All the 2015 Lammy Winners And How To Buy Them From An Indie Bookstore

17752651093_baf3154142_oLast night was the 27th Annual Lambda Literary Awards Ceremony, and if you’re looking for your next good read, may I suggest one of these stunning titles? Below are links to their review (when available), as well as links to buy them from small presses or WORD in Brooklyn (for those outside of NYC, media mail shipping is an option when you purchase online).





  • A Safe Girl To Love, Casey Plett, Topside Press [This was my favorite win of the night. Casey Plett gave a passionate speech, honoring how thrilling trans literature is right now. “We’re writing to each other, for each other, by each other. We are going to tell our stories,” she said. She also gave a shout out to the film-in-progress Happy Birthday Marsha, which tells the story of Sylvia Rivera and Marsha “Pay it No Mind” Johnson, in the hours before the 1969 Stonewall Riots. Read a review of A Safe Girl To Love here.]




  • Fire Shut Up In My Bones, Charles M. Blow, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt [The New York Times columnist gave a moving speech, citing Toni Morrison’s advice: “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.”]






















What I Did On My Summer (Internet) Vacation

August was a month of biking and cheating. Biking became what I did most afternoons, after the slow crawl of a morning spent writing (sometimes with success, sometimes mired in self-doubt). And cheating was the necessary evil of the summer. I had to check my e-mail more than once a week to keep up with freelance correspondence, and I couldn’t resist keeping up with the Out of the Binders Conference for women & gender nonconforming writers (if you would like to purchase a book club waffle party for you and your friends, it’s still available, not to mention tax deductible and a feel good contribution to what’s shaping up to be an incredible weekend).

photo (3)Mostly, though, the internet was an absence sometimes felt (like when news of the events in Ferguson were sparse on NPR but abundant on Twitter; or someone told me about Robin Williams and I knew the internet would be overflowing with clips and films and tributes.) Otherwise, having no internet just felt like being told to play outside for a whole month. I kind of forgot about it. Willfully ignoring my social media pages felt decadent and freeing. Without Instagram, I found that I didn’t photograph a single meal or cat or summer moment, actually. I only took one photo of a basket of produce freshly picked on a farm, and was prompted to record it because I loved the colors so much.

Then there’s Beyoncé.

When an episode of The Read revealed that Queen Bey had released a Flawless remix with Nicki Minaj, I dropped what I was doing (dishes) to run and Google it. And when a friend texted me a link to Beyoncé’s VMA performance the morning after it happened, you should know I leapt from phone to laptop to watch it (twice in a row, and once more later that night). I can abstain from the internet in small doses, but I can never abstain from Beyoncé.

The internet detox was far from perfect, but I felt a good amount of acceptance around that. So I checked my e-mail some mornings, Googled a massaged kale recipe, peeked at someone’s Twitter feed – oh well. I tried. When not cheating, I did feel carefree in my ignorance of the internet. I like having it as a less-than-perfect tradition. At most, it gave me an excuse to spend a ton of time alone these four weeks, and what more can a writer ask for but unencumbered time alone.

Here’s my month by the numbers:

Books I Read: 6 (for the curious: Man Alive by Thomas Page McBee (the most humble memoir I’ve ever read), Ghana Must Go by Taiye Selasi, Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay, The Grief of Others by Leah Hager Cohen, Family History by Dani Shapiro, Tell Me Again How A Crush Should Feel by Sara Farizan)

Hours Spent Writing: 58 (and still I think it should’ve been more)

Places I Wrote: 3 (the New York Public Library, Civil Service Cafe, and my tiny fold out desk in a room that was blessedly not too hot if I woke up early enough)

Miles I Biked: about 62 (zipping around Brooklyn and Manhattan, sometimes with a purpose and sometimes not)

Postcards written: 4, plus 1 letter

Numbers of E-mail Checking Cheats: probably about 12, since once I began breaking my own rules I couldn’t stop myself

Some Things I Wanted to Google and Resisted: discount yarn store, new Taylor Swift video, shift dresses, cat dental hygiene, what year did Aladdin come out, how to revive a dead basil plant, Roxane Gay/Bad Feminist book tour dates, installing pendant lamps, the female actor in Boyhood who played the sister, when will The Read do another live taping, proofs in Geometry

Some Things I Wanted to Google and Did Google: Beyoncé. Massaged Kale (I am pathetic). Dani Shapiro’s short short essay A Memoir Is Not A Status Update.

Baked Goods Baked: 5 (three peach berry crisps and two peach cobblers, the recipe for which is just too damn good not to share)

Peach Cobbler

(adapted from Mark Bittman’s Blueberry Cobbler recipe)

5 or 6 yellow peaches, roughly chopped into bite sized pieces

1/4 c. brown sugar + 1/4 c. sugar (plus another 1/2 c. sugar)

sprinkle of nutmeg + cinnamon

8 TB of cold butter, cut into pieces

1/2 c. flour

1/2 tp. baking powder

pinch of salt

1 egg

1/2 tp. of vanilla extract

1. Preheat oven to 375. Grease an 8″ square pan or 9″ pie pan.

2. Mix peaches with 1/4 cups brown sugar and sugar and sprinkle with nutmeg + cinnamon. Pour into greased pan.

3. Combine flour, sugar (1/2 c.), baking powder, salt and butter in food processor. Pour into a bowl and add egg, mixing by hand until just combined.

4. Drop it in clumps over the peaches (but don’t spread it out). Bake for 35 – 45 minutes until golden yellow (barely browning). Serve immediately with vanilla ice cream or whipped cream (or eat it in the morning with yogurt—or ice cream, like a champ.)

Goodbye, Internet! Hello, August!

SONY DSCFor the fifth summer now, I’m taking the month of August off from the internet. What began as a simple week without internet has morphed into a full calendar month without any social media, nor endless links to endless articles, nor obsessive e-mail checking and general time suck. I’ve been looking forward to it all summer.

Don’t get me wrong: I love the internet. I adore Twitter and Buzzfeed, cat videos, Beyoncé memes, Autostraddle articles, Colorlines posts, and weekly Smitten Kitchen recipes. I love Facebook and long e-mail threads with friends about everything from dating to beach plans to teacup pigs. I love Seamless and Songza and all of those crazy, colorful apps and websites that make life awesome.

But I’ve got this one month to write, and I need to hunker down.

There’s something freeing about turning off the metaphorical router for four weeks. Last year I found myself doing so much more reading, and just felt more present than I usually do when I’m tucked into my iPhone, my iPad, my laptop, my work computer. There’s a huge amount of privilege that allows me to take this break: my salary-day-job gives me the month off, and I don’t have a lot of other responsibilities I need to tend to.

summer reading list, with Roxane Gay's BAD FEMINIST on top as soon as it arrives!
summer reading list, with Roxane Gay’s BAD FEMINIST on top as soon as it arrives!

The parameters this year are the same: I’ll check my e-mail every Sunday, giving myself thirty minutes to weed the junk (oh, how it’s all junk!) and respond to the (rare) important message. Text messages and phone calls will take the place of constant Gmail refreshing (and my phone will be on airplane mode when I’m writing). All of my internet apps will get dumped into a folder called “Crap” on my iPhone, away from my home screen. 

I’ll also have to hop online every once and awhile to turn in a freelance assignment or book review. This summer I’m allowing myself just three apps: Seamless, my banking app, and Google Maps. I’ve cancelled Netflix (because, really, all I’m doing is waiting for House of Cards and Orange Is The New Black to return), and any photos I take will just be more my own enjoyment, and not the insta-gratification of Instagram. (I actually learned that I rarely take any photos at all if not posting them for an immediate audience.)

One large exception to my rules this August is that I’ll post once a week about something too awesome to stay mute about: Out of the Binders: A Symposium on Women Writers Today. This badass conference is taking place in New York on October 11 and 12th, and I’ve hopped on board to help out. Tickets go on sale through Kickstarter next week, so I’ll only break my internet fast to signal boost this badass event. (The rewards will be pretty rad, too, including a Waffle Party Book Club provided by yours truly!)

Every year I apply to writers’ residencies for this precious month off, and while nothing panned out this summer, I’m turning my Brooklyn into a stay-cation sort of residency. Mornings are for writing—in my alcove of an office, at the library, in coffee shops, anywhere—and afternoons are for reading, baking, biking, writing letters. I have a full first draft of my book completed, and next month is all about revising. If I revise two chapters a day, I can get a rewrite done before September, with room to spare. It’s ambitious, but it’s all I’ve got. (Doris Lessing, once more, with feeling:  “Whatever you’re meant to do, do it now. The conditions are always impossible.”)

257 pages of mess, ready for revision
257 pages of mess, ready for revision

Farewell, beloved internet! If you see me out and about in the world this August, come say hi.

[Rotary phone illustration by Mika Walker]

On the Lammys, writing, and faith


[NB: Scroll down for a list of this year’s winners, and links to purchase those books from an indie bookstore!]

A while ago, I threw my hat into the ring for a grant that I didn’t get. Later, one of the judges for that grant had kind things to say, notably that there were so many strong applications, so not being chosen did not necessarily mean my work was without merit. I always paused in the cynicism of my heart when hearing this sort of condolence. Could it be true?

Last night I attended the 26th annual Lambda Literary Awards, and had the pleasure this year of serving as a judge. This experience has taught me that it is true—it is so true. There is more talent in the queer literary world than there are awards. Serving as a judge introduced me to scores of poets and writers I hadn’t heard of before, and am so grateful to have read.

I always float home from the Lammys, as they’re affectionately known, on a pink cloud of euphoria and determination. It’s so validating to see so many hard working, fantastic writers receive recognition for their books. Last night, Alison Bechdel accepted the Board of Trustees Award for Excellence in Literature, and talked about winning her first Lammy in 1991, and how it felt just as validating all these years later. Kate Bornstein won the Pioneer award, and gave an incredibly moving speech, imploring us to not judge one another. “Please pioneer a queer community that does not eat its own,” she said. Debut novelist Nik Nicholson thanked all of the people who encouraged her as she wrote “Descendents of Hagar” (now on the top of my TBR pile). Luis Negron dedicated his award to booksellers, for selling our books and keeping bookstores open. (I unabashedly shouted, “Yes!!” when he spoke those words.) A. Naomi Jackson won the inaugural E. Lynn Harris Award for Excellence in Black LGBT Short Fiction, and presented the Lammy for best LGBT YA to David Levithan and Sara Farizan, who tied for the award. I clapped so hard—David was the editor who generously published my first story in an anthology years ago, and Sara is someone I met in my MFA program who deserves every shred of praise for her novel “If You Could Be MIne.” I remember sitting in a roundtable discussion with Sara, and her saying she was writing a YA novel about two girls in Iran who are in love. Some people in the room blinked, some people cocked their heads, but I remember thinking, That is a book that the world needs!  It’s such a joy to see her book make its way into the world, and be so welcomed and recognized.

I know I’ve said this before, but writing takes such a tremendous amount of audacious faith. Writing itself is solitary, and that’s why I always relish the Lammys—the bright community and enthusiasm for writers and stories. So many times in this past year I’ve sat at my little desk and thought, I don’t know what I’m doing. Or, this must be a mistake. But sitting in that audience last night, watching so many writers be honored and loved, I thought, I have to write this book because that’s the thing I want most in the world. I skipped the after party, mostly because my routine of late has been to wake up an hour before my alarm goes off and write before going to my day job. I’ve had to accept that the time and money to write are something I could chase forever, or I could take what I have and use it. Above my desk I’ve tacked the Doris Lessing quote: “Whatever you’re meant to do, do it now. The conditions are always impossible.” So this morning I fed the cats and stumbled to my desk and opened my laptop and wrote. Brooklyn was quiet. The conditions weren’t perfect, but they were my conditions. And buoyed by the Lammys, they did not feel so impossible.

You can buy all of the winners’ books from an indie bookstore, or direct from the small press. Here are links to winners’ books from my personal fave indie bookstore, WORD, which ships anywhere, and often at media mail rates. Or you can find your local, awesome indie bookstore here. It’s worth the few extra bucks, to support queer writers and indie bookstores at the same time!



























Alison Bechdel


Kate Bornstein


Imogen Binnie & Charles Rice-Gonzalez


A. Naomi Jackson


Radclyffe & Michael Thomas Ford


pep talk

Dear Courtney of November 2013,

Hi. This is Future Courtney. I can’t quote exactly when/where I’m writing from, but I wanted to drop you a line. You’re five days into this month and have received rejection notes from three literary magazines, one residency, and one grant.


You’re a really good cheerleader. I watch you all the time, sending encouraging notes to writer friends, giving virtual internet high fives when friends get good news, and constantly telling everyone you know: Keep going! Have faith! Rejection means you’re closer to acceptance! Don’t give up!

I’m writing to you because while you’re a great cheerleader for others, you find it really hard–painful, even–to cheer for yourself.

In fact, sitting at your fold out Ikea desk in a frumpy sweater after working all day, with the daylight fading before 5PM, you feel despondent. It’s just a few rejections, you’re thinking, what the eff are you so sad about? I mean, you’re right, they hate you. And they really hate your writing. How could you have sent that out into the world?! That was dumb. This is all dumb. You’re probably just meant to be an editor, not a writer. This won’t ever work out. 

You can stop right there. I mean, negative thinking, self-doubt, blah blah blah, you’ll never really conquer it. But I thought I’d give you some cheerleading. I thought you might like to know what the future is like.

First off, in the future, there’s a lot more rejection. So much more rejection. The residencies you’ve always dreamed of, the literary magazines you most respect, the fellowships you picture yourself winning — they’re not gonna happen. But something else will. Acceptance will come other ways. You’ll go to residencies, they’re in your future, in ways you haven’t yet thought about. You’ll win one grant, just once, and it will be incredible. The literary magazines and editors who publish your work are out there — maybe not right now, maybe not at this time, but they are. You will publish your first book, and then another. (Maybe more — I’m only Future Courtney, not Know It All Courtney).

I can’t tell you about these books, because you’re still writing them, and true writing means allowing the end result to be more magnificent than the pea-sized idea you started out with. It takes humility, yes, but above all it takes perseverance. Remember the story you wrote when you were eighteen? How different that was from the one you first published when you were twenty four? And how that one was so different than the stories you sent with your graduate school applications? And how far from those stories the one you published this year was?

This cycle is still unfolding. The pattern that’s always been true — writing and hard work lead to better writing and more hard work — is still true. It’s true here in the future. It’s true at that small desk where I’m watching you write right now.

Your first book? It’s received the way you imagine it will be — the most heartfelt love coming from the family and friends who have always believed in you. The magic will be that it’ll be your hard work, your name, your words made of ink pressed to pages. Who cares when it happens? As your future self, I can only disclose that it’s coming to you.

Recently you wrote a letter to a writer friend who’s living abroad, and in it, you drew him a little map of his writing life line. It’s high time someone drew one of these for you, love. Here:


True, you’re still beginning. And the beginning is the worst. The beginning is so crazy. And one of the worst traps of the beginning is Other People’s Success. At a wedding recently someone said, “Can you imagine being thirty three with two books and a baby?” And you wore a big grin, but your heart crumpled and you thought, Oh dear lord, I’m thirty one, this is a terrible idea and I will never have two books, or one, or even a Pushcart nomination — I don’t even want a baby!

They were just making conversation, Courtney. Everyone loves you as you are, admires the success you’ve had so far, and have faith in what you do. This faith is your best defense. This faith is your magic elixir. Drink it up. Borrow some of mine. Borrow someone else’s on evenings like this one, when it is dark out and all you can think of is rejection. Clutch faith like a talisman.

Just for fun, here are some of your favorite examples of faith:

When Mary Karr said she threw out two 500-page drafts of Lit, with the faith that she could write a better one

When Tayari Jones shared of the five year period when she received no positive reinforcement for her work, but kept writing anyway

When Marie Helene Bertino said at a reading that of her award winning debut story collection Safe As Houses, one story was rejected fifty times, and another story was rejected thirty five times before being published and winning a Pushcart

When Stephen King admits that he originally threw his first draft of Carrie in the trash (his awesome wife Tabitha King fished it out and told him it was worth writing)

When Junot Diaz said, “The whole culture is telling you to hurry, while the art tells you to take your time. Always listen to the art.”

When Cheryl Strayed wrote “Don’t lament so much about how your career is going to turn out. You don’t have a career. You have a life. Do the work. Keep the faith. Be true blue. You are a writer because you write. Keep writing and quit your bitching. Your book has a birthday. You don’t know what it is yet.”

Go ahead. Wallow in faith. I mean, you’re right that writing is crazy. You’re correct that you’re far from the finish line.  It’s not going the way you planned. But do you know why it’s not going as planned?

Because the way it’s unfolding is better than what you can imagine.

Chin up. Do the work. Shake it off. I’ll be here anytime you need me, pom poms waving.

Love and faith,

Future Courtney

back to the internet

Hello September and hello internet! I’m back from my one month hiatus and feel partially overwhelmed (Facebook! So busy! So much to look at!) and partially wonderful (a long-read essay on why the movie Clue is so awesome? YES PLEASE!). Here’s what my internet-free month looked like by the numbers:

Books I Read: 11 (plus 5 poetry/essay manuscripts for friends)

This includes two books for book reviews, along with Vampires at The Lemon Grove by Karen Russell, Glaciers by Alexis M. Smith, the first four Lying Game novels by Sara Shepard (I know…I know), Freak of Nurture by Kelli Dunham, Portrait of An Addict As A Young Man by Bill Clegg, The Dinner by Herman Koch, and like half of Joan Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem.

Words Written: 22,199

…and I constantly berated myself for not writing more — writers! We’re crazy!

Number of Crap E-mails I Got: 827

Lesson learned: e-mail — It is mostly crap! It is a lot of junk from J. Crew! The most important e-mail I got over the entire four weeks was one telling me I was awarded a residency I applied for (!). They sent it on a Tuesday and I saw it on a Sunday — life goes on!

Times I Cheated And Just Had To Google Something: 4

How to Make Cake Flour, How To Get a Brooklyn Library Card, How To Stretch Pizza Dough, and when the Union Square Greenmarket is because I just couldn’t handle calling 311. And technically I forced my girlfriend to Google Beyonce’s new haircut because, c’mon. I had to.

Times I Had To Peek At My E-Mail Because I Forgot A Password For Some App I Decided Wasn’t The Internet: 3

Songza, Seamless, and My Fitness Pal — a true internet purist may have skipped all internet-fueled apps, but there were some that I just couldn’t pass up, including Netflix, ABC Family (to watch Pretty Little Liars, duh), Songza, My Fitness Pal, my bank app, and Seamless — but I only used Seamless once because it felt like total cheating when I could call the pizza place myself.

Number of Letters And Postcards I Sent: 6

Number of TV Shows I Gorged On: 3, including two seasons of The Lying Game, four episodes of Pretty Little Liars, and three seasons of Skins

Many people were skeptical that I wasn’t online but I was watching Netflix. And seeing how I watched hours upon hours of bad television because of this loophole, I get it. But when it’s eight pm and I’ve baked a cake and written for two hours and read for four hours and meditated and rode my bike to get groceries and watered my plants — guess what? I wanna veg out and watch Netflix. It was a vacation, after all.

Number of Facebook Notifications I Had: 92

Number of Times I Missed Facebook: 0

But to admit, when I did finally log back on and see my friends’ names and photos and links to hilarious Buzzfeed articles I thought, oh! My friends! I missed them!

Number of Times I Read A Cookbook Instead of Googling A Recipe: 21

Cookbooks — who knew?! So relaxing. So wonderful. I cruised through many of the Smitten Kitchen cookbook recipes, and also got real intimate with Mark Bittman’s How To Cook Everything (and How To Cook Everything Vegetarian, which, I realize is redundant alongside the Everything one). I’ve now perfected making my own pizza dough (it involved the one cheat — I mean, how do you stretch it?! How?!) and also made Smitten Kitchen’s caramelized peach pancakes four times. So good.

Things I Am Dying To Google:

Beyonce’s haircut (again. I know.), baking soda vs. baking powder, free financial planning courses, cruiser bike, that drake song with the chorus “still got it”, is neutral milk hotel back together?, why was the lying game cancelled?, when does scandal start again?, what classes are at the gym by my work, best yoga videos on netflix, drywall anchors, december 19th beyonce tickets, new york times subscription discounts, september asbury park weekend rentals, outdoor summer movies, why is everyone talking about miley cyrus?

Biggest Takeaways From This Hiatus:

It’s nice to wake up and not check my e-mail. I kept replacing it with Wake Up And Play Spell Tower but once I deleted my games I seriously curbed the hit-snooze-and-squint-at-my-iPhone habit.

The internet time-suck for me comes via many avenues, but especially Google. In my first return-to-internet day, I watched myself have a thought (how would I make gluten free cornmeal pizza crust?), stop to Google it, and spend eight minutes reading recipes. This happened in bed with a book in my lap at eleven at night — WHY?! Why did I need to know about cornmeal pizza crust right there and then? Instant information — it’s too dangerous for me. I’m gonna try and keep my information seeking on a need-only basis.

Give me a big hug, internet. I kinda missed you.

get off the internet: one month without

From August 6th through September 3rd, I’m giving up the internet. This has become my summer tradition: a detox from Facebook and Buzzfeed lists, compulsive e-mail checking and scrolling Instagram before I get outta bed. I did my first internet detox in 2010, taking one week off, and last August went for the full month. A huge nota bene here is that I have the entire month of August off from my job, so it’s relatively easy to avoid the internet.

My rules for this year’s detox will be the same: one hour of e-mail checking every Sunday, plus permission to hop online to submit book reviews and other freelance projects. I’ll make a hard copy of all the resources and guidelines I need for upcoming residency and fellowship applications. And I’ll be allowed to binge on episodes of The Lying Game on Netflix. But mostly, I’m just gonna read and write and ride my bike and bake and see friends and stare out the window. I’m someone who’s madly in love with the internet, but also seriously lacking in self-discipline. I walk around with my nose tucked not in a novel but an iPhone. It’s lovely to take a big break.

Photo from Blue Bicycle Books in Charleston, SC.


cropped-lacy-banner-3When the Postmasters Podcast introduced me as “Brooklyn essayist Courtney Gillette,” I straight up swooned. Postmasters is a new podcast put together by the fabulous writers Audrey Camp and Lacy Mayberry. We crossed paths at Lesley, and they gave me the honor of being their first interview for their podcast about life after the MFA. Postmasters is a fantastic new resource for creative people, and Lacy and Audrey are putting their own MFAs to work with it. Brava!

Talking to Audrey & Lacy was a total delight, and you can listen to the full interview here. I do some weird cackling, chat about stories I’ve published and why I applied to an MFA program, and use the word gay about nine times in twenty six minutes (holla!). It’s beyond heartwarming for these literary darlings to be such awesome LGBT allies and feature diversity in their first interview. And for the record, the UT Austin MFA program gives out $27,500 to each student every year for three years (yeah, you read that right). And while I do love lots of things about Texas (including sweet Lacy!), my favorite thing about Texas is totally Wendy Davis. You go, girl!

One million thanks to Audrey and Lacy for such a fun interview! Feel free to follow, like, or subscribe to the Postmasters Podcast — I’m excited for what these gals do next.

libraries changed my life

imgresAt the Lambda Literary Awards in May, I met the badass children’s librarian and activist Ingrid Abrams, who is one half of the brilliant creation of Libraries Changed My Life. She asked me to contribute to their Tumblr and I was only too happy to oblige. You can read it here and also below.

From Libraries Changed My Life:

The Magicians

I would like to write a very belated thank you note to the librarian who ordered a copy of Sleater Kinney’s Dig Me Out for the Chester County Library in 1997. When I was a teenager in small town Pennsylvania, I’d go to the library once a week and flip through every single one of the compact discs and cassette tapes there, hunting for anything that looked better than the Top 40 on the radio. I discovered Red Hot & Rio, Patsy Cline, a British import of Bjork’s Debut with an unheard bonus track — it was like a treasure hunt. Flip past the Rod Stewart, the Aerosmith, the over-circulated Backstreet Boys album, and there, nestled between them, were the gems.

I hadn’t heard of Sleater Kinney. It felt like I lived planets away from the crucible of riot grrrl and grunge on the west coast. I picked up Dig Me Out because the album featured three unsmiling women with alternative haircuts, including one playing an electric guitar. This will sound strange, but until that moment I had only seen women play acoustic guitar. Seeing a woman play an electric guitar struck a tuning fork deep inside of me — oh, shit.

I checked the album out from the library, and from the moment I put it on my stereo in my Christmas-light decorated bedroom, from those first chords — remember them? — I was changed. I made a copy of the CD on a cassette tape and listened to it over, and over, and over, long after I’d returned the treasured album to the library. At seventeen, the worst place in the world to me was small town Pennsylvania, and the only thing I had to look forward to was getting out. I passed the hours before escaping to college by lying on the nubby carpet in my bedroom, listening to Dig Me Out until the tape warped, and I raced back to the library.My heart leapt when I saw it there, still in the music section, still available to me.

The second track on that album, “One More Hour,” was my mantra: In one more hour I will be gone. Ceremoniously, the morning my parents drove me to Manhattan where I’d be going to college, I listened to that song it on my walkman over and over, slamming the rewind button until it came back. It was finally happening. It was finally coming true.

Years later, I realized that that Sleater Kinney album didn’t appear there by magic. Someone — some librarian — had ordered it. Someone in my boring small town had chosen the albums the library should own. Somebody made it happen. Maybe it was the same librarian who put Annie On My Mind in the YA section for me to discover. Or the librarian who shelved the hardback copy of Queer 13: Gay & Lesbian Writers Recall The Seventh Grade, which I found one afternoon by running a finger along the cellophaned spines of the entire Dewey decimal system until I found something I wanted to read. The magic, perhaps, was that I grew up in a small town with a badass library. And the librarians themselves were the magicians.


On June 29th I had the honor and delight of addressing my graduating class at Lesley University’s MFA graduation ceremony. Writing a speech was one of the hardest writing tasks I’ve ever faced. For months I scribbled notes, e-mailed myself little tidbits, agonized over how my speech would compare to the beauty that’s come before me, and made crooked notes at three a.m. when I couldn’t sleep. No matter how difficult it felt, though, I always knew I’d come up with something good, if only because my muse–twenty-two writers and the two years we’ve spent together–was absolutely incredible. Below is the speech I gave, humbled and grateful and bright.

meow meow meow[Photo credit Jodi Sh Doff]

Friends and family, faculty and students, and my beloved cohort –it’s an honor to be presented the opportunity to address you all here today. Thank you for being some of the most generous and outstanding people I’ve ever known. I consider myself really lucky, because I walked in here in June 2011, and for some fateful, awesome reason, so did all of you. Whenever someone asks me what’s best about this MFA program, I say, the people. You cannot ask for better people. Parents and family, please know that you have raised some truly fine human beings. Friends and partners, this is a reminder that you’ve hit jackpot. And to the children of any writers on this stage, you may not believe me, but your parents are terrifically cool.

One of the stories I sent with my application to Lesley was “You Want A Social Life With Friends,” the title of a Kenneth Koch poem I memorized in my early twenties and once used as a way to charm literary girls I fancied. It didn’t really work. The poem, though, has stuck with me, and while gearing up for graduation I remembered it. It’s very short, and it goes like this:

You want a social life, with friends.
A passionate love life and as well
To work hard every day. What’s true
Is of these three you may have two
And two can pay you dividends
But never may have three.

There isn’t time enough, my friends–
Though dawn begins, yet midnight ends–
To find the time to have love, work, and friends.
Michelangelo had feeling
For Vittoria and the Ceiling
But did he go to parties at day’s end?

Homer nightly went to banquets
Wrote all day but had no lockets
Bright with pictures of his Girl.
I know one who loves and parties
And has done so since his thirties
But writes hardly anything at all.

It occurs to me that Koch may never have met a low res MFA student like us. I think we’re pretty good at having all three. Part of what appeals to us low res folk is that we get to write without leaving our lives behind. We juggle rent jobs, children, spouses, exes, medical bills, college friends, surgeries, weddings, all five seasons of Breaking Bad, cats, mortgages, girlfriends, internships, and, above all else, writing. I only stand here today because I am so blessed by the trifecta of family, chosen and real, friends, and writing. And judging by the crowd, you all are blessed by this trifecta, too. Yes, we’d all write more if we declined invitations to birthday parties, lived alone, never had to see family on holidays—no offense– and had stretches of time before us in which to court the muse. But if that was the case, whatever would we write about? A friend of mine in New York was in a traditional MFA program, and when I asked her how it was going, she said, “I go to a lot of parties, and do a lot of drinking, but not a lot of writing.” If only she had been low res. The trick, I believe, is to stuff all of your parties and drinking into nine days twice a year here in Cambridge, then take the rest of the year to write. I will be the first to admit that if life were always like residency, if Matthew always lived down the hall, or Karalyn was always there when I came down for breakfast, or if, god forbid, I lived around the corner from Cambridge Common, I don’t think I’d get a lot of writing done, either. It’s what makes these residencies so sweet, the magic ingredient of absence making the heart grow fonder.

From the moment we began our last semester here, there has been a lot of talk about not wanting to graduate. It’s really hard to think that this could be ending, this blend of deep friendships and generous mentors, the built-in deadlines, the soothing balm of student status. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, this impending ending, and it’s lead me to an idea that I am going to earnestly propose today.

Let’s not graduate.

It may be unconventional to give a graduation speech in which I suggest we all not graduate. But there’s nothing conventional about getting an MFA in Creative Writing, either. I’ve got it all planned out. There’s going to be a third year for us, and it starts today. Tuition, for this third year, is free. Deadlines will be the same, the first Monday of every month. And while this third year cannot afford us the loving guidance of our faculty mentors, we can press ‘send’ on manuscripts to each other. If we’ve done this for the last two years, why can’t we do it for one more? One more year of neglecting the yard work or the bathroom that needs to be repainted, one more year of living with a roommate while we work part-time, or rising at five a.m. to write before leaving for our day job. One more year of banging out drafts the day before they’re due. One more year of pushing ourselves, of cheering each other on, of sitting and doing that work that drove us here.

To the friends, family and loved ones who’ve tolerated our incessant keyboard tapping and grumpy isolation, if you thought you were getting us back after today, I hate to say it, but you’re not. We’ve got work to do. That work has only begun.

In my journey here I applied to seventeen MFA programs, and for a while I had my heart set on a three-year program, because I heard from writers that the third year is where the writing gets really real. The third year is where you hit your groove and the demons have loosened from your back and you can burst through the thin membrane between doing enough and doing your best. Gaining momentum takes three times as much energy as sustaining it. The plates are spinning on their sticks. I dare us to keep them spinning.

Recently when I told someone I was graduating, they asked me what I was going to do next. This puzzled me, only because the answer seemed so obvious. What was I going to do next? The same thing I’ve been doing. I’m going to write. Yes, it can feel very silly to have a degree you do not run out into the world with. For us, the best place we can to run to is the desk. When you get home, before the suitcase is unpacked, before you open your mail, before you return that phone call or e-mail, write something. Honor what we have worked so hard to do here. Hold your home life at bay for just one hour, and write. It won’t be easy, but it’s our third year. Our first deadline is August 5th. You better get a jump start.

I think of you all when I’m writing, because you are the first writers I met who showed me their writing selves. We never see writers writing, we only see them having written. In the past two years, when I have sat down to write, when the self-doubt begins to creep in, I take solace in the fact that somewhere in the world all of you are actively writing. The beauty of a low residency program is that there’s a wide constellation of us. I can picture Evan at a desk in his apartment in Pennsylvania, after work. I imagine that Ericka & Jasmine write on the same candy colored laptop that brightened every classroom we’ve been in. I think of Julie writing with a window nearby. Katie, I bet, writes in the morning; maybe Pheobe writes at night. I know that July likes at least one cat in the room in order to write. Wherever Clinton writes, I figure that it’s cold. Michelle, who worked on her thesis in an arm-chair late at night during AWP conference this year, could probably write anywhere.

These imagined desks where you write — the rings from coffee mugs, the post its stuck to the wall, the bills shoved out of the way — they buoy me when my own desk — a fold out Ikea table in a corner of my small bedroom — seems too dark. When the writing seems too hard. I picture you all, your faces in the glow of your computer screens, your stubborn faith that we are doing the right thing, and then I can keep going. It is always with you that I will write.

I will forgive Kenneth Koch’s limited view of writers having it all because he wrote a line of poetry that has rang in my head since day one. How Lucky To Run Into You When Everything Was Possible. How Lucky To Run Into You When Everything Was Possible.

Congratulations, it’s just begun.

%d bloggers like this: