Mandi Bean's Blog, page 2

On structuring a story.

Artwork by Paul PotThe Backstory

Full Disclosure: Every Tuesday night, I go to a local dive bar (though it’s reimagining itself a coastal, casual dining) with six very good friends — some of the best friends I’ve ever had, as it turns out. Almost every week, without fail, we witness some bizarre or entertaining or hilarious or insane behavior. And without fail, my friends tell me to write it down and turn it into a story or a novel. They want me to turn our weekly adventures into something.

I am discovering this is much, much easier said than done.

My blog has been stagnant for two weeks because I am absolutely stymied as to how to write a short story (which I struggle with normally) that would be entertaining but also discreet.

Luckily, delivered right to my inbox, was this article from Writer’s Digest.

https://www.chhooks.com/homeThe Article

It’s called “Sprinting Across Alligators: How to Use Vignettes as Stepping Stones to Build a Novel” by C.H. Hooks, who is the author of Can’t Shake the Dust (October, 2024; Regal House Publishing) and Alligator Zoo-Park Magic (2019). His work has appeared in publications including: The Los Angeles Review, American Short Fiction, Four Way Review, The Tampa Review, The Bitter Southerner, and Burrow Press. He has been a Tennessee Williams Scholar and Contributor at Sewanee Writers’ Conference, and attended DISQUIET: Dzanc Books International Literary Program. He offers seven tips for using vignettes as building blocks for a novel.

But what is a vignette?

Vignettes

A vignette is defined as “a brief evocative description, account, or episode,” meaning that a vignette is like a short story that “brings strong images, memories, or feelings to mind.” Piecing such episodes together and creating cohesion creates a longer work, like a novel. But they can also stand alone, like chapters or short stories. I’m after the latter, but more than open to the former. Lord knows enough has happened on about a year’s worth of Tuesday nights to fashion a novel from the material.

So how to begin?

The StepsMake a Reasonable Goal
Hooks suggests setting a goal based on the time available to write. I have plenty of time, but what do I want? Just a short story? A couple of short stories? A novel? I think for now, writing one short story and seeing the reaction to it would be good.
List What You Know
Hooks says, “Jot down a quick list of everything you know about your new project. Don’t worry about order, just get the basics of each character, and situations or scenes you know you want to occur, any important settings.” I think this is exactly where I should start. I’m starting to think that maybe the problem is there’s too much material and trying to put it all in one short story is overwhelming. I should get a list down of all the “noteworthy” events and go from there.
Grab Moments
Hooks recommends carrying around a pocket notebook to catch ideas as they come. He also readily admits the Notes app on an iPhone works just fine. I thumbed through my journals but was disappointed to find I hadn’t recorded as much as I though. I need to take a second, closer look and go through some texts, too.
Get Organized
The advice here pertains more to the writing process and deciding on structure. I’m so not here yet.
Start Small
Hooks really gets specific about building small pieces into a larger novel. I’m not entirely sure that’s my end goal here. But I agree with his approach to the vignettes: “Write into each of these vignettes. Try for one per day. Write as much as you can into your characters. Look around inside your settings to get to know the space. I think of each of these as vignettes to be written as small hurdles in the sprint.”
Track Your Progress
Again, this is more towards building towards a novel, so I might skip this step.
Reward Yourself
I like this step. Although, truth be told, I might reward myself a bit too much.The Plan

On my to do list: compile a master list of everything that’s happened on a Tuesday that’s worthy to be included in a story. Then go from there.

Check back here to see how it’s going

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On another year older …

Apologies; the post is later than scheduled this week because Wednesday was my 36th birthday. I had a wonderful time celebrating with friends, and it helped keep the existential dread that accompanies turning another year older at bay.

At least for a little while.

But inevitably, the fear that I’m falling behind creeps up on me. Being completely vulnerable and almost completely honest, by this time in my life, I thought I’d have more. I thought I’d own a home, be married, and have kids. I thought my writing career would be more substantial. I thought I’d be financially comfortable. I thought, and I thought, and I thought … but what have I got?

I’ve got an adorable little apartment where I’ve always wanted to live. I’m single and without kids, but that dream’s not entirely dead. And I submitted to a handful of agents, entered a writing contest, and submitted to an open house for Carnegie Mellon University Press.

I’m another year older and instead of believing I’m another year farther from the life I imagined, I’m working on embracing the belief I’m another year closer to a life beyond my wildest dreams.

Wish me luck <3

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Is It Writer’s Block? Or Something Else?

A representation of writer’s block by Leonid Pasternak (1862–1945)

To be honest, I was struggling with what to write about for this week’s blog post. The obvious answer would be to write about either reading or writing. But my reading life has been quiet. I’ve been working on Sellout by Dan Ozzi on the nonfiction front, and I’m looking forward to reading The Secret History by Donna Tartt, which is more than inline with my Dark Academia wardrobe and aesthetic I’m developing. And unfortunately, there’s not much to report about my writing life. I received ANOTHER rejection from an agent and haven’t done much writing at all to speak of.

I could blame the lack of writing on the start of another school year, but I wasn’t writing in the summer. I could excuse my lack of productivity with the traveling and family emergency, but that would just be an excuse.

It’s like the Universe read my mind and I stumbled across this article by Andy Weir. It’s aptly titled, “4 Reasons You’re Procrastinating Instead of Writing.”

Andy Weir wrote The Martian, which went on to become a box office success starring Matt Damon. He’s somewhat of a self-made writer, gaining notoriety through self-publishing before being approached by agent. For me, that makes him an entirely reliable source. And as the title suggests, he offers up four reasons why the words might not be coming.

1. You don’t know which story to pick

Some writers, myself included, have a lot of ideas they love bouncing around their skulls, and that can make it hard to pick one and start developing a draft.

Weir’s Solution: “Write the first chapter of each story. Once you’ve done that, you’ll have a better appreciation of which one you like the most. And if you finish Chapter 1 on one of them and really don’t want to stop, then there’s your answer.”

I don’t think this is my problem. My current work-in-progress has nearly 32,000 words. I’m not afraid to commit to this draft.

2. Stories are always more awesome in your head than on paper

What Weir’s really talking about here is self-doubt, which is a topic I’ve covered extensively on this blog. Words don’t go on the page because the writer thinks the words will be terrible, awful, very bad, etc.

Weir’s Solution: “Ok, so it won’t be what you imagined. But a story in your head isn’t a story. It’s just a daydream until you actually write it down. So write it down. What’s the worst that can happen? If it sucks, you can delete it.”

This reminds me of the old adage, “Get it write so you can get it right.” A story has to be written before it can be revised and enjoyed by an audience. So many writers have said to just write, to get the work done at the desk.

3. You’ve been telling the story instead of writing it

Every writer wants an audience, and some writers feel compelled to share their story through talking about it to everyone they know. Talking about it incessantly kind of mutes that desire for an audience, so the writing doesn’t seem as urgent.

Weir’s Solution: “Don’t tell your stories to anyone. You’ll be more motivated knowing it’s a prerequisite to having an audience. Also, your friends will be able to give real feedback instead of vague opinions about your unimplemented concepts. And you won’t have to wonder if the person you’re talking to is genuinely interested in your story, or secretly hoping they’ll have a heart attack so they can escape the conversation.”

This is definitely not my issue. I don’t talk about my writing a lot with my friends; my friends who don’t write sometimes have trouble relating, and my friends who do write have their own writing to be concerned with. I’ve actually been told I should talk about my writing more — along the lines of self-promotion.

4. You don’t know how it will end yet

This one’s pretty self explanatory.

Weir’s Solution: “A good plan today is better than a perfect plan tomorrow. Don’t wait for an inspired ending to come to mind. Work your way to the ending and see what comes up. When you actually write it down, you start to see all the avenues. You’ll finish the book sooner and you’ll get more ideas for the ending along the way.”

This is not my issue, either. I do know how my story will end, and I even have some of the ending written.

So What’s A Writer Girl To Do?

The solution to my lack of writing productivity is clear: I need to just sit and write. Maybe I’ll trick myself into getting some words down by going to Barnes & Noble this weekend and making a whole event out of it. Check back here to see how it goes.

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Embracing Dark Academia

From Dead Poets Society, a Transcendental film that embodies the Dark Academia aesthetic and is included in the 10th grade curriculum at the high school where I’ve been teaching for 13 years (and it’s the same high school I attended).

Even though it’s hard for me to believe, tomorrow will be the first day of my thirteenth year of teaching.

I’m excited for this year; I’m teaching Creative Writing again, and I’m teaching English 11, which focuses on British and Irish Literature. My time spent living in Ireland and earning my Master’s degree in Creative Writing are being put to good use in the classroom.

With this new teaching schedule, I’m eager to try other new things, like maybe changing up my personal style. I think that for this academic year, I want to embrace a “Dark Academia” style.

What is Dark Academia?

Probably because of the internet furor that accompanied the film Saltburn, Dark Academia is an aesthetic that became popular on TikTok not too long ago. According to Wikipedia, Dark Academia is “is an internet aesthetic and subculture concerned with higher education, the arts, and literature, or an idealised version thereof.” This aesthetic was also captured in films like Dead Poets Society, Cruel Intentions, and Never Let Me Go, and in books like Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro, The Secret History by Donna Tartt, and One of Us Is Lying by Karen M. McManus. I love those movies and books, and I love higher education and the arts and literature, so I became extremely interested and wanted to learn more. That’s when I discovered it wasn’t just an entertainment trend, but it also applies to fashion.

The look is classic and intellectual, and it should emphasize the image of a refined, studious individual; it’s timeless and scholarly. To build a Dark Academia wardrobe, key pieces are needed. Because it’s heavily influenced by higher education, wardrobe staples for this trend include tweed blazers, chunky knit sweaters, tailored trousers, and turtlenecks in neutral tones. This trend is suited for colder weather, so that gives me time to complied a few outfits to try out during the school year.

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I’m also hoping the change in season and aesthetic will help facilitate a change in my writing, from being nonexistent to being done. It’s long been said that people should dress for the jobs they want, and how you present yourself indicates not only personal style, but the respect you feel for yourself and your endeavors. Check back here as the school year progresses for some Creative Writing lessons and exercises, and to see how Dark Academia worked out for me.

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Falling in Love at a Writer’s Conference

So, as promised — here is a short story. To be transparent, it is not brand new. I started writing this in 2019, but I’ve edited and revised it, using Anton Chekhov‘s six principles for a good short story:

“Absence of lengthy verbiage of political-social-economic nature”“Total objectivity”“Truthful descriptions of persons and objects”“Extreme brevity”“Audacity and originality: flee the stereotype”“Compassion”

Let’s see how I did.

I fell absolutely head over heels in love this weekend, and I almost managed to do it at first sight.

That probably sounds dramatic, but that doesn’t make it any less true. To be fair, I should also mention that I fall in love all the time, like almost every day. To be honest, I fall in love with practically every man I meet. I’ve never really stopped to ponder what such a truth communicates about me as a person, and it’s better you make up your own mind about that, anyway. And with that disclaimer, let me begin again: recently, I fell in love.

I fancy myself a writer, so I attend writing conferences where, as you can probably already guess, I fall fast and hard for some creative but mildly tortured soul. I’ve done it before and I am bound to do it again. And this past weekend in New York City was no exception.

The conference was held in one of New York’s older buildings with a heavy front door, a wobbly railing along a noisy, spiraling staircase, and an anachronistically comfortable air. It rejected the sleek modernity of the metropolis surrounding it, and therefore seemed the perfect fit for a bunch of creative types, who mostly felt like they didn’t quite fit in anywhere.

The room where the day’s seminar was being held was small, and so was my group. We had been learning together since Friday. Smaller isn’t always better, but in the instances of writing workshops, it most certainly is. The fewer the writers, the greater the chance of standing out and having one’s genius satisfactorily noticed, which is the goal, really. Few writers, I think, will readily admit they’re talented but if someone else points it out, far be it from them to argue. A fellow attendee, seemingly in agreement, made the comment that many creative types can be summed up in the following line: “Look at me, but don’t look at me.”

In the small room in the comfortable building with the seemingly timid writers, the carpet was a repulsive shade of green, but it matched the same awful hue smeared over the cushions of the ancient, rickety chairs that circled an ancient, rickety table. Everything in the room seemed old and it might have exhibited a more dignified air if not for the putrid green accent color.

I shuffled in with the others, taking an inconspicuous seat in the middle of the right side of the table, the side closest to the exit. I didn’t want to scoot out early or anything, but I wanted to keep the option open as this section of the conference had assigned homework that I had not done.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I’m too much of a try-hard to ignore homework completely, so I had completed half of the assignment. I had annotated the ever-loving shit out of a short story and had honestly endeavored to find a deep revelation in every line. The pages were covered in ink, in brilliant discoveries, I hoped. But as soon as everyone was seated, the man leading the session cleared his throat, introduced himself, and announced we’d start by analytically discussing the poetry packet, the very same packet I’d neglected. It fucking figured, and I suddenly hated the man.

I remembered seeing him at the start of the conference two days before, at a semi-swanky reception with wine and passed hors d’oeuvres, and from the start, I’d pegged him as a real blowhard, a pedantic and self-righteous academic who’d be both awful and impossible to talk to. Maybe it was because of the predictable blazer he wore, or maybe it was the easy air of confidence he had as he glamorously maneuvered about the room from table to table, or maybe it was the fact that he never came to the table I hovered around. Whatever the reason, I knew him for what he was as soon as I saw him, so when the prick picked the one thing I hadn’t done to start with, I knew he’d done it on purpose to make me feel stupid and small. I decided his seminar would be boring. There was absolutely nothing to be learned from him and I wasn’t even going to try. Fuck him.

As he spoke, he had the annoying habit of using his hands and his arms to punctuate his points. It was distracting and unprofessional, flailing his limbs about the way he was.

But as the session continued, I softened towards its leader. With nothing in the room to distract me, with nothing to do but listen, his personality actually revealed itself to be muted, like the art had to come first no matter what and he was just a sort of conduit. In fact, the more he spoke, the less sure of himself he seemed and the more relatable he became. Between his dodgy eye contact and very slight stutter, he became less and less of a vindictive villain and more and more of a harmless intellectual.

And what an intellectual he was. Sheer brilliance came tumbling out of his mouth with every syllable. His whole face lit up as he passionately discussed how all writing is really just human discourse no matter the medium, but since poetry was the focus, he explained the essence of poetry is compression because a single image or a concrete noun becomes evocative of an entire scene. That idea, he further explained, makes the language of a poem very important, but does not necessarily negate the old adage that less is more because at some point, the poet must engage the reader. So he asked us: when is writing explicitly performative?

I couldn’t answer. I had no answer. All I could think about was explicitly performing for him. I watched his hands pass through his dark hair, thick and unruly, and it was enchanting. I felt short of breath and while I longed to make eye contact, I was terrified my face would give me away. I became hyper aware of how my mouth was moving, mortified at the thought of it hanging stupidly open, or of him seeing me lick my lips as my imaginative mind whipped itself into an erotic, frantic frenzy when it should have been concerned with lines and with rhythm and with meter and with meaning. I had to force myself back to the present moment and pay attention.

He said something about maybe taking a break because he admitted he talked at length at an extremely elevated level and that we were all likely either bored or tired. I laughed. I wanted him to know that I thought he was funny, that I knew he could be as charming as he could be cerebral.

He looked right at me and told me that he wasn’t being funny. He told me to get out.

There was a split second where I was worried he was serious, but his dark eyes were twinkling and his precious mouth twitched itself into a smile and then we were both laughing. We were sharing a moment. I knew right then and there that it was love. To prove it, mere moments later, I was struck by the sharp pangs of jealousy.

Some wispy woman in light linen raised her hand and began to pontificate about how she had understood the classical allusion hidden in the title of the poem we were currently discussing. Her dark hair had been neatly twirled into a smart-looking bun at the back of her small head, and the bun was the perfect contrast to the elegantly disheveled, bohemian nature of her maxi dress that was a color concerned with being appropriately fashionable for the season. She made me wish I was beautiful. And to add insult to injury, she was smart and articulate. I never had a chance; he was probably composing a poem for her in his head while she talked and while I just sat and stared. 

But my envy and self-pity transformed into something else as I watched her talk. She closed her eyes at random, inexplicable intervals and when they were opened, she studied herself in an ornate, gilded oval mirror hanging behind the brilliant man leading the discussion. Several aspects of this irritated me. She checked her reflection instead of his reaction, and I couldn’t understand her desire to look anywhere else but at his handsome face. Nor could I understand why she would want to talk over him when his voice had a unique musicality to it that perfectly complemented the deep, masculine tonality of it, creating a gorgeous lilting effect. I assumed she was as desperate for his approval and singular attention as I was, and where I had failed, she had achieved both. I felt like a spent gladiator, dropping to my knees in the dusty sand of the arena in dramatic defeat, willing whatever beast set to consume me to make it quick. I didn’t want to feel a thing.

But a miraculous thing happened: he did not let the beautiful, brainy, bohemian woman control the discussion. He didn’t bury her in praise, but challenged her assertion and redirected the focus to the previous point he had been in the middle of making. They hadn’t laughed, hadn’t shared anything. I was back in the game.

I had imagined enchanting and enthralling him later that evening at a more social event. When I spotted him across the dark pub, the beautiful, brainy, and bohemian woman had attached herself to him. The best I could do was pathetically hang around a garbage can so I could casually assault him with conversation should he need to throw anything away. I was desperate, and I knew it. The rest of the conference passed without incident, and my great literary love affair never got off the ground.

But it did get onto this page, and that’s something.

Comment and let me know what you think!

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On blessings and miles and miracles.

I honestly do not understand how I could be so deserving of such love and consideration that’s been shown to me recently. I am so thankful and blessed to have so many good people in my life.

Car Trouble … Again

I asked my mechanic to squeeze me into his hectic schedule to give my car a once-over before traveling to Kansas to visit my brother, my sister-in-law, and my newest nephew. I figured all it needed was an oil change as I went to Florida and back at the beginning of the summer. But as I was making my way to his shop, the check engine light came on and the engine was emitting a terrible noise that sounded like a high-pitched scream. It was not a simple oil change.

But my mechanic was kind and patient — as always — and said he’d take care of it. I left the car with him and took an Uber back to my place, where I was promptly scooped up and treated to dinner by good friends. We walked the boardwalk afterwards, and even though I wanted to rage about the injustice of failed plans, it was an absolutely perfect evening. They even drove my car key back to my mechanic’s because in my self-pity and anxiety, I forgot to leave it.

The car was ready by the next afternoon: incredible. I’d been so excited about traveling nearly halfway across this beautiful country to meet my newest nephew, Jamison, and visit with my brother Mike and his wife Abby. Abby and Jamison both nearly died during his delivery two months ago, so it was a special, emotionally-charged endeavor to get to see them. When it almost became an impossibility, I was devastated. The expense could be managed, but if I didn’t have a car, that became a serious issue. They live two hours from the nearest airport, so I’d have to rent a car. When I looked at ticket prices, they were exorbitant. It was cheaper to just rent a car and go, so that became my Plan B. But my mechanic came though.

Hitting the Road

I left my apartment in Seaside just before 3 AM; the trip was supposed to take 18 hours, which is about the same travel time as when I go to see Maddie and the boys in Florida. Only this time, I was traveling west instead of south. I really appreciated the change in scenery. I-95 gets boring and monotonous real quick.

Any good road trip starts with a stop at Wawa for coffee, and I filled my 24 oz cup all the way to the tippy top, which proved a fatal mistake later. With caffeine and a full tank of gas, I hit the road. An hour later, I was in Pennsylvania … and covered in coffee. I spilled nearly half the cup when I went to pick it up from the holder. Luckily, it wasn’t burning hot anymore. When I stopped in Pennsylvania to fill up around 7:30 AM, I changed my clothes and got some breakfast.

By 9 AM, I had made it through Pennsylvania and West Virginia, and I had just entered Ohio. I was making *beautiful* time. My ETA was 7:47 PM.

I stopped for lunch in Indiana and once I hit Illinois, the time zone changed and I “lost” an hour. The GPS also added an hour because there was a road closure due to flooding, so I was good and cranky before I entered Missouri. But the scenery was stunning and there was minimal traffic, so I just cranked the radio and kept on keeping on.

I crossed into Kansas around 9 pm and was at my brother’s house just 10 minutes later. And I got to hold my nephew.

Writing Life and Real Life

The details of this trip may seem boring, but as my next novel will center around a cross-country road trip, I wanted to pay special attention to the minor details and the logistics of interstate travel, in addition to the breathtaking imagery and points of interest. For example, I could have stopped to see Abraham Lincoln’s birthplace, and/or the world’s largest gavel. And there was a country store that dealt exclusively with “bullets, boots, britches, and bologna.” How could that not make it into a novel?

And my nephew Jamison is perfect, absolutely perfect. Despite needing to be resuscitated and undergoing a cooling treatment at birth, he’s wonderful. I changed poopy diapers and he projectile-vomited formula all over me, and it’s all been worth it. Mike and Abby are excellent parents; Mike even did my laundry for me.

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On Writing a Short Story with Anton Chekhov

Anton Chekhov

Two summers back, I read Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose and despite the overall tone of the writing, I found it useful in my writing — and reading — life. The book reinforced the importance of editing and came with a reading list, which I’ve been slowly but surely making my way through. To that end, I finally finished a collection of short stories by Anton Chekhov.

Prose was basically obsessed with Chekhov and referenced him constantly. She said, “It’s a good idea to have a designated section of your bookshelf (perhaps the one nearest your desk) for books by writers who have obviously worked on their sentences, revising and polishing them into gems that continue to dazzle us” (Prose 47). And Chekhov must be one of those writers because he’s still considered a major influence by many writers, including Virginia Woolf and Raymond Carver, who actually called Chekhov the “greatest short story writer who ever lived.”

So if I’m being completely honest, it was a STRUGGLE for me to get through the collection — 18 months of struggle, to be exact. In my humble opinion, some of his stories were overwritten with meandering plots. I’m not alone in such criticism; Ernest Hemingway and Vladimir Nabokov both were unimpressed with Chekhov.

However, Chekhov is considered the master of the short story, so I read the collection to possibly improve my own writing in the genre. I struggled to maintain interest, but that could simply be because my life feels very removed from Russia in the 1880s. There were undoubtedly beautiful lines and I did thoroughly enjoy a few selections, which I’ll list at the end of this post.

So What Did I Learn From Chekhov?

According to the introduction to the collection, written by Richard Pevear, Chekhov had six principles for a good short story:

Absence of lengthy verbiage of a political-social-economic nature
Though it’s dangerous to deal in absolutes, I do feel it’s safe to say no reader wants a lecture. We’re living in some of the most divisive times in recent memory, so it’s better to tap into what’s common: love, loss, jealousy, grief, joy, etc. Plots can be as fantastical or as mundane as the author wants as long they’re grounded in a very real emotional experience. Total objectivity
Objectivity is defined as: “the quality or character of being objective : lack of favoritism toward one side or another : freedom from bias.” I think the most important part of that definition is the last part: freedom from bias. Again, readers don’t want to be lectured. They are looking for an experience so there needs to be space for the reader to bring their subjectivity to the story.Truthful descriptions of persons and objects
And that aforementioned objectivity can only be successfully achieved if the writing is honest.Extreme brevity
Though I feel like the collection contained MANY examples of Chekhov disregarding this principle, it’s important for a writer to be skilled in compression. There’s a delicate line between getting lost in the prose because it’s stunning and getting lost in the prose because there’s just too much. It’s important to remember that what is not written is just as important as what is.Audacity and originality — flee the stereotype!
This, for me, is the most challenging of Chekhov’s six principles. Trying to become a successful, established writer in 2024 after centuries of beautifully crafted novels and stories is a tall order in and of itself without the added pressure of coming up with something *new*. Compassion
This isn’t only true for writing; everything should be done with compassion.

Did I really learn anything, though? In two weeks, I’ll post a short story and you can let me know how I did

Reading Recommendations

“The Huntsman”
“Sleepy”
“The House with the Mezzanine: An Artist’s Story”
“The Lady with the Little Dog”

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On writing and money (part two).

It’s tough to do your best work when you’re constantly worried about money. -LitHub

Last week, I wrote about the main characters from two novels: The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald and An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser. Though they had distinctly different personalities, they both suffered tragic fates because of a common flaw, which “…can perhaps best be interpreted as dramas of dream versus reality, of ideal versus real, and of the inability of the respective protagonists to reconcile, or balance, the dialectic” (Kehl 219). They believed money would solve all their problems, that if they belonged to the upper echelon of society, everything would be perfect.

I was wondering the same thing as I walked to the mailbox to send out my rent check earlier this month. Lately, I’ve been waking up sweating. I’m worried about money — constantly. And unfortunately, writers don’t make money. Even if I realize my most cherished dream of being even a moderately successful writer, I’ll still be plagued with money troubles. LitHub wrote a wonderful six-part series titled “The Myth of the Middle Class Writer” that was honest about writing and money.

According to a 2022 Authors Guild survey of 5,699 published authors, the median gross pre-tax income of full-time, established authors was $25,000 per year, only $10,000 of which was from book-related sources. In contrast, in 1989, the median author income was $23,000, not adjusted for inflation. Of the Authors Guild’s respondents, 56 percent said they made extra income from events, ghost writing, teaching, and yes, journalism. At the same time, the rental market has climbed to new heights.

Writers aren’t making a ton of money and that fact coupled with inflation and rising prices of just about everything really brings that idea of the struggling/starving artist into the spotlight. But if this is a real problem for authors, how come no one’s writing about it? At least, there certainly aren’t modern authors addressing financial stressors and social class like Fitzgerald and Dresier did. According to LitHub, “It could certainly be the case that in modern America we simply do not notice how much money a person has, or how much they’re likely to come into. But this flies in the face of … most people’s experience of daily life. Because the truth is that while we don’t openly discuss how much money people have, we certainly spend a lot of time thinking about it.”

I know that’s true for me.

The article goes on to point out, “For instance, a friend once told me the easiest way to know if a college-educated person has rich parents is to ask if they have student loans. Does the MC in Leaving Atocha Station have student loans? Does Bunny in The Secret History have student loans? Which characters in Nathaniel P have student loans? This is a simple and extremely legible financial marker that one would expect to appear routinely in novels, but it doesn’t.”

Is not writing about money in fiction a kind of denial of its importance in the day-to-day life? A small act of rebellion? A willing choice to prefer the dream over reality? And if becoming an established writer is not going to solve my money woes, what should I do? Should I get a second job? My friend mentioned her place of business was looking for a hostess, and that would put me in the company of all different kinds of people, which would certainly help inspire the writing.

Right? Or am I romanticizing everything again? According to this LitHub article, that was partly inspired by “Bad Waitress” by Becca Schuh, it’s becoming more and more common for writers to scratch a living in the service industry. “I was trying to cultivate an image of the person I wanted to become. A waitress at a shitty IHOP that’s not even in San Diego proper isn’t much to start adulthood from. But a waitress at a shitty IHOP that’s not even in San Diego who’s definitely for sure going to be a writer—well, it’s the start of a story.”

I picked teaching as my career because I love reading and writing, the students are clever and engaging, and because I thought the schedule gave me plenty of time to write. For the most part, that’s entirely true. But teaching exhausts me mentally and physically, and it can be a struggle to find the motivation or the inspiration to write. And teaching doesn’t necessarily pay all the bills. “Waitressing funded my rent and bills and food and clothes so I could spend the time that was leftover figuring out how to be a writer.” This falls right in line with Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs; a writer cannot be creative if she’s worried about where her next meal is coming from. Granted I’m not that destitute, but I’m definitely not living in the lap of luxury either.

At worst, my dream of being an established writer is not everything I’ve built it up to be in my mind. At best, I keep on keepin’ on and see what happens. Because there is an undeniable part of me that argues against the statistics and even what I know to be true. I use extreme examples to validate my almost delusional level of hope (and not just in my writing life). Like, Stephen King was living in a trailer and unable to afford electricity when Carrie became the phenomenon that it did. So all we can do is keep trying. Right?

*Article recommendation: https://lithub.com/writing-as-labor-doing-more-with-less-together/*

The post On writing and money (part two). appeared first on mandi bean: writer.

On writing and money (part one).

“It was so hard to be poor, not to have money and position, and to be able to do in life exactly as you wished.” – Theodore Dresier, An American Tragedy

In my high school English classroom, the last novel we studied was the American classic (and my favorite novel of all time) The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. It is a timeless, powerful study of contemporary America and the ultimate denial of the American Dream for those working to achieve it. With that in mind, and based on the recommendation of actor Andrew McCarthy, I decided to read An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser: a sizable novel that was released at the same time as Fitzgerald’s novel and explores similar themes. What do these American classics communicate about the American Dream?

Jay Gatsby and Clyde GriffithsComparing the Characters

Jay Gatsby of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s masterpiece The Great Gatsby and Clyde Griffiths, the protagonist of Dreiser’s novel An American Tragedy, are both considered to be victims “…of the contemporary American Dream” (Spindler 63). That is, the belief that in America, a person can be successful as long as they work hard. That belief “…is grounded in the production phase of American capitalism; moral value is placed upon a disciplined and abstemious life; and the existence of the class hierarchy is legitimated by a belief in predestination, adapted in such a way that economic success is taken as the confirmation of virtue, and failure, conversely, as the stigma of moral fault” (Spindler 68). In short, good people were successful and wealthy as evidence of their good moral character, since those less fortunate were slighted by whatever was lacking in their moral characters. Wealth and happiness go hand in hand: the richer someone is, the happier that person is. However, both characters are victims of a misplaced certainty in that American dream. Both characters personify the reality that money isn’t everything.

Jay Gatsby: Transcendentalist?

Another American ideology that plays into that definition of the American Dream is Transcendentalism. It was the first major American philosophy, and it had four main tenants, but the most applicable to this discourse is that people are inherently good, the spiritual center of the universe. Fitzgerald seems to be more of a Transcendentalist, emphasizing that Gatsby’s greatest gift was his extraordinary gift for hope. Gatsby’s smile is also noted for how it makes the person seeing the smile feel rather than having anything to do with Gatsby himself. Gatsby gave to others in hopes that generosity would be returned, specifically in the affections of Daisy Buchanan. In essence, he really did do it all for love. In addition, in a touching scene before Gatsby’s funeral, Gatsby’s father shows Nick Gatsby’s schedule from when Gatsby was a young boy to show that he was indeed disciplined and not self-indulgent. To this end, Gatsby does not partake in the same vices his innumerable party guests did; he doesn’t drink or flirt or even dance. The only compliment narrator Nick Carraway ever pays Gatsby is that he’s “worth the whole damn bunch put together,” meaning that Gatsby stands out because he has an “incorruptible dream” and is not careless in the way the characters Tom and Daisy Buchanan are. Also, Gatsby is self-reliant and earns his wealth rather than inherits it. While this keeps him for being ingratiated into the “old money” social class, it does speak to the disciplined, abstemious nature that signals a worthiness of success. Unfortunately, his nature and good intentions are not enough to save him from a lonely, tragic fate: Gatsby is murdered and dies alone.

There is Something Darkly Romantic about Clyde Griffiths

Comparatively, Dreiser seems to be more influenced by the Dark Romanticism movement, which countered the optimism of Transcendentalism. Most prevalent in the works Edgar Allan Poe, Herman Melville, and Nathaniel Hawthorne, and focusing on darker spiritual truths, Dark Romanticism explored the human potential for evil. It also explored the psychological effects of sin and guilt. Clyde Griffiths is a perfect character study in that he lacks Gatsby’s moral fortitude. He is selfish and he suffers from a juvenile self-centeredness, a “fundamental flaw in Clyde’s character … Clyde had a soul that was not destined to grow up” (Spindler 67). He measures other characters only by what they can do for him and by what need they can fill for him. Clyde’s “…increasing reliance on a male version of the Cinderella myth, in which Sondra Finchley is cast as a Princess Charming who will spirit him into the ranks of the rich by marriage” (Spindler 69) is also evidence of his weak moral character. He is not necessarily willing to put in the work needed to earn wealth. He thumbs his nose at various jobs in the beginning of the novel, deciding to work as a bellboy at a luxury hotel for the optics of such a position, to be surrounded by wealth and luxury as if he can acquire it by osmosis. “Because Clyde lacks self-reliance and a willingness to put himself forward, he relies on ‘chance’ and ‘luck'” (Micklus 11). Clyde and Gatsby differ in their personalities in their levels of ambition, but the greater difference comes from their moral foundations.

Hit and Runs, Murder, and Money

Interestingly, both novels feature a hit-and-run incident. Gatsby does not stop, but intends to take the blame for the death of Myrtle Wilson to protect Daisy Buchanan, the love of his life. His accumulation of wealth is really all for Daisy, to win her back and reclaim a better part of himself he attributes to loving her. In Clyde’s case, he is involved in a hit-and-run accident that kills a little girl. He is with a group of young people that “borrows” a car and is speeding to get it back. In their reckless speed, they run the girl down and do their best to evade the police. This results in them wrecking the car, and Clyde escapes on foot. He does not take accountability for his actions, nor does he is concerned with the wellbeing of his friends. This not only further illustrates Clyde’s moral shortcomings, but also foreshadows his violent attack on Roberta.

Roberta is from the same lower social class as Clyde and because he is somewhat spurned by his rich relatives upon arriving in Lycurgus, he is lonely. He ignores his uncle’s rule that supervisors can not enter into romantic relationships with the workers under their supervision, and he seduces Roberta. Because Clyde lacks “…any substantial core of self and the improbability of real growth” (Spindler 67), he does not take accountability for getting Roberta pregnant. When Roberta demands that he marry her and acknowledge the relationship, he murders Roberta and their unborn child. He wants to be with Sondra and live a life of luxury. Clyde is ultimately found out, tried in a court of law, convicted of the crime, and executed for his transgression.

Gatsby and Clyde both come to disastrous ends via different trajectories, but their origin stories are similar. Both long for the good life. “Clyde, born in the slums, of weak parents, romanticizes the idea of wealth, associates it with beautiful women, and longs for the life of riches and pleasure–which will always be beyond his grasp” (Lehan 187). Similarly, Gatsby runs away from his poor, shiftless parents to reinvent himself. Both come close to realizing their dreams but fall short because of their status of “outsider.” This is emphasized in both works, by the difference between “…the eastern Griffithses and the Finchleys with their power and affluence derived from the ownership of capital” and “…the western Griffithses and Aldens, owners of practically nothing, with their impotence and penury” (Spindler 64), just like the difference between the more fashionable, old monied East Egg and gaudy, distasteful West Egg. The wealthy are morally and physically separated from the impoverished. Undaunted by this way of the world, Clyde shares Gatsby’s desire to move between the locations and the social classes they represent. “Born of the one class, Clyde longs to be of the other, and An American Tragedy is essentially the story of his attempt and failure to cross the great divide” (Spindler 64). And that desire becomes incarnate in romantic inclinations. Like Gatsby, Clyde “…observes that it requires an expensive style of dress and hence a certain amount of money to win girls….” (Spindler 64). Much like Gatsby who learned what he could from his mentor Dan Cody to masquerade in desirable social circles, “Imitation is [Clyde’s] key mode of development” (Spindler 66). Both characters know how to play the part of a wealthy bachelor, but both characters lack the money to validate the image.

Both characters also fail to recognize the emptiness of the luxury they so ardently yearn for. “Clyde lives in a world he does not understand…. …in reality is ostentatious and gaudy wealth” (Lehan 187-8). Gatsby and Clyde are misguided because they conflate love and happiness with wealth and material goods. Both Clyde and Gatsby become victims of the American Dream turned American Nightmare. “Therein lies the tragedy: even when given a second chance, men–perhaps because they are men–will only repeat their failure” (Micklus 14). Gatsby admits that he could still be a great man if he could only forget he ever loved Daisy Buchanan. He tries to repeat the past and even when he has Daisy in his arms in his colossal mansion, it is not enough — he is not satisfied. Though Clyde does not want to repeat any part of his past and is constantly running from it, he does not learn from it. He continues to be selfish and cruel.

Conclusion

Money does not save either of character from a tragic end. America has certainly changed in the last century, but the idea that money can not buy true happiness persists. America is still a capitalist society where money is king, but it is openly acknowledged that chasing wealth is not the way to live.

So what does that mean for me, a struggling writer? I’ll put it all together in next week’s post.

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I’m Back … Again

I am SICK AND TIRED of writing about my life blowing up. At least this time, it was a false alarm of sorts.

The day before life was momentarily upended, I had a really good day. I saw an apartment that was completely affordable AND a block and a half from the beach and a block from my favorite bar in the place I’ve most wanted to live. I ended the night by FaceTiming with brother and his wife; she had a scheduled induction and I was going to have a new nephew any moment. Life was good — the calm before the storm.

Just a few hours later, my brother’s wife had their son with major, life-threatening complications. The hospital says she suffered an amniotic fluid embolism, which is extremely rare and unpreventable. She lost five liters of blood and Jamison, their son, was without oxygen for ten minutes. He needed CPR. When my little brother called me at work and told me, when he mentioned the baby would undergo brain function testing at the end of the week, it felt like everything inside me withered and collapsed. The prognosis was BAD; the EEG was very troubling.

Thankfully, I work with amazingly compassionate people. I was on the phone with my brother by the mailboxes near the main office, so everyone saw me unravel: the security guard, the principal’s secretary, the supervisor, the principal, the vice principals, even the superintendent. They ushered me into an office and let me explain. My principal gave me the rest of the year off and the next day, I left for Florida. I helped dog-sit and housesit while my parents left to be with my brother and his family in Kansas.

By some miracle — that’s really the only explanation — my brother’s wife and son recovered. They should both be dead. AFE (amniotic fluid embolism) has a mortality rate of over 60%. But my brother told me he heard his son cry and saw him move, so I knew it couldn’t be as bad as Maddie’s injury. His wife, Abby, was in dire straits for a couple of days. He called my mom in tears, telling her he “couldn’t lose them both.” But even Abby recovered and they’re all happy and at home. I plan on visiting next month and meeting my family’s second miracle.

How many miracles does a family get? Is there a limit?

I stayed in Florida an extra two weeks after my parents returned from Kansas. I got to spend time with everyone and see Maddie perform extraordinarily well during therapy. Despite the rough start, the summer is turning out to be really wonderful.

A former classmate reached out to me on Facebook to ask for a link to my author page on Amazon. He wants to suggest my titles to his fiancee’s book club.

And one of my closest friends, whose opinion I happen to highly value, is in the middle of Moody Blue and really enjoying it.

So I find myself at Barnes & Noble, trying to write and get back into the groove. I read some Anton Chekhov before I sat down. I’m about to finally be done with his book of short stories that I’ve been trying to read for two years. I’m hoping it will help me write some short stories of my own.

And I still haven’t managed to secure an agent. I’m giving it until my birthday, and then I’m going to look for small but reputable presses and just work on marketing.

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