Post-MFA Writing: Doubt, and Exhilaration

During the MFA program, right around now is when people are starting to pull together their first "packet" to send off to their mentor. An agreed-upon amount of creative work (so many poems; a chapter; so many pages of prose; an essay or three); three responses to books read during the "packet period."

So, what about now?

A good friend of mine, and one of my inspirations, has continued the "packet" structure by herself since she graduated a couple years ago, and she's so inspiring both because of her commitment to art, literature, and poetry and because of her commitment to herself as the wonderful poet she is. At least a couple of my fellow graduates this year said they were planning the same.

Just as when I was a serious oboist in my teens, I realized upon passing with distinction the top "grade" that this was just a beginning, not the be-all end-all it had seemed before its achievement, so graduating the MFA seems much more the beginning of a writer's life than any sort of acme or culmination. Which is great, right? Because it means we get to continue, leaning, making mistakes, interacting with others...And yet, it's a whole new challenge. Most of us entered the MFA in the first place seeking the structure and validation it provided, the "official stamp." I could justify to myself that I was "working," on a very expensive degree, where without that I might have felt I was just playing around when I could be racking up hours of editing/translating time.

So what about now, student loan payments and all? One thing that differentiates post-MFA from MFA life is that we now have a carefully curated body of work--the thesis--which is an entity in its own right, separate from ourselves, birthed. This is true, even granted that by the nature of the MFA theses themselves are often works in progress--part one of a novel; a poetry collection that is still growing--or, in my case, an interweaving of poems and essays that begs the question whether it should go out into the world so conjoined or if in fact it contains the central nervous systems of two collections, one in each genre.
I feel that sense of obligation deeply. People have responded to my work, and more people should have the opportunity to do so, both for the people's sake and the work's sake.

Nonetheless, I feel like I've mostly been "playing around" so far, and mostly that's seemed appropriate--pressure off, and in the context of making revisions, open mind, openhearted listening all over again to what the piece wants to be. 

Then this afternoon a new poem started to come. And it was just like the first time ever. Sh**ty first draft coming out onto the page, focus, love, delight...and then doubt. What if I can't do line breaks? What if the material is either hopelessly trite or impossible obscure? Is this telling too much about me, under the surface? Etc. etc. etc. 
Worse yet, I'm one of the rare birds who actually enjoys writing critiques and has published book reviews, and has been encouraged by mentors to continue to write them (another habit I need to pick back up). I'm supposed to be a serious critic of other people's poetry. But I don't have a clue how to evaluate even this shi**ty first draft. What if everything I thought I knew is wrong or forgotten?

And my other self answers, CELEBRATE! Be in the unknowing! Being a critic [cognate with "discern," "discriminate," "crisis," (yes, and "crime")] means being very openly observant and being willing to draw distinctions based on that observation, which is far different than being an arbiter who determines how others should think/judge.

So, as a real live post-MFA writer, I'm a bit scared. But I'm also really excited. Will you join me for this dance?

Celebrating Everyday Precarity

 Write about something ordinary that’s inspiring to you, something simple, perhaps overlooked,

that fuels your activism.

Today’s prompt was recommended by Abigail of http://hiddencourage.wordpress.com/

Something simple and everyday that's inspiring to me...something most of us, well or sick, handle almost every day...something that flows; ebbs, too...something many of us worry about inordinately...Today I'm going to take a brave step (yes, I say so myself) and give thanks for something I'm about to step into huge uncertainty and precarity around: MONEY, and specifically HEALTH INSURANCE!

I've never been close to wealthy; in fact, in Hawaii I lived on next to nothing for a few years. And yet, no matter how much I've felt precarious and fearful, I have always been provided for. This, I know. Of this, I remind myself when I feel like the bottom has dropped out.

When it comes to healthcare, I am so grateful I have been provided for. I am sad that healthcare in this country is so monetized--perhaps one of these prompts will get me started on the sickening, sometimes life-destroying monetization of eating disorder treatment centers; the callous, sometimes warningless spot decisions of insurance companies who couldn't see the patient at all... (okay, I just deleted a bunch there for a different post, was starting to get heated about something other than my theme for today.)

As I prepare to leave for my next trip and make gestures toward tidying up this cabin, today I went through a pile of health insurance paperwork Phil had left out for me to check. Various appointments, hospitalizations, ER visits, all the way back to last Fall. Some of the figures made my eyes ache. They simply didn't mean anything in the context of people's lives. Especially non-wealthy people's lives, and people with mental health conditions are often not wealthy. There were two health insurance company decisions I need to query and one bill that needed paying; otherwise, these tremendous sums were taken care of!

This reminds me both to feel immense gratitude and to advocate for healthcare for everyone. No one should have to worry about the bill when she comes out of a psychotic episode; no one should have to drop therapy sessions because his insurance decided he doesn't need it. No one should have to pick what meds they take based on whether there's a generic or not.

And here I am, about to lose health insurance within a few months as our marriage (through which I'm insured) dissolves. My mom said yesterday that it would be a different matter if I could just "pull out of all this" and not need the insurance. Yes, wouldn't that be lovely? When I pointed out that my previous attempts to do that had not worked out well, she agreed.

Yes, I have felt, will feel, scared, worried, frightened about this. Precarious. Do you know what precarious means at its root? It means a situation that merits praying over. So, I choose to surrender, pray, trust I will continue to be taken care of, that getting my meds and other healthcare taken care of is part of the magic that comes from outside the dominant paradigm into which healthcare is dragged.

Am I crazy? What do you think?

Gone TOo Far--Can I Turn Things Back Around? HAWMC

Today is "Stream of Consciousness Day." My first thought--"What? Stream of consciousness on my public blog?" WEGO explain that they're making precisely that challenge--that we put ourselves out there, raw, uncensored, unedited, unexpurgated subconscious thoughts and preoccupations. Their challenge: "Start with the phrase, "Today I looked in the mirror and..."--fifteen minute stream of consciousness.


OK--that's the prompt--I'm game, but afraid it'll be a stream of self-consciousness. I also worry about narcissism inherent in such a prompt, but perhaps there's something potentially narcissistic about a blog in the first place. They do say only fifteen minutes, so at least it'll be short(!) Here goes...

Today I looked in the mirror and saw dark circles under my eyes, hollow cheeks. It's nearly the end of the semester, I just have to push through a little more. I've re-established sleep at nights and taking of medications. I think I'm keeping up appearances really well: I can't imagine that any of my friends and acquaintances think anything's amiss at all.

But in truth, I'm fading.

Conversations with my husband in which he expresses deep concern about how busy I am, how little time I have to do any of the things we like to do together, how I'm not taking good enough care of myself, are becoming more frequent and more intense. This morning, he returned from a breakfast date with a friend and informed me he's ashamed of me. Ashamed that when the friend asked after me, he couldn't say I was doing well. Ashamed that my healthcare professionals are seriously concerned about me to the point that if things haven't changed within three weeks I won't be able to stay at home.

It hurts to be told that your husband is ashamed of you! It also feels kind of remote, because I'm in such a tunnel of work to be done. I know I'm running a little ragged and go a little--ok, a lot--crazy at times... But can't me being ashamed of that be enough?

The truth is, I have to acknowledge I've gone too far. In my Superpower post last week, I boasted of my minimal needs for fuel and mentioned that lately I'd been eating even less than my minimal norm. I've gotten habituated to 300 calories a day. Aside from some fatigue in the aftermath of last week's 'flu, my energy has remained fantastic, which makes it hard to understand that this isn't a good situation. The issue isn't even weight loss, although it is true my clothes are falling off of me--even with my superpower-efficient metabolism, it's a strain on my heart to be required to get so many miles to the gallon.

So, I confess--I've gone too far. And while my continued freedom makes status quo seem enticing, makes it harder to believe that this is a crisis point, said continued freedom is conditional on my keeping to a contract with my Naturopath to turn this train around and gradually, incrementally, increase the amount of fuel put in the tank.

And I can temper my incredulity that I'm in a dangerous situation, when I'm keeping up appearances so well and nobody around me has any idea about it, with the consideration that perhaps there are people around me quietly having crises to which I'm oblivious myself!

Let's all take care of each other, guys. 

What's in YOUR stream of consciousness today?