this, and the possible reasons no mention was made of the Paris murders, which are so in my mind and in the minds of commentators, I thought of the years that financial difficulties brought me to work for  one of the world’s largest oil companies. One of the things that shocked me, and left me feeling I’d been naive, was the unspoken assumption that what went on inside that building had no connection to what went on in the streets outside. When protests occurred outside the building directly targeting the company’s practices, it seemed that we ought to acknowledge and discuss the matter, and that the company ought to make some kind of explicit statement of its position. Instead there was silence. The message was that we completely ignore the world outside.

This is the corporate way. In the interest of efficient running, the keeping of timetables, corporate workers ignore “outside matters” and stick to what is functional: getting it done on time, sticking to the schedule. It allows corporations to ignore crucial issues and I think it’s a bad way to run a company.

I expected that a gathering of avowedly creative people would be different, more chaotic, more charged with energy. By the end I felt like a squirming teenager, eager to get out into the fresh air, wanting to shout, to rock and roll, to drive fast, to shout insults at those who had held me captive and whose placidity seemed to gain them the rewards we all wanted: the acclaim, the position, the security and acceptance.

It was an interesting moment. Then it ended. I went downstairs, ate one cheddar cheese square in the lobby “mixer,” I gathered up the remainder of my printed marketing materials, and fled into the fresh night air of 24th Street for a quesadilla suiza at El Farolito.

I Tweeted a little bit about this this morning. Maybe there is a conversation to be had about this.

For I am in a position full of contradiction. As I rail against the institutions I am at the same time courting them. I am diligently attempting to master the art of applying for fellowships and grants, submitting my work to journals and contests, writing queries and pitches.

That is why, actually, I so appreciated Kay Ryan’s quip about not being a joiner and assiduously avoiding such events as the one for which she was presently delivering the keynote. “Even a writer who doesn’t come to these things and loathes the whole enterprise still wants to know that they exist — that there is still a community to disdain.”

We all laughed. But no one said anything more about the contradiction, about our own, personal disdain for the messy and irritating job of self-promotion. It all went on in the background, all these ideas — how the democracy and freedom that allow us this privilege are being eroded, how the bookstores that were our lifeblood of community are threatened by economic change, etc.

And what was I there for in the end? Talk about contradictions. The $100 I spent to attend the Poets and Writers Live event was a business marketing expense. Leaving cards and fliers all up and down 24th Street was a marketing activity.

Although, to be fair to myself: I also attended as a matter of conscience and identity, as a writer of fiction and poetry interested in having my work read more widely.

It’s just a shame there was no  Jack Hirschman ranting in the lobby.

Does anyone else feel as I did — that there are some matters of soul, of conscience, that are present always and always ought to be voiced?

 

I don't mind! Why would I mind? It's fine! Everything's fine! Reject me! Go ahead and reject me! There's always tomorrow! The future is bright! Don't give it another thought. Just go about your day like nothing happened. I'm OK. Really. I'm fine! It's a miracle!

My screed for the Poets & Writers Live event

I felt so strongly about reaching out to San Francisco writers at the Poets & Writers Live event, such a strong sense of localness that I found myself staying up late the night before writing this long screed, pouring out my heart in the matter of what it’s like to be in San Francisco today, having moved from the Mission to the Outer Sunset, having seen Salon.com move its operations to New York, having seen the streets and the restaurants change. I printed out a bunch of copies and left them in the lobby of the Brava Theater, which I, being a longtime guy, cannot help recalling as the York Theater.

You can also find it as a pdf here. A Note to Fellow San Francisco Locals.

A Note to Fellow San Francisco Locals

(Subtitled: Really Just How Far Out is the Outer Sunset Anyway and Why Would Anybody Go Out There Except to Take Their Parents to the Cliff House Which Technically Speaking is Actually the Outer Richmond or Sutro Heights anyway?)

Dear Fellow San Francisco locals attending this Poets & Writers event,

My name is Cary Tennis and I came to San Francisco on a Gray Rabbit Bus from Florida via Manhattan in 1976 for the same reasons thousands of others came during those years – for the cultural and personal freedom unavailable elsewhere and to be around writers and musicians. I went to grad school in creative writing at San Francisco State. I ended up on the staff of the SF Weekly in the 1980s and wrote for the Examiner, Focus, San Francisco magazine, East Bay Express, Berkeley Monthly, Frisco and the Bay Guardian. I formed a band here called the Repeat Offenders and we played our first gig at the Hotel Utah. I drank here and got sober here. I read Herb Caen. I lived through the Loma Prieta quake and the East Bay Hills fire. I’ve been up and down and over and out and I know one thing: This is my town.

I came here with no money. I am one of those people who came here when a person could just come here. There was a nice lady at the Greyhound station at 7th and Market from Traveler’s Aid right when we pulled into town. Imagine that: A welcome wagon for hippies on a hippie bus. The Grateful Dead’s electrician who lived downstairs from us at 1492 Fulton showed us how to apply for General Assistance. We got jobs as bike messengers. Scholars on bikes. We learned the streets.

If you live here too and feel this magical city changing, we are probably here at this P&W event for some of the same reasons, and I would be happy to talk about it but I believe, as perhaps you do, that it’s not as simple as stopping the Google buses. And also I have a suggestion: If you are wondering what happened to the city you thought you lived in, get on the 71 bus downtown and ride it to the end of the line at 48th and Ortega and you will see a city you may have forgotten about. Plus, my house is right down the street at 1966 48th. I do writing workshops there. It’s quiet out there and the ocean air is fresh and the waves are big in winter.

