Saturday, September 29, 2007

earning my MFL

I feel the terror of idleness, like a red thirst.—Mary Oliver, from “The Deer”

It’s a bit tricky for the workaholic in me to let up. (As faithful readers of this blog probably realize…) I list, goal, and plan myself to death. I think it’s out of fear, though. Especially last year—I was afraid that I might see this writing stint as one gloriously long summer vacation. And then slip into idleness… sleeping in, slouching around, forgetting to put words on paper.

That fear is, thankfully, subsiding. With over 42,600 words down, this novel is beginning to grow, (almost) on its own. I’m keeping index cards (one of many good tips from Anne Lamott) everywhere. In each purse, by the bed, in the bathroom, in the kitchen, in my back pocket. Heaven help me if I think of the perfect line and I’m away from paper!

But I’ve learned, too, that to burn myself out on writing is a horrible mistake. Working for a bit over five hours each day means I can make a lot of progress while still having enough of a brain left to finish out the day. If I go much beyond that—to seven hours or so—the next day pays for it. I sit drooling opposite a blank screen and finally leave the desk after two hours. Not a fabulous equation. (And drooling is never good.)

Five hours of work leaves a lot of room in the day for other things, though. And while I know I’ve done well as a writer that day, I don’t feel like I have a career. “Real” jobs involve 9-5, right? And while I turn my clock off for lunch and for coffee breaks, I feel like I’m still not putting in enough time, whatever that means. How much could ever be enough if you’re writing a novel?

That lack of career-ness worried me. Until I began to think of this time as my own, tailored graduate program. Yes, really. Some programs last two years, right? Which is at least how long I’ll be here. And I could call it an MFL: a Masters in Fine Living degree.

Somehow, thinking of this time as school-related (the only way I know how to think—semesters, quarters, classes) helps keep the anal-retentive monkeys off my back. I can accept being a student: I’ve been one all my life. And these days are truly filled with learning: How to Write a Novel. That would be my main class. It has many units: How to Design a Protagonist. How to Research. How to End a Chapter. How to Avoid Discouragement.

But there are other things I’m working on—cooking, for one. Yesterday I made my second (and better!) apple pie of the week, and two nights ago I created an Indian meal. Oh, and there were also some muffins in there somewhere… Cooking sharpens creativity, I am convinced. (And let’s face it: I like devouring the results.)

I’m trying also to resurrect my piano playing abilities… which have gone distressingly dormant. I’m fumbling all over the keys just to pick out a C scale! I used to be better at this!!

I also dug out my French textbook, and I’m relearning the vocabulary and sentence structures very slowly. (Which means that I can, once again, order an omelet. Do all foreign-language textbooks begin with food?) It’s good practice, just in case my dream of opening a bookstore in Paris works out…

And then, there’s letter-writing. So many of my friends live far away, and I love to write them letters. (And receive their replies! Is there anything more wonderful than a letter from a distant friend? Make tea, curl up, and hear their voice again…) I have a slowly-growing collection of stationery, and there’s something satisfying about sealing a full envelope. One friend and I made a deal last year: we’d send emails to update each other, to say this is what I’m up to, etc. etc. But when we wanted a good talk, when we wanted to say what we were thinking and feeling, what was new in our minds and what had changed, we’d write a letter. And we’re honoring that.

So there you have it! Full days of a fine living graduate program.

This is all pretty simple, really. And it’s what I’ve been trying to do all along—take advantage of each day, develop the skills I already have, forcing myself to grow. But framing it like a school year takes some of the pressure off. As a student, I never looked over my shoulder, wondering if I was studying right, if my attitude to homework was correct. I just did my work. It’s freeing, really, to say It’s okay, I’m just learning.

And when I “graduate,” I’ll have a novel at several literary agencies; a gourmet meal repertoire; a healthy correspondence with good friends; those French verbs ringing in my ears again; and a handful of memorized piano pieces.

It won’t help my eventual job search, really. Can you imagine the résumé? Objective: Trying to live deliberately. Education: BA in English; MFL degree. Experience: Perfected a Golden Delicious Pie; Memorized a Haydn Sonatina; Wrote twelve letters to far-flung friends…

Delusional, murmurs the Director of Human Resources, folding my résumé into a paper airplane. About the only thing this “degree” qualifies me for is to be good company at a nineteenth-century dinner party.

Those of you who are in cubicles are screeching with laughter… and I admit I’m being idealistic. Blame it on my age, I guess. If a twentysomething—and an aspiring novel writer at that!—can’t be idealistic, who can??—jl

Posted by Jenn Langefeld on 09/29 at 02:15 PM
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