Posts Tagged ‘writing’

“Ephemera” was this week’s theme. The assignment was to create a poem that would fade over time. The example we practiced in class was sidewalk chalk, i.e., write it on the ground, then it rains, and it’s gone forever.

My grand idea was to take scissors and cut a poem into the grass, and then take a picture of it from the roof. In execution, this idea did not work out so well: I cut my words far too small to be seen from the roof, even with my little phone camera zoomed in as far as it could be. Days before, I had gone up to the roof on a reconnaissance mission to take pictures of the area I planned to work in, and gauge how big I needed my letters to be. But, alas, it didn’t really help. I’m sure math would have been useful here—the angle of my vision from the elevated height, the difference of how things farther away look smaller—there must be equations for this.

“For Keeps” was the poem—or aphorism, really—that I chose. Because it isn’t for keeps, the grass will grow back. Ba-da-bum. I’m going to give this project a second go-around, now that I’ve, in a sense, done a first draft. I can also better estimate how long it will take. (In my too-small first edition, I spent about 5 minutes per letter, cutting with scissors. I need to give myself a bigger window of time in which to complete it.) Also, I’m not really happy with scissors as my cutting implement, but I can’t think of anything else to use. I don’t want to till the dirt, just give the grass a haircut. Any suggestions for a different tool are appreciated.

It’s also worth noting that this assignment brings up the idea of how we experience art, experience a poem. If we’re not in the environment when the poem is happening, then we don’t get to experience it. One could see a photograph of it after the fact, but that’s different from being in the same space as the poem during its intended existence. 

-Holly Weinberg 


When you’re sitting hunched at your desk, your tailbone aching, your self-loathing at an all-time high—and your screen white with the exception of phrases like “Darius Hunter stared at the candle flame, listening to the wind rustling the high grass of fdglakfdjgir”—certain thoughts spring to mind. Thoughts that make you keep going.

Thoughts like, “One day, someone will appreciate my work, and they’ll publish me, and everyone will love me and I’ll never be lonely again.”

I’m writing to give my fellow writers hope. Those delusional thoughts to get you to the next paragraph are only mostly bullshit.

Last fall, I wrote a story called “The Monster.” I worked hard on it—as hard as I work on any of my stories that I care about enough to see through to the end. My advisor, Susie Merrell, suggested I submit it to TSR: The Southampton Review.

I don’t know about you, but when someone says something kind about my work, I think they must be lying. I dream up some reason why this person might be invested in stroking my fragile ego. Susie must have wanted to build my confidence so I would not end up as a semi-permanent thesis candidate throwing out draft after draft.

The story was published in TSR. The story was also reprinted in an illustrated literary magazine called Carrier Pigeon. It feels nice to see your words in print.

A few months ago, TSR caught the attention of Electric Literature’s Recommended Reading