The writing workshops I do are not for everybody. If you are a working writer with a solid practice and are happy with your routine and have easy access to your deepest emotional and psychic resources it might just seem silly. Writers used to work alone. I used to work alone. I worked alone for 30 years, or 40 years if you count the decade during which I was becoming a writer. But writing as a solitary pursuit can break you down, too. It broke me down. I finally sought support and community through Pat Schneider’s Amherst Writers and Artists method. I needed something warm and welcoming. That’s what the AWA method is. It’s not for everybody but it works for me and thousands of others.

But the thing is, I am also demanding and precise and volatile and impatient, schooled in daily and weekly journalism to get to the point and to get pieces drafted, edited and published, and though I sought refuge in the AWA method from the demons of ambition and fear and grandiosity, it didn’t cure me of those things, nor was it supposed to. I am still ambitious and grandiose and impatient.

So I started a second thing of my own creation called Finishing School, which is all about getting it done. Not about being cool or brilliant or accomplished but just about getting it done before it’s too late.

Time goes fast. That’s one reason to seek help getting written the things you feel you must get written. We lived right in this neighborhood before we moved to the Outer Sunset. Our move was dictated by gunfire. A bullet came through our window. We witnessed a shooting on 24th Street, on this very block, actually, back when Brava Theater was the York Theater and showed movies and you could smoke in the balcony. People were running down the street screaming and bullets were flying and my wife Norma said enough. We moved in 1993. We bought a house out there in 1997 when it became clear that no leftwing coalition was going to protect us from the economically motivated decisions of landlords and if we wanted to stay in the city we loved we were going to have to own something.

So, loving this town as I do, and feeling sad and afraid about how it is changing, I just wanted to reach out and say, wherever you live — in the Mission, in Cole Valley, the Haight or the Lower Haight, or the Fillmore, or South of Market, Inner Sunset, Downtown, Tenderloin, North Beach, Russian Hill, Pacific Heights, Dogtown, Bernal Heights, Potrero Hill, Glen Park or wherever – I invite you to come out to the Outer Sunset.

Take Muni. Or drive. There’s easy parking. You can park maybe not right in front of our house but on our street, or definitely on Lower Great Highway. Come early before the workshop and go to Trouble Coffee on Judah and 46th and have one of the best espressos ever, plus dig the very hip clientele and baristas. Eat at Outerlands. Amazing food. The owners Dave and Lana are sweet brilliant people, as is Julietta from Trouble Coffee. (We don’t have kids or tattoos or we’d also be into Small Talkers and that tattoo place.)

The house we bought in 1997 is pretty big, not huge but bigger than some of those little Bernal Heights houses, and plus we tore down some walls so the house itself is open and homey, a welcoming space for Saturday afternoon writing workshops. My wife, Norma, is an exacting and inspired cook, and she bakes amazing things, and we have cheeses and other nice things to eat. Plus we have not only the greatest drip coffee machine (Mocamaster) but also the amazing Nespresso. And I make green tea — gen mai cha, the kind with little roasted rice grains.

Pack a book and take the 71. Ride it to the end. It takes you half a block from our house. Or drive.

I do writing workshops out there.

Like I say, it’s not for everybody, but it might be for you.

Cary Tennis. Writing Workshops out at Ocean Beach
1966 48th Avenue (Pacheco/Ortega) SF CA 94116
cary@carytennis.com 415-308-5685 www.carytennis.com

 

 

 

 

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I’m 22 and stuck! How do I break out?

Write for Advice
Cary’s classic column from SUNDAY, NOV 22, 2009

I think I’m a writer, but fear paralyzes me


Dear Cary,

I feel paralyzed and stuck in a rut. I recently graduated from college without a clear path and a hazy focus at best; I am lost and confused and can recognize that I self-sabotage any efforts to find my path and start my journey. I truly seem to be my own worst enemy yet I am clueless how to escape this vicious cycle.

Since a young age I have deeply desired to be an “artist”; though my true passion is music, it seems my natural ability lies in storytelling. Despite my limited attempts at creative writing, I have received quite a bit of praise and encouragement from my teachers and peers. Yet I feel guilty for wanting to pursue such, what I believe to be, a narcissistic path — that of the artist. I also have an interest in pursuing psychology, which is clearly the more acceptable path according to society and my parents, but only as a fallback. I think I would be selling myself short by not giving writing a try, yet I feel ashamed wanting to apply to an MFA program.

My immense fear of failure affects me in many aspects of my life. I rarely, if ever, take chances. If I do not feel I am in a safe and welcoming environment or if I am not positive I can succeed, I simply do not try. In regards to romantic relationships, I push people away and often am too afraid of rejection to go on a second date. I long for love, but I do not allow myself the chance to experience it. Similarly with my writing, every now and then I can get a few hours of productive work in, in which I feel open and excited, yet afterward I am consumed with self-condemnation.

I seem unable to make a decision by myself. I am always asking permission, whether it is from my parents or my friends. I rarely do what I want, so often preoccupied by what others will think, expect and want from me.

Whenever I appear to be on a streak of positive thinking and proactive habits, I find myself struck down by my own head. I am terrorized by an endless loop of destructive thoughts in which I tell myself I’m a fool to think I could ever be a successful writer, that I’m a spoiled brat for wanting to do so, that no one could ever love me.

When I am not working at my soulless and demeaning job as a waitress, I busy myself with television and the Internet. When I run out of shows to watch and blogs to read, I am filled with a sense of terminal dread and panic, a gnawing sense of avoiding something, but I can’t seem to face it. I feel the clock ticking, ticking, yet I lay frozen in my bed, staring at the ceiling.

Only alcohol seems to free me of my inhibitions. I drink pretty regularly to open myself, to afford a few hours of simple pleasure, yet the alcohol just as often turns on me, resulting in weepy self-pity or a nostalgic, heady swoon for the recent past if not for memories that never existed except in my imagination.

I so desperately want to upstart my life. I want to experience this world as much as I can — love deeply and fully, express myself, live without wondering “what if?” But something inside me is preventing me from change and so clearly doesn’t want me to find inner peace, yet I don’t know what it is. How do I move from here?

Dazed and Confused

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Dear Dazed,

I sense that you are on the cusp of letting go of your adolescent dependence on fitting in and belonging, and you need a great challenge that will propel you over the canyon. Its depth terrifies you as you peek into it and see how high you are. You think of how groundless you will be when you step off the cliff. But you need to step off the cliff. Your soul cries out for the unknown. You need nature and danger. You need something outside yourself that is not ego-related, that is not your guilt-ridden ego trying to perfect a beautiful image to be admired by others; you need the wild self not ruled by need for approval; you need a skin that is unknown; you need the growling bear of your inner truth, your soul erupting, trying to be born. What dread beast is this?

You must find out.

You must take the journey to the underworld. It is not a metaphor. You must get outside yourself and encounter some dangers and some strangeness. (Isn’t it sad that adults today, trying to protect their children from anything alien, have them chant “Stranger Danger”? Isn’t that emblematic of our sickening obsession with the pristine and antiseptic?)

This is what I understand today about our necessary progress out of adolescence into adulthood: We must face confusion and surrender to it. We must face the unknown and grapple with it. We must go into nature and experience its alien embrace. We must lie down on the earth and allow our cruder nature to be held.

So go somewhere. Maybe you need to sit in a bus station in a quiet dusty town where no one knows you and wait for the bus to take you farther away from everything you know. Maybe you need to sit under the stars in the middle of the night, or sit in your room in the middle of the night, empty your mind of ego and allow the voices of the world to speak to you. If you sit quietly and listen, if you allow yourself simply to see what appears before you, then you will begin to find your way. The night may tell you strange, unbelievable things. It may tell you things that don’t seem suitable to you. That’s exactly the point. You need the strange and alien voice of nature and the world to leaven your stagnating and suffocating soul.

At the same time that I speak in these poetic terms, know that this action is empirically necessary; it is not hocus-pocus. It is emotionally and spiritually necessary. Our culture’s language for such things is depleted, so it is no surprise that we laugh at the idea. Our cultural forms of adulthood are corrupted and geared to the continuation of military and industrial power. So it is hard to find the confidence and support you need for this time-tested journey out of adolescence.

Yet you must go into mystery and struggle. It is right there in front of you. You are right on the cusp of it. Your agonies are proof of this. Your agonies arise because you are fighting your own growth. The world is calling you. The world is telling you to grow.

The world is alive and wise and full of grace and power and savage beauty. Open yourself to it. Lie on the ground and open your legs to the sky. Lie in the sand on the ocean and let the waves cover you. Stare deep into the immensity of lost time and slow light traveling on a slow train across the cosmos. See the bigness of it. Find a tree and sit before it and ask it where to go. Do these things. Put yourself in the world. The world will answer you.

If you are to be an artist, what you learn and gain through this will be what you offer, what you craft. What you take from this will be your gift to the world.

There is no need to be cynical. Nor is there time to be cynical. You and I both know how much stupid crap there is in the world. Do not allow it to make you cynical about your own miraculous being. The crap in the world is about power and control and wealth and status; as such, it is an outgrowth of fear, the ego’s silly fear of dissolution and nonexistence; the crap in the world is not the world’s essence; it is our fear-filled distortion. Surely moguls and hustlers fill the streets and boardrooms; surely the bullshit machine of need hammers at us day and night to buy more, to keep these fearful moguls in trade; surely there is plenty of crap in the world. But the world is not crap. The world is glorious. The world is an out-and-out miracle. The world is yours. The world is calling to you.

Creep out into the night on your hands and knees and look around. Listen to the leaves snoring away their chlorophyl dreams in the night, waiting for the recharging dawn. Listen to the congregation of dew collecting in its pews. Listen to the whispering stars. This is your world. Let it strike you dumb with awe. Let it speak to you. Let it guide you. Do what it says. It will take you where you need to go.

Cary Tennis Newsletter Sign Up

 

I used to love … What?

So here is another thing. Seth Myers is interviewing Joe Hill and I am watching from my perch high and far away on my mysterious island of emotional distance and contempt  and it is as if the older I get the more godlike I am because there is nothing that surprises me and I cannot be seduced by the son of Stephen King and I am charmed by nothing; I have attained the weary omniscience of a god  for whom all is repetition and slender variation; watching pop culture now is like watching a waterfall: the same silver mesmerizing stream, beautiful yet unchanging,  soothing yet loveless; I observe without allegiance. It is just a waterfall.

There used to be allegiance. I used to fall in love with bands. I fell in love with The Clash.

Before Joe Hill was on Kerry Washington was on and in between them was Michael C. Hall. So Kerry Washington is a star on Scandal but you knew that. You knew that but I did not because as I say pop culture has marched on like a silent army of robotic simulacra outside my tenth-floor loft window in an ur-New York City apartment in an imaginary graphic novel that is being read by a character played by me in a black leather chair by the red brick wall of his tenth floor loft window while the TV is on. I remember being in the vortex of slavish pop culture erudition, the mindless brilliance and repetition that the liminal soul state between 12 and 18 requires, that I have hung over the edge of the waterfall and watched band after band slide into warm liquid obscurity, that now older but no more knowing I am riffing now that’s all, on stage in the hot light in the roar of a bored indifferent crowd I strut with my top hat and cane, begging you to watch and begging you to see my code, crack the mystery of my eggshell, warm up to me, tell me a bedtime story.

Snorting speed to stay up all night entering calendar events in the computer of the San Francisco Weekly in the early 1980s: Now that was the big pop culture thrill: Knowing every single venue and every single show. For what? To feel the vicarious thrill. To possibly be cool by proxy. Enough. Horseshit. A bogus thing. But wait. Have you been there too? Do you also know the dizzy wakeup call when you’re watching a new talkshowhost and you don’t even know who the former talkshowhost was and you realize it’s been 10 years?

How 10 years can go by. How all your young friends look old. How you can’t believe children are allowed to be bank tellers.

When will I fall in love with a song or a book again? Perhaps never. Perhaps now it will just be an endless succession of amusing repetitions, authors enacting and reenacting a regal ceremony and me, locked in a sterile 10th floor room with my words, fewer and fewer, rolling them around on my desk, looking for a new combination. Me no better than you: both of us working with scarce few tools, seeing what we can do in the time allotted, like on Top Chef or the Apprentice.

 

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Stolen words

Write for Advice

 

Cary’s classic column from

My boss uses what I write in e-mails as his own. What should I do about it?


Dear Cary,

I’m an in-house copywriter/creative director with a small technical company, working for a boss whose communications skills, to put it delicately, are not his greatest asset. Lately I learned he’s been passing off my writing (not ad or brochure copy, just conversational e-mails on internal issues) as his own. I’ll write him a note on a topic, and later on that same note will land in my in box as part of a forwarded e-mail conversation chain — only now the note has his name on it. It’s happened several times that I know of.

I’ve always thought of him as a fundamentally decent fellow, and I sense he does this more for expediency’s sake (“Why bother rewriting this opinion that I share, when I’ve got this version sitting here?”) than to lay claim to my thoughts and words. Still, they are my thoughts and words, and I worry that by keeping my name out of these conversations he’s limiting my ability to benefit from people’s reactions to my ideas. Besides, I’m a writer: Even within the quasi-professional forum of interoffice e-mails, it feels like plagiarism.

Am I overreacting? And if not, should I confront him?

Accidental Ghostwriter

Cary Tennis Writing Retreat in France

Dear Ghostwriter,

Here are some suggestions: Stop giving your boss great lines that he can use and call his own. Do your job on the brochures and the official stuff, but stop giving him stuff for free. If there are people you want to impress with your ideas, send your ideas directly to those people. Or if there’s a discussion you’re having with your boss and you can predict that it’s going to widen to include others, if you suspect he’s going to steal your material, suggest that that you include those people to whom he’s likely to send your material. Ask, what other interested stakeholders are there? You know, act like you care.

Either suggest they be included, or just cc them as though you thought that was the normal thing to do, since you know they’re interested parties.

Don’t be telling your boss not to cop your copy. He won’t get it. He’ll just think you’re being a pain.

You might also review just what you were hired for. Did you get a job description? Did anybody ever tell you what your job was? There is probably some expectation that you provide “other written materials.” These e-mails could be considered other written materials. You just want credit for it, right? So I’d find some way to let others know where it’s coming from — like, by cc’ing them before your boss steals your stuff.

And I would beware of your own personal motives that are tripping you up, too. Hey, I know about this: You want to do a great job of writing e-mails because that’s what you are. After all, you’re a writer. So you could be tricking yourself into giving your stuff away because you’re so damned good and you can’t help it, and you can’t help trying to impress your boss. I know what it’s like to be a writer. It doesn’t matter who the audience is. You’re still going to sweat over a few sentences until they’re perfect.

Bosses in non-media companies are so weird. They have no idea what it’s like to be a writer. They are just so weird. How do they even get through the day without being able to communicate?

Who knows. But they do. I guess they do it by hiring people like you.

Don’t pick a fight with him, but don’t be a sap!

WhatHappenedNextCall

Cary Tennis Newsletter Sign Up

Thank you for rejecting me. I feel a whole lot better now!

 

——– Original Message ——–
Subject: RE: [Fence] Wading in Shallow Water with Architects
From: “Fence” <notifications@email.submittable.com>
Date: Tue, July 01, 2014 12:43 pm
To: “Cary Tennis” <cary@carytennis.com>

Dear Cary Tennis,

Thank you for sending us “Wading in Shallow Water with Architects.” We appreciated having the chance to read the work, but we feel that it is not for us.

Thanks again.

Sincerely,

Fence Editors

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Thanks. OK. That’s cool. I can handle it. It’s not a big deal. It’s not like I’m going to go out and cut myself or anything. I just thought after all these years writing things I should start sending them out. Not that I thought you would publish it. Or anybody would. But just to, you know, like participate. Like because of a certain felt connection. Not that I care. Not really. Should I? Why would I? Why would I care if somebody published or did not publish a piece of writing I sent them? What difference would it make? Would it change anything? So why would I get upset — not that I am upset, mind you; I’m perfectly content — but why would I, just because I put some words into the computer and my the miracle of the Internet caused them to go somewhere and be read by someone else and then caused that person to make a decision, perhaps a quick but nonetheless sure and final decision, not to try to find a place in the magazine for those words. Why would that matter? Why would I get upset? Not, like I say, that I am getting upset. Just hypothetically. Because I’ve heard that some people do. Some people put such stock in these things, acceptance, recognition.

Those people must have low self-esteem. They must have made some poor choices in life. To base their well-being on something so fragile and out of their control as the acceptance or non-acceptance of a piece of writing by a literary journal, even a literary journal with which they feel a strange kind of simpatico, even a very strong yet strange sense of simpatico. A person like that, you’ve gotta figure, must be kind of messed up. Like maybe they had a childhood in which there was not a lot of physical affection and straight-ahead emotional support. Maybe. Just hypothesizing why anyone would put too much store in such a high-risk/low-reward endeavor as the publishing of small pieces of admittedly disordered and not altogether well-thought-out or well-structured literary prose, and you can put literary in quotes as I don’t think it really means all that much now. So, I just wanted you to know, you know, that like I said it doesn’t really affect me. Well, OK, now, it does affect me, right, or I wouldn’t be writing this? Right? OK, so it affects me. But not that much. Like I’m not going to jump off a bridge or anything just because Fence magazine didn’t choose to print this strange little thing I wrote. I mean, OK, I’m not going to drink either. But I might just make a big Fuck You pot of strong black assam tea and drink two cups really fast with sugar and then feel all nervous and hyper for an hour! Just to make a statement! Just to say, OK, yes, I was bullshitting you, and actually it does affect me. A little. Not a lot but a little. Now maybe that has to do with years of unresolved feelings and certain memories of abject failure and insult at the hands of teachers and other figures of authority. And maybe, OK, maybe unresolved feelings about the purpose of writing and of literature, and feelings toward the kind of people who get involved in it, who sometimes tend to be kind of, well, I’m not saying weaselly necessarily, or overly intellectual and self-involved, but let’s just say, OK, as long as we’re being honest here, that I don’t really want to hang out with you, either, OK? I mean if you think just because you didn’t accept my piece of work that makes you somehow better than me well you just have another think coming, ok, Buster? You get what I’m saying? Because you are no better than me. You may have more money and intelligence and a better education and come from more stable, interesting, well-adjusted and successful parents, and you may have better social network and be better adjusted to the demands of today’s workplace and maybe you have great sex often, too, and maybe people see you and instinctively like you and want to be your friend, and maybe you genuinely have a pretty amazing talent in the world of creative writing. OK. That could be. You probably dress well and have funny things to say that other people would have thought of eventually but you think of them right away. That’s possible. I’m not saying it’s not. But that still doesn’t make you better than me. Because I am just fine. I’m not bothered in the least. I am, to tell you the truth, just happy to be here and to be able to put together a little piece and send it to you. In fact, I’d say it was a fortuitous event just that I did it. I’m just proud that I took the time to put that little piece together and send it to you. And that I had the good taste to send it to you instead of some other inferior publication that other people might think is cool but which we both know is just a pale imitation of some avant-garde notion that has already expired from overuse. So I’m feeling pretty good about that, actually. Even to be rejected by you is better than being rejected by some of those other folks. In fact, more I think about it, it’s not just better, it’s kind of cool! In fact, it’s great. In fact, come to think of it, it’s a frigging miracle that I was even able to write that little piece that you so quickly and offhandedly rejected. But I wonder if you even read it. I mean I wonder if you read it carefully and thought about what went into it, and recognized the subtle patterns in the words. They aren’t obvious patterns. I’m not one of those obvious people you see sending stories full of plot and character and consequence and ideas and social insight. That’s not the kind of thing you like anyway. There were more like little murmurs of pattern in there. I thought you might pick up on that. But no, you were probably thinking about some girl you’re going out with who comes from a good family and has a place up in Maine for the summertime. That’s what you were thinking. And all about the boat her dad has and how it’s so nice up there in the summertime. Like you maybe just weren’t thinking straight. That’s OK. That doesn’t bother me in the least. Because I know a thing or two. I know how things work. So don’t worry about me. I’m fine. You have more things to worry about than me. I’m just one little person out here, one person among many. Why would that matter to you? Why would you get all concerned about me when you have this girlfriend with the place up in Maine, and all that great educational background and stuff? You wouldn’t. And who would blame you? Certainly not me. I’m OK. I’m fine. I’m not at all affected by this rejection. Well, OK, like I say, a little bit. But not enough for you to concern yourself with. You just go ahead with your rejecting all the other little submissions until you find one you like, which is probably by a friend of yours, or a student of one of your former teachers who somebody said was really brilliant, or you met at a party or owe a favor to. Not that the whole thing is rigged. Not at all.
So you don’t worry about me one bit, young man, or young lady. I can handle it. I’ve been rejected by people a whole lot cooler than you. I’ve been rejected by Paris Review and the New Yorker, so you can just stop standing there with that proud smirk on your face. I’ve been rejected by people you’ve never even heard of. So there.
Just go on about your day. Don’t give it a second thought. You know you’ve got things to do. It isn’t even worth thinking about , is it?
Except … and this is not really a big deal … but what if I was to kill myself because of this rejection? How would you feel then, you heartless literary magazine rejecter? How would you feel then, if you learned that it was right after receiving this particular rejection, out of all the hundreds that one receives (doesn’t one?), that I decided this is enough, the jig is up, it’s time to cash it in? Think about it. I’ll bet you do think about it, in fact. I’ll bet you think about it all too often. In fact, I’ll bet that’s what’s been troubling you, and that’s why you rejected this piece: Because you are dealing with a deep contradiction in your own soul. Of course! And that’s what happened. This piece of mine, which actually, OK, since I wrote it, must actually be brilliant even though nobody really recognizes that brilliance except me, this piece must have triggered some awful psychological breakdown in you, so that you were unable to think clearly and see its brilliance, and had, instead, like a person who is repressing some awful but unavoidable truth, you had to reject it.

You had to reject it! You had to! Of course you had to. I understand now. I understand everything! Everything is forgiven, poor man!

Well. I guess that settles that. So I don’t hate you or want to come to your office and shove you up against the desk and slap your face. Why would I want such a thing? Who would even have such thoughts? Certainly not me. No, I’m fine. This is my little lot in life and I accept it. In fact, like I said, I’m kind of glad. In fact, it’s a frigging miracle. A miracle!
A miracle, I say! It’s a miracle! Thank you! Thank you for rejecting my piece! Thank you! It’s a miracle!

I don't mind! Why would I mind? It's fine! Everything's fine! Reject me! Go ahead and reject me! There's always tomorrow! The future is bright! Don't give it another thought. Just go about your day like nothing happened. I'm OK. Really. I'm fine! It's a miracle!
I don’t mind! Why would I mind? It’s fine! Everything’s fine! Reject me! Go ahead and reject me! There’s always tomorrow! The future is bright! Don’t give it another thought. Just go about your day like nothing happened. I’m OK. Really. I’m fine! It’s a miracle!
CaryFlorence_650

Caring for the writing self

I have learned a lot in the last seven years about caring for the writing self and the creative soul. Some of the things I have learned have helped other people, too.

Doing the Amherst Writers and Artists method has become a way of life. Many people I have met while doing this have become dear friends whose occasional appearances are now cherished events in the week.

The role of teacher is one I take reluctantly. I never liked teachers much; I was kind of rebellious I guess, and independent, resistant to being led. Yet I believe fervently in the effectiveness of people coming together to write and read aloud in a structured way. The part of being a teacher that I take reluctantly is the authority part, the part that implies that you should do things my way.

What I have to impart is is a way of being. That is what I share.

Many of us have been conditioned in childhood to denigrate our creative selves. I was lucky not to have this conditioning from my parents. My parents valued my creative spirit, so I am not damaged in that way, and I can therefore share with others a fresh delight in creative exploration.

Like everyone else, I do have a shadow side related to my creative work. But it mainly comes out when I cannot be as free and creative as I was meant to be.

The AWA workshop is the ideal setting for me to help others reach their creative potential. One thing I know from long experience is that artistic success and accomplishment take unexpected forms and involve unexpected difficulties. One aspect of creative endeavor we can control is the regularity and quality of our practice. We cannot control our level of genius or our talent but we can control our level of commitment, and we can consciously acquire knowledge about techniques and markets. We can choose what books to read. We can read books that acquaint us with current forms and techniques. We can to some extent control the amount of time we give to the endeavor, and we can find ways to build it into our lives. We can make conscious sacrifices that give more time to creative work.

This is why I keep doing the AWA method, because it is one conscious choice I can make to continually feed the creative spirit. Each time we come together to write, it strengthens us a little more. However uncertain the future may appear, however distant we may feel from having a completed book and an agent and a publishing deal and a movie option and syndication and residuals and book tours and awards and wide publication and fame, however distant these things may seem, we can always make day-to-day choices that keep our creative practice alive. We can always keep writing. And we can enjoy it.

That is why I keep providing these workshops and urge people to attend. Because the creative spark, the spirit, needs to be fed.

Another part of the creative journey is the practical realm: gaining recognition, acceptance, publication, monetary rewards, etc. Learning about this is like learning about any set of institutions and practices; it is a little like learning about how to get into a school, or how to get a job. There is an application process. So we have to ask, What are the requirements? Who are these people who work in publishing for a living and how does one, in essence, get a job with them? When we publish something we enter into a kind of employment. We don’t like to think of creative endeavors in this way, perhaps, but when we offer our work for sale we are economic actors. It may be called “cultural” activity but it is in fact economic. At the fringes of the literary economy are magazines supported by grants of money from funding organizations, universities, philanthropists and so forth, which take only minimal ir any advertising and keep their shelf prices low. But it is all economic activity. It is all the trading of labor and materials. The rewards are sometimes emotional, having to do with status and self-worth. But these too are economic drivers.

It is important to understand this in order to protect the creative spirit. For if we fail to get published we must understand it is probably because we did not gauge the economics of it; we did not understand that we were in a role of selling our work, and selling our work means tailoring it to the market. Certain segments of that market may be hungry for extremely unusual, idiosyncratic, nearly unintelligible work that seems to come from a primitive or intensely intellectual source; a small number of people hunger for work that is wild and  strange and disjointed; they hunger for surrealism or dadaism or impenetrable intellectual prose; they do constitute a market but it is a small market because they are rare, unusual people. The masses tend to enjoy writing of a more pedestrian sort. I tend to be of the more rare sort who likes extremely strange work but paradoxically I want to write for a large audience so I try to write in forms that are widely accessible.

If we are to nuture and protect our creative selves we must be practical and realize that not everything we produce is going to be met with love and approval; a lot of what we produce will have to be adjusted for a market if it is going to be published. So another purpose of the workshops is to strengthen artistic self-esteem so that we do not fall apart when we realize we have to revise or rethink our work for a particular market, so that we know we are keeping our creative spirits alive and fresh even though we need to go through cycles of revision and critique for the market.

The workshops keep it fun, and enliven our sense of self-worth, and keep it separate from the sometimes slow, grinding and unpleasant tasks necessary to get our work published.

That’s also why I am always trying to learn about literary agents, publishing and markets. I want my work to be read; I want to be a part of the conversation. I don’t just write for myself. Writing helps me stay psychologically healthy but I don’t write for therapy. I write to be a part of the larger world, to connect. So if you are trying to find an agent, or get your work published in small magazines, or make a living as a freelancer, I am interested in hearing from you. This is the world that I know and love. I have mostly made my living by writing, and that world makes sense to me — more sense than the other main repository of writers, which is the educational world. I have mostly done journalism and am coming late to the world of literary book publishing, which does seem to be more closely allied with universities and less with what I consider the more street-level activities of journalism, activism and performance.

Anyway, there are many ways to feed the creative spirit and my workshops are just one way. I hope you will find as many ways as you can to feed this vital part of your self. I am doing my small part to keep the world a creative, vibrant, interesting place for us all. I hope to see you often and to always lend a helping hand to help you find new avenues of expression.
— Cary T.

 

Cary14

Three recent occasions upon which I should have tweeted and could have tweeted but did not in fact tweet

It was at one time understood that to be noble one must not draw unseemly attention to oneself or glorify oneself or make oneself seem, in a crowd, to be the most important person, or to seek glory only for oneself at the expense of others, nor to seek to draw the fame of others toward oneself for one’s own gain.

But today, all good citizens must tweet and tweet widely. One must take selfies and tweet these selfies widely. This is well understood and does not reflect poorly upon the tweeter.

And yet, things hold us back. Prior scruples, outdated mores and education, notions about what is proper and good, about how the self ought to be portrayed, about the self itself, how it once was a unitary thing and yet is now an atomized thing, an amalgam of a million tweets and bytes, a decentered, fluid phenom of the video multiverse.

I confess that on three recent occasions I was near people whose glory exceeds my own and should have therefore taken selfies and tweeted them widely but indeed did not. I had my iPhone in my pocket but did not bring it out. I betrayed my sacred duty. I froze up. I forgot my true mission. I had conflicting teachings. My father on his deathbed said to me, “Son, do what you have to do, but don’t overdo the tweeting. It’s bad for your eyes.” This admonition, wise as it was, held me back.

Yet when it is time to tweet, one must tweet. One must overcome. So herewith, three occasions upon which I should have tweeted and could have tweeted and did not in fact tweet. May the subjects and recipients of these tweets now, in response, retweet and widely retweet, so that these tweets may cover the earth and the cause be glorified.

1) Stanley Bing aka Gil Schwartz, upon the publication of his new book, The Curriculum:

There I was in his home, in the bosom of his family, among his many friends and his lovely wife. I could have embraced Gil Schwartz, aka Stanley Bing, taken a selfie and tweeted it widely. Yet I did not. Why not? Apparently I was doing what used to be called “having a good time.” I do not know what that is called now but I found myself sitting in his living room playing his guitars, joking with him and Laura and guests, and eating red beans and rice (or jambalaya, as later Norma and I had a rather detailed discussion involving some not inconsiderable amount of Internet research o the question of jambalaya versus red beans and rice). All that time, I could have been tweeting about his hilarious new book The Curriculum. I could have put my arm around him and his lovely wife Laura Svienty and we could have posed for a selfie-plus two and it would have only taken a second and might, as it journeyed around the globe, have inched his already impressive Amazon sales ratings just a tiny bit higher. I could have and did not. What is wrong with me? I think that Gil, Aka Stanley, might look into my eyes and say, Cary, my friend, you’re just trying too hard. Get with the flow. And I think he would be right.

So go buy his new book The Curriculum. If you do not, I just may buy it for you. It is as of this second Number 1 in Amazon in the category of Books > Business & Money > Management & Leadership > Training

2) Gary Kamiya’s Cool Gray City of Love:

So that was Saturday night. Then on Sunday afternoon Norma and I thought we would go down to the San Francisco Public Library to see what authors would get awards from the Northern California Independent Booksellers Association this year, because among our many friends up for awards was the inimitable and brilliant Gary Kamiya, whose Cool Gray City of Love was up for best regional nonfiction, and which, among many fine nominees, was indeed the winner. Again, I had my iPhone and while embracing Gary it would have been an ideal opportunity to take a selfie and tweet it but I did not.What is wrong with me? So imagine, if you will, the handsome Gary Kamiya receiving his award and reading from his book, and then go and buy the book so you can enjoy it yourself. It is now of this second Number 13 in the Amazon category of Books > Sports & Outdoors > Hiking & Camping > Excursion Guides! Oddly enough, but there you go.

3) The Write On Mamas collection Mamas Write:

Finally, on the Thursday preceding, we were at Diesel Books in Oakland with the Write On Mamas for the publication party for Mamas Write,  their collection of essays on writing and parenting which Norma and I had a hand in producing, as I provided some minimal copy editing and Norma designed the book. Again: I could have whipped it out and taken a selfie with Janine but I did not! What is wrong with me? I will endeavor to do better in the future, without, of course, appearing to work too hard at it.

Cary14

Another blog post about blog posts

Not to be postmodern or self-reflexive or self-conscious about the form but just to say that I’m going through a process of discovering what I love and in the process of discovering what I love I realized as I was exiting the bathroom that the reason I didn’t feel comfortable in the comments section at Salon for the whole 12 years I was writing those 2,300-odd Since You Asked advice columns was that I felt uncomfortable discussing the people who had written to me for advice, and I felt uncomfortable discussing what I had written, and I felt protective toward the people who had written to me. I felt unequal to the task of knowing fully what they ought to do and where they fit in the moral, judgmental hierarchy into which we were always placing them. Also uncomfortable about evaluating what I had written, because what I had written was written in a fire of passion that might not be professional and might not be aesthetically pure and might not be ethical if you get right down to it. There was an ethical stink about the whole thing, frankly, much as it warms my heart that people are helped by it. There is an ethical stink about it not just because the kind of help people actually really need is so hard to find, not just because a stranger on the Internet is a poor substitute for a flesh-and-blood person who cares (though yes of course words can heal at a distance, and inspire, and light up), not just because I myself am ambivalent about as a writer taking the next easiest thing that will make me money rather than doing the very hard but true thing which is to take the mainstream literary stage boldly and without apology, but mostly because, as I realize now, I was not comfortable talking about other people that I don’t know.

I do not like to gossip. Gossip makes me uncomfortable but if it were just that I wouldn’t care. It isn’t my discomfort that’s at issue. It’s why I’m uncomfortable with gossip. It feels like a kind of murder.s;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;a

? (did you see that series of semicolons? that was the result of my dozing off in this chair as I sat wondering should I even publish this. That was me falling asleep at the keyboard.)

This discomfort discussing the ills and woes of others who have written to me for advice contrasts with my perfect ease talking about random stuff that happens to me, and my whole trophy case of bullshit opinions. Like the fact that I’m unhappy about Steven Colbert taking David Letterman’s place, and that I never liked R.E.M. (they sounded like ornament; the Clash sounded like rock; even the Talking Heads sounded like they came from necessity; R.E.M. sounded like they came from abstraction, from cake decoration, from a jangly, riffy notion of what might be cool). In fact–and here is what I am just beginning to grok about this whole fucking awful blogging situation–I also have thought that my life was not interesting, and still think so, but am writing as a kind of aggression suppressed Lo these long dozen years during which I used suffering as a platform for my tap dance and literary recitation under the hot lights of an imagined Broadway, an imagined crowd beyond the pixellated footlights. That’s another thing that, say what you will, has always had a bit of ethical stink about it: My use of the pain of others, however good my intentions, however salutary the results. Surely I have done some good; surely my ability to sit for hours or days working through someone else’s complex problem, trying each avenue like moving chess pieces to see what devastating outcome was likely if, say, she told the truth or didn’t tell the truth or confronted her father or didn’t confront her father etcetera, has given the world some good things. Surely I have not been a huckster or a con, and surely out of this pact with those who are suffering I have produced some interesting, affecting and at times I’m sure, out of 2,300 columns, occasionally moving and surprising writing.

Yet for me there has always been, as I say, this ethical stink, and this air of its being provisional and not at the white-hot core of destiny. I have stumbled into things. I have riffed. I have stumbled onto stages unprepared and read spontaneously from just-written texts; I have improvised my way; I have through sheer bravado delivered what sounds like literary work but may on closer inspection prove to be ingenious facsimile. I know I am capable of these things and I am half the time secretly joking as I write, as my father was secretly joking as he entertained us with his tales, tongue literally in cheek. I am multilayered and contradictory and who isn’t? I am this and that both at the same time and who isn’t? And with this comes the guilt of the actor, the guilt of the journalist always selling someone out, the guilt of the memoirist using others’ pain for performance and backdrop and foil.

So to be always writing the column and only writing the column was like being a merchant seaman but not in the Marines; like being in the next room while the grownups decide who will be mayor.

Now I can cuss. Now I can write long sentences and not worry if they even completely grammatically hold together, though I believe they mostly do, rattling ragged into the station but still mostly not burdened with unconnected concluding gerund phrases and other not-wholly grammatical stylistic novelties that displease me. (Ha ha whose joke is that now?  Who is deliberately tearing things apart just to see how they crash?) Now I can be the person who is not that gentle and kind. Now I can say that many things displease me, including the tentativeness that passes for manners and respect, and the refusal to look me in the eye that passes for cool in Oakland.