I haven’t yet seen the film adaptation of Sapphire’s novel Push, but based on this interview in New York mag this week, Gabby Sidibe is my new favorite actress.
grad school redux
ok, ok, ok, ok, ok. those thirteen mfa programs i listed? i have some revisions.
i cut two: indiana, being slightly harder to get into than purdue, got nixed.
i was beginning to question my fit for u of houston’s prograqm (their foreign language rec, which u colorado also has, requires at least two years of college level foreign language. my two semester stint in Spanish wouldn’t seem to cut it.) of the two schools with language recs, u colorado has a more viable acceptance rate, so i’m keeping colorado, and cutting houston (fantasies of peeking in on nick flynn’s office hours can float away).
and at the prompting of one of my old writing professors, i revisited hunter college’s program (how could i not put at least one new york school on my list?) and am throwing my hat into their ring.
here we go again. the 12 programs i’m applying to are:
ut austin
syracuse
u minnesota
u alabama
u arkansas
unc wilmington
purdue
u colorado
u kansas
u florida
u memphis
hunter
there. settled. next week i’ll be delivering letter of recommendation materials to two of my gracious recommenders, and that will seal the deal. meanwhile: the gres are in one month (!) next week i’ll be requesting transcripts from my undergraduate and graduate programs (lest we forget that i already have a masters in urban education). statement of purpose drafts have already started dancing around my googledocs. and the writing sample? that hefty tipper of my mfa fate? i’m going against tom kealey’s advice and trying to crank out something new (i know, i know, i know, i know), while also revising some already polished pieces that i’m considering. i’m pretty sure october and november are going to be the craziest months of my life.
xo, c
you want a social life with friends
this poem got stuck in my head today. i used to have a copy of it sharpied on my refrigerator. also, i have it memorized and was known to recite it (drunk) at bars, back in the day.
you want a social life with friends
kenneth koch
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.
i’ve always disagreed with this. why not have it all? love? work? friends? recently i’ve felt the balancing act weigh more towards ‘two can pay you dividends,’ though. but which two? work + love? work + friends? and why is it that the love + friends combination always seems like the weakest one?
this is what a literary death match champion looks like
Last night I attended my first Literary Death Match, and while it would’ve been entertaining to simply be in the audience, I was experiencing this American Idol/Double Dare-esque reading as a competitor. A few weeks earlier, the most awesome Mindy Abovitz asked me if I wanted to represent Tom Tom Magazine in a battle of music writers. Who could say no to this?
To categorize myself as the underdog is an understatement. The other music writers battling for title of Literary Death Match Champion were none other than James Gavin, who’s written poetic and critically acclaimed biographies of Chet Baker, Lena Horne, and the like; Chris Weingarten, a freelance writer for The Village Voice and a million other pubs; and Jessica Hopper, author of The Girls Guide to Rocking and a totally talented and knowledgeable rock critic in her own right.
And the judges? Franklin Bruno, ex-Mountain Goat and great musician (as if being a former member of The Mountain Goats didn’t already imply as such); Ben Schafer of Da Capo Press; and Carla Rhodes, a comedienne and ventriloquist, who shared her judging duties with Cecil, the wooden puppet on her lap.
‘Music writer’ is luckily a broad label, since my qualifications for such a title can include a few interviews and some freelance work, upon which I’ve only started cutting my teeth. Otherwise, I felt very much just like a girl who loves music, draws comics, and sometimes cobbles essays together for publication. For the love of Tom Tom, I wrote and illustrated a comic entitled An Open Love Letter to Lady Drummers, kinko-ed up forty or so copies of the comic, and prepared to do a dramatic reading of the comic, and possibly die a literary death.
Round One saw Chris Weingarten read advice to anyone who wants to be a music journalist, which then spiraled into an anecdote about Ministry‘s roadie having his way with an ostrich. James Gavin read beautiful excerpts from both aforementioned biographies, and the judges deemed him the winner. He would then face either myself or Jessica Hopper in some sort of champion-deciding shenanigans.
There was a Camel Snuf box toss to determine who got to go first in Round 2. “Camel side up, or no Camel?” Jessica Hopper chose Camel; the oddly shaped box landed no Camel. I chose to go second. She read a piece from a fanzine about her love of Van Morrison’s album T.B. Sheets. Where literary merit was concerned, I knew she had me licked. I followed up with my stapled comics, my best read aloud voice, and my lady drummer love letter.
The judges then called a tie, of all things. (They were, for the record, not nearly as snarky as I had imagined they would be. While they did question the absence of Moe Tucker and Lindy Morrison from my list of female drummers, Franklin Bruno said that my comic made him a) want to drum, and b) question his gender assignment–success!) “What does that mean?” I laughed, to which host Luke Dempsey answered, “We don’t know.” The audience demanded a winner, and the judges conferred again and said I had won the round!
What happens to determine the actual champion in a battle of music writers, though? Why, a game of musical chairs, of course. James Gavin (“I’m scared of you,” he told me before the game began) chose two people for his team, and I chose two for mine (including my friend Mona, fellow teacher, and thus a most awesome secret weapon in a game of musical chairs). We circled the chairs (co-host Erin Hosier tried to cite me for being out as the last one to sit, which prompted us to need a refresher on the rules for, as Luke called it, Fucking Musical Chairs), and then one of James’ team was out, then James was out, then myself, until my two friends and one of James’ marched around two lone chairs. The music stopped. Mona and my friend plopped into chairs. The winner!
I was crowned with a golden record on a string that proclaimed me Literary Death Match Champion, NYC. I said I’d wear it to work today. So far, it looks pretty cool on my desk.
I promise to post here the comic in full, as soon as I get some quality time with my scanner (which may come after some quality time with my mfa app writing sample, but before some quality time with my GRE flash cards (groan)). Big thanks to friends who came out for the night (or watched the BPC live web cast!)
And lady drummers, please know, as always: my love for you stands tall. xo
crunch time
tomorrow is the first of september, and according to the brightly colored reminders that decorate my google calendar, that means: one month and three weeks until the GREs, and three months and one week until MFA applications are due.
it is crunch time.
it’s hard to look back at a summer and deem it either successful or unsuccessful in terms of accomplishing all that one needs to accomplish to feel fully prepared for this marathon application period. will i ever feel that my manuscript is perfectly up to snuff? can i ever guarantee that i am applying to the right mix of top tier and higher odds schools? is this the year every twenty-something queer memoirist from new york applies to mfa programs? is this going to be a waste of several hundred dollars? am i really, really, really, really, really a writer?
let’s not even try to answer these, save for the last one: i’m a writer. there, i said it. i still feel selfish, guilty, insane, grandiose when i say this. (this probably means i’m due back for some time with julia cameron). a writer writes, and to the best of my ability, while also sailing through these months with rock camp, dancing, brunches, shows, bike rides, ice cream, and a few sweet dates, i’ve written. i have about five finished first draft new stories, and about five half-finished first draft stories. i’ve also cobbled together a handful of blog posts and interviews for various publications. as far as my manuscript goes: i’m expected to submit two short stories (more or less). one of these stories will be the story i had published in the full spectrum. and the second story? i’m on the fence, and will be soliciting the advice/revisions/tough love of any and all writer friends who are willing and able in the next week or two.
as the reality of applying to mfa programs truly sinks on (i’m doing this! i’m really, truly doing this!), i need to take a long, hard look at the schools i’m applying to. i am 95% sure that these are the thirteen (omg, thirteen) places i want to apply to. part of me thinks i should whittle this list down to ten or twelve schools; part of me is also still taking everything seth ambramson says as bible (such as his recent answer to an inquiry about iowa’s non fiction program as being ‘top’ for non fiction) and alternately doubting/loving my choices.
for those who haven’t already heard my rationale: i’d like to apply to three year programs, so i can maximize my time to write/develop relationships with faculty. i’m most comfortable writing memoir/essays, so am mostly applying to non-fiction programs, but also would love to attend for fiction (and just take all those memoirs, change some names, places, times, and call it fiction, right?). i’m definitely in need of full funding (or at least decent funding)–but really, who isn’t?
these schools are the ones i’ve researched, read about, perused, and can see myself at. most of this info comes from the creative writing mfa handbook (thank you, tom kealey et al), but also is what i’ve gleaned from the school’s websites and other’s experiences. it very may well have false information here and there, so for the love of god, don’t quote me.
the hopeful thirteen choices:
1.) UT Austin (Austin, TX)
*3 year program; fiction (with a minor in screenwriting, play writing, or poetry)
*full funding ($25 grand stipend; no TAs)
*2% acceptance rate
2.) Syracuse University (Syracuse, NY)
*3 year program; fiction
*partial funding (some fellowships and TAs; prizes and awards for consideration)
*5% acceptance rate
3.) University of Alabama (Tuscaloosa, AL)
*3 year program (4th year optional); fiction (with memoir minor)
*full funding (TAs; some fellowships)
*less than 3% acceptance rate
4.) University of Houston (Houston, TX)
*3 year program; creative non-fiction
*partial funding (TAs; fellowships)
*acceptance rate N/A (although it’s more of a top tier school than not)
5.) Indiana University (Bloomington, IN)
*3 year program; fiction
*full funding
*less than 3% acceptance rate
6.) University of Florida (Gainesville, FL)
*3 year program; fiction
*full funding (fellowships)
*7.5% acceptance rate
7.) University of Minnesota (Minneapolis, MN)
*3 year program; non-fiction
*full funding (tuition waiver; fellowships; TAs)
*5% acceptance rate
8.) Purdue University (West Lafayette, IN)
*3 year program; fiction
*full funding (TAs)
*4% acceptance rate
9.) University of Arkansas (Fayetteville, AR)
* 3 year program; fiction (with non-fiction courses available)
* full funding (tuition waiver; TAs; GAs)
* 4% acceptance rate
10.) UNC Wilimington (Wilmington, NC)
* 3 year program; creative non fiction (with cross genre requirements!)
* partial funding (no fellowships; 40% receive TAs)
* 8.4% acceptance rate
11.) University of Colorado (Boulder, CO)
* 3 year program; fiction (cross genres encouraged)
* partial funding (TAs; 70% receive funding)
* “higher odds” acceptance rate
12.) University of Memphis (Memphis, TN)
* 3 year program; non fiction (interdisciplinary program!)
* partial funding (TAs; GAs; some fellowships)
* “higher odds” acceptance rate
13.) University of Kansas (Lawrence, KS)
* 3 year program; non fiction
* partial funding (GAs; some awards for consideration)
* “higher odds” acceptance rate
i’m never quite sure who’s reading these haphazard blog posts (dear friends? strangers? the twitterverse? my mother?), but i’m here to ask your honest advice. about my choices, my research, my writing, my manuscript, my anything. just tell me. what do you think?
notes from home
on monday i got the call that my pappy had died, and four hours later i was on an amtrak train, going home. we have one saying in my family about death, and that is death is weird. it’s weird. what else can you say about it?
i’ve been here in the suburbs of pennsylvania all week, waiting for the funeral to take place. it is one thing to plan a trip home; it is another to be yanked from your brooklyn summer and thrown here, among family turmoil and drive thrus and the sound of lawn mowers everywhere you go. below is a photo i took from the car window when my brother and i drove to the mall. the town i grew up in is a mash up of farm land and parking lots, shopping centers and tractor crossing. i may only be one state south, but new york couldn’t feel more far away.
on tuesday, i tried to find a good cup of coffee. while the regional chain wawa offers something decent, i was otherwise at a total loss. i wanted a cappucino. i wanted a macchiato. i wanted to hear the sounds of an espresso machine, to watch the barista pull shots on it. there are few vices i depend on; coffee is one of them. the one independent coffeeshop i found in my mother’s town (also drive-thru) only invoked macchiatos in something called a carmel macchiato, and this came in small, medium, and large. it wasn’t the same.
pressed for time that morning, i had to settle on a dunkin donuts, and nearly had a panic attack as i entered the drive thru. i’ve never had to make a decision at a drive thru. you’d think it wouldn’t be much different than stepping up to a cash register and gazing at the menu above, but it is. they didn’t even list beverages on the giant board that accompanied the speaker box i leaned toward. it was just egg and cheese croissant things, flatbread specials, combos 1 2 3 4 5 6.
‘welcome to dunkin donuts,’ someone intoned from the box, ‘how can i help you?’
‘um,’ i said. ‘um.’ it was hot outside, but the air was on in the car. what did people in cars drink in the summertime?
‘can i have an iced? latte?’
‘what flavor?’
i cringed. ‘vanilla?’
‘one french vanilla iced latte,’ he repeated, my coffee now a four word monstrosity. i spit out my order for a chocolate sprinkle donut and pulled along to the pick up window. my latte came with a dome lid, a dollop of whipped cream on top of it. it looked like a milkshake. i found a cup holder and drove back to my mother’s house, discontent.
i always feel like a stranger when i come home. i even have trouble calling it ‘home.’ when i was 18, my parents were planning on a divorce, and going to sell the house. so when i packed for college, i packed everything–i dismantled the bedroom of my formative teenage years, kissed everything goodbye, and vowed to never live at home again. aside from these week long visits, i haven’t. i love my life in brooklyn. in brooklyn, i have terrific friends, a swell apartment; i have coffeeshops, bookstores, places i like to go and where i’m known; i have a bicycle, i have an awesome cat; i’m known as the queer, funny, creative person i am. here, though? it all feels less dimensional.
calendars are for suckers
two weeks into my vacation, and i have lost all sense of time. is it tuesday or friday? when did i go to bed last night? can i still order a bagel at 3pm? i feel like i have eleven months of pent up young urban night owl lifestyle coming through.
here is a small comic about it. for the record, my french press does not usually resemble an eagle wearing a beret, and my head is not that big.
xo, c
wordcount.$&^%&$##
“If you know what you’re going to write when you’re writing a poem, it’s going to be average.” — Derek Walcott
it is okay to not know what you are doing, right?
right.
word count = 1,896
verbs of summer
suddenly you look up and july is 3/4 of the way done.
when not sorting water colors or crayons or construction paper, i have someone managed to pass the summer:
volunteering at rock camp
socializing post-rock camp (this included several nights of convincing myself i am of fit age/mind to stay out until 4 a.m. or so)
writing more little songs/poems than actual manuscript material
making jokes out of gre vocabulary words
playing MASH
listening to holly miranda
learning new bike routes
watching professor get fat
…i have the whole month of august off, and am hoping/praying/preparing to write daily and get to a beach (any beach!) as much as i possibly can. the looming pressure of applying to mfa programs is slowly shifting from the fantasy sector of my brain into the panic portion.
meanwhile, my horoscope says big things are happening this month. i’m hoping a draft of a killer new story is one of those things.
independence
definitions of independence on the web:
- freedom from control or influence of another or others
- the successful ending of the American Revolution; “they maintained close relations with England even after independence”
- a city in western Missouri; the beginning of the Santa Fe Trail
in other words:
when i found a blue 3 speed racer bicycle for sale on craigslist, i worried what it would be like to ride such a fierce thing. it has bull horn handle bars, no fenders, a hard and not very loving seat. i was wearing a blue dress and had my purse with me. ‘it is harder, you know, in a dress,’ said the guy who was selling me the bike. ‘i’m okay,’ i said, hiking up my skirt around my thighs to straddle the bike and pedal around the block. harder in a dress? puh-leeze. watch me, jerk face.
i bought the bike, hitched my purse to the handlebars, snapped on my helmet, took a few practices runs around the block, and then tore through the streets, from chinatown to the financial district, over the brooklyn bridge, home.
it is light enough that i can carry it up the stairs. nothing is more empowering: hoisting my bike up in my hands, purse, dress and all, hiking up the stairs and stashing it in my apartment. hello, new chapter of my bike life.
other personal definitions of independence:
i am off from work tomorrow
i am spending the evening at gorilla coffee, listening to michael jackson songs on youtube and getting some writing done
i am partaking in a YA writers 1K a day challenge, where writers share their writing processes and then post their personal word counts on the blog (sound familiar?)
you can steal my bike, but you can’t keep me my biking self down.
Courtney Gillette 