I. Here’s what the fall semester looks like for me:
About a post a week, a lot of different ideas, space to think and write about my thinking, and none of this counts all the time I have to watch Hallmark Christmas Movies and post about them.
Here’s what the spring semester looks like for me:
I hate the spring semester. The spring semester, every year, can go to hell.
II. It’s unfair to blame this term, which is busy because I teach an actual class while directing the program, as opposed to teaching the directed study theses courses I do with 5 students over the course of the fall, itself the same amount of work-hours as an actual class of 10 students, but far more blissful and easygoing and pleasurable in the one-on-one format. Plus the long list of directing duties that for boring reasons fall on this semester to do, and I won’t bore you with it all, because, like I said, it’s not all this semester’s fault. I should also blame my writing.
I wrote a lot last year, nearly 50,000 words of the second half of my memoir, and it was chiefly capturing work. I had to put memories and old feelings into words, often for the first time, and while it had its challenges—I’m not yet convinced this book is even readable, much less publishable—they were challenges of persistence. I had to just keep going.
Since January I’ve been writing an essay about something I’ve only told my therapist about, and my partner, and on top of the same persistence against shame and self-loathing, it’s taken a lot of attention-work. I’ve had to think really hard about what all of this means, and how to write about it in a way that doesn’t make people hate me, and knowing how little time I’m able to put to my writing, and how scant the energy I can give it after all the shitwork of spring, I haven’t thought a lick about this blog.
It paid off. I finished the draft this morning. I think it’s going to be good, but I always think that of a new thing. Then the publishing process comes….
III. The other day, my phone did something such that Instagram stopped working. I forced quit it, nothing. I restarted my phone, nothing. So I uninstalled it, and then realized I didn’t have to reinstall it. Months ago, I logged out of Twitter on my phone’s web browser, and as I use strong, cryptic passwords through LastPass, and now that LastPass only works on my laptop, I don’t know how to log back in again on my phone.
Old habits die hard. Today in the library I walked past this book, and I took this photo:
I realized my caption would be, “Sure, Alva,” but I had nowhere to post it.
Except here. Would anyone see anything I put up here without social media directing them over here? Is that a gift for what I might do with this space?
Before the spring semester burst like a water main in the basement of my pandemic life, I’d had the idea of writing a newsletter, delivering this blog to people’s inboxes, but then I stopped being able to see what pleasure would lie in that. 2021 has so far been about a drop in my satisfaction when writing things that don’t matter.
IV. But also, two wonderful things happened to me this year. One is that I discovered 70’s/80’s San Francisco synthpunk band the Units. They aren’t well known, but if they’re known they’re known for this perfect song:
I’ve written about this before, how some bands match the ongoing sounds that run in your head all the time, and how mine seem to be the asynchronous chewings of a hive full of bees. Constant busyness. That’s this song. I feel grateful to get to spend the second half of my life with it buzzing in me.
The other wonderful thing is that Neal and I have signed a lease on a 3-story townhome that will provide us with a laundry room, a second toilet, a guest bedroom, and a dining room where I can actually sit and write in a room that’s not The One Room We Always Sit In Every Day. For seven years we’ve been convinced that we’d never be able to live in what I still think of as an adult home, and then rents dropped because enough people think this city’s top selling point is its proximity to Silicon Valley. So not every part of this pandemic has been a dank basement.
UPDATE: In addition to the standard SFTU offer below, I’ll give away MS critiques to anyone who donates to the Minnesota Freedom Fund, the George Floyd Memorial Fund, or any other fund related to #BlackLivesMatter and stopping the ongoing police murder of black people. Same conditions apply as per below.
Some Background As the San Francisco Bay Area has, you probably know, the highest rent in the country, we continually see the swift removal of longtime residents and local communities whose jobs don’t pay them what tech workers’ jobs do. The coronavirus has made all this much worse.
The San Francisco Tenants Union has received a deluge of calls since shelter-in-place closed the city’s dining and entertainment venues. Many people aren’t earning money right now, and they’re worried about how they’ll pay rent. There are steps tenants can take to keep their apartments, but rather than go through it all, many are choosing to leave town, often giving up their rent control, and all but ensuring they won’t be able to afford to return.
For more than 50 years, the SFTU has fought unjust evictions, landlord greed, and the erasure of our communities. It advocates for tenants’ rights among city officials by building a broad coalition of renters, lawyers, and activists across the city.
They need donations to help with this work, and that’s where my work comes in.
The Offer To help raise funds, I’m offering a manuscript critique and consultation to anybody who makes a donation to the SFTU. You can do so here. It’s quick and easy.
Who I Am I’m the author of books in nonfiction and fiction. I’ve published more than a dozen essays and another dozen short stories in national journals and magazines. But what you really should know is that I’ve been reading MFA student manuscripts on a near-daily basis for 10 years now. I do a very careful job of meeting writers where they are with their work, and reading it closely to help them better reach their visions for a piece. My students regularly publish pieces I’ve helped them revise in journals and magazines. I like to think I’m easy to work with, though just as everyone does I have specific tastes and philosophies about writing. This blog should give you a sense of those; for more CV-type specifics, click on my bio.
What I’ll Do – read a finished draft of your essay, short story, or book chapter – mark it up (in pen) to document my reading process and reactions – type up a 1-page overall assessment, with suggestions for revision – email this assessment and a PDF of your marked-up MS back to you – optional: schedule a 20-minute one-on-one video conference with you to talk about your piece and answer any questions you might have (see below)
What It Costs The cost for all this is a donation to the SFTU in the amount of (at least) $2 per number of pages in your manuscript (minimum 10 pages). If you want to schedule the 20-minute consultation, it’s $3/page. So: somebody with a 17-page essay who wants a follow-up conference should plan to donate at least $51.
(Pretty good deal!)
What You Need to Do – donate the requisite amount directly to the SFTU (or a relevant #BlackLivesMatter fund) – save or print evidence of your donation – find a finished draft to format in 12-pt double-spaced Times with 1.25″ margins – email your donation evidence and a PDF of your formatted manuscript to firstname.lastname@example.org – maybe write a little note to tell me about yourself and where you are with the piece, or anything you think I need to know in advance of reading it
Some Fine Print Though I welcome your donating more than once, this offer is for one consultation per person. You don’t want me reading your poems, so please don’t send poems, but I’m familiar with and have published lyric essays. Again, there’s a 10-page minimum. Let’s call it a 40-page maximum, just in case. By “finished” I mean the thing should be a standalone piece with an ending (or a complete chapter), but not anything that you’ve already published. Please see above for formatting guidelines. I’ll do my best to get your manuscript returned to you within a week, but I have no idea how many people will sign up for this so I thank you in advance for your flexibility. I also reserve the right to end this offer if I get overwhelmed. I am, after all, on sabbatical. But if this post is still up without any language to the contrary, the offer still stands. If you have any additional questions, email me.
And thank you for your help. If you’d like to continue to help in the fight to keep people housed—especially if you live in another part of the country—visit Just Shelter.
fly SFO to IAD car to Centreville, Virginia stay at friend’s, 2 nights car to Fairfax, Virginia stay at sister’s, 1 night subway to Washington, D.C. car to Fairfax stay at sister’s, 1 night train to Williamsburg, Virginia stay at folks’, 3 nights train to New York, New York subway to Brooklyn stay with friend, 1 night subway to Manhattan train to Rutherford, New Jersey stay with friend, 2 nights car to Manhattan subway to Brooklyn stay with friend, 1 night car to Brooklyn stay with friend, 2 nights car to Brooklyn stay with friend, 2 nights car to Manhattan train to Essex Junction, Vermont car to Burlington, Vermont stay with friend, 2 nights car to Johnson, Vermont stay at Vermont Studio Center, 26 nights shuttle van to Burlington stay with friend, 1 night car to Essex Junction train to New York subway to Brooklyn stay with friend, 2 nights car to JFK JFK to KEF KEF to HEL train to Helsinki, Finland stay at Seurahuone Hotel, 1 night bus to Sysmä, Finland stay at Villa Sarkia, 10 nights bus to Helsinki stay at Hotel F6, 1 night ferry to Tallinn, Estonia ferry to Helsinki stay at F6 Hotel, 1 night train to St. Petersburg, Russia stay at Four Seasons Hotel, 2 nights car to Pushkin, Russia car to St. Petersburg stay at Four Seasons Hotel, 1 night train to Helsinki stay at Marski Hotel, 1 night bus to Sysmä stay at Villa Sarkia, 7 nights bus to Helsinki train to HEL HEL to KEF HEF to BOS stay at Hilton Boston Logan, 1 night shuttle van to Logan Airport bus to Portland, Maine bus to Bangor, Maine shuttle van to Monson, Maine stay at Monson Arts, 7 nights walk to Appalachian Trail walk to Monson stay at Monson Arts, 5 nights car to Québec, Canada stay at Chateau Frontenac, 1 night car to Monson stay at Monson Arts, 10 nights shuttle van to Bangor bus to BOS BOS to SFO car home
Places in bold I saw for the first time. If you count the U.S. and my layovers in Iceland, that’s six different countries I traveled to in three months. Jeers to the suspicious dicks at the border into Canada for not stamping our passports. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the U.S. is so much more chill about letting people cross its borders than every other country in North America.
Without activists, we could live in a world where the sex I have would throw me in jail, and where nazis would be granted carte blanche in all our public spaces. Trust activists. Trust antifascists. They are the heart of any democracy.
But they don’t speak my language.
I think this post is about some feelings I’ve had lately when I’ve tweeted, which is about the only way I speak up in a room anymore.
Activist language orients the listener toward an issue, and makes direct, sincere claims about how the listener ought to feel or act regarding that issue.
For instance, this recent tweet someone in my feed retweeted:
You know what’s hard? Losing a loved one to cancer. You know what’s not hard? Not watching football anymore. Not supporting teams & businesses that support a racist, misogynistic president. Not teaching fiction written by problematic white men.
That language operates on one level. It’s sparse, which I’m using in opposition to “dense”, in that the language asserts its literal meaning. It’s denotative language. It is by needs unnuanced. [*] Activist language cannot abide nuance, because nuance deals with subtle differences in meaning, and subtlety works against the aim of activist language, which is to be heard and understood.
I find activist language is very easy to tune out: either its message is one I’ve heard enough to’ve come to accept and agree with it, or it asserts a claim too brief and certain for me to engage in.
Black lives matter. Yes, always, forever they do, so let’s start punishing the cops who keep killing unarmed black people.
God hates fags. Oh like you know.
Here’s my least favorite example of activist language at work:
This is a problem. If we want our literature to capture the contemporary world, if we want that art to grow, staffing the infrastructure behind its dissemination with such a vast white majority stands in the way of that art’s becoming.
But “Read less straight white men” is stupid advice. It asserts that it would be better to read Ann Coulter or Dinesh D’Souza or Milo Yianopolous[†] over Matthew Desmond, whose Evicted has been heralded as one of the best books written about poverty and institutional racism in the last decade.
Pointing this out is to insist on nuance in an encounter uninterested, as I’ve said, in nuance. It asks people to use reason to make choices, not passion. Calls for nuance in an activist encounter are seen as attempts to silence the activist. They are seen as trying to argue against the issue.
I get it, though I disagree. I can also work to tear down the patriarchy and want more diverse workforces in publishing houses while saying that a sign that says “Read less straight white men” is simply (and doubly, given the grammar) stupid.
It makes me so embarrassed for the person holding that sign, but like god bless her for not being embarrassed to hold that sign. Every activist is brave for speaking up in a room. I know it’s not easy.
You might chalk all this up to a lack of conviction or sincerity on my part, and you might be on to something. It’s not that I don’t stand for anything, or that the positions I stand for are safe and privileged. Abortion should be both legal and free. Decriminalize public sex. Abolish Megan’s Law. I stand for all kinds of politically unsavory things that I believe in my heart would make this a better world.
But I’m uneasy just saying it. Or maybe what I am is too easily bored? Because to me the most salient feature of activist language is its humorlessness.
Funny things seem easy to dismiss. The Oscars does it every year to comedies. The court jester is the biggest fool in the palace. Funny people assert that we don’t take them seriously—and we used to heed them, before we collectively lost our confidence in reporters and news media and turned to the Jon Stewarts of the world to tell us the truth.
But as every comedian knows, it’s difficult to assume a defensive stance amid humorousness. Good comedians can call you, or your mother, terribly hurtful things—stupid, fat, ugly, tiny-dicked, etc.—and get you to enjoy the fun of it.
Their language is multi-level language. It speaks, and any number of messages are getting across. This, I think, is what makes it my language. I can’t tune it out. Nor does it ignite me into a quick counterargument. I’m unsettled, nondefensive, and sometimes in that place some new understanding slithers through.
Some people call this “laughtivism” but I could use a 10-year moratorium on portmanteaus. My favorite example is Veep, which is as smart about politics and D.C. as anything I read in the news, and gets also to be very funny. My favorite more explicit example of what I’m getting at is this guy:
Matt Buck is smart enough to know that for some hateful people it’s delightful to be hated, but for people filled with seriousness and passion it feels like shit to be laughed at. It’s deflating. It’s like reports of the president fuming when women play his male cabinet members on TV.
Note: about 35 seconds in, the person filming, I think, offers some narration: “And this is what stupid looks like.” It’s activist language, and it makes me so angry. It does its one-level thing and clomps on the toes of Buck’s far more nuanced takedown.
That narration operates in the reverse direction of what I’m calling for. Like I said, we need activists to make a democracy function. And so we need their language. What I’m taking as my role, maybe, or just how I want to live my life and participate in this democracy, is to follow two steps:
Hear activist language. Look into the messages it’s telling me.
Make something new with it. Form it into art that sneaks the message into the minds of whatever audience I might be lucky to get, the way I’ve heard pet owners slip heartworm pills into their dogs’ canned food.
Footnotes (↵ returns to text)
For starters, you don’t know the nature of the relationship I may have with the person I’ve lost to cancer, or the agony we both felt living with their painful cancer for so long, nor do you know the nature of my relationship to my loved one who may make their living and pay our bills from working on televised football games. The world is vast and sometimes hard to imagine but it’s crucial that we do that work of imagining. What has been easy for you is not always easy for everyone, and they’re not bad people for their different difficulties.↵
Welcome back. I took some time off to redesign the website, and I want up front to thank Beth Sullivan for the outstanding (and very patient) work she did on it. You should hire her.
While things were under construction, I was keeping up with my year of queer reading. To catch you up, here’s the list since Humiliation:
Are You My Mother? – Alison Bechdel
Andy Warhol – Wayne Koestenbaum
Zami: A New Spelling of My Name – Audre Lorde
Caroline, or Change – Tony Kushner
Less – Andrew Sean Greer
The Fact of a Body: A Murder and a Memoir – Alexandria Marzano-Lesnevich
How to Write an Autobiographical Novel: Essays – Alexander Chee
Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl – Carrie Brownstein
Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl – Andrew Lawlor
Abandon Me: Memoirs – Melissa Febos
I’m also a slow reader. Expect a post or two about these once I’m back from the NonfictioNow conference. I’m happy and relieved to have this space back to work out ideas about books and queers and teaching and guitar tabs and whatever messes I get into.
Today, I’ve got an essay up at Lithub about the choices I made to become queer, an essayist, and an artist. Its title was taken from a panel at last year’s NonfictioNow Conference, which got me thinking about how these three words were related in my own life. Thanks to editors Tim Denevi and Emily Firetog for shepherding it out into the world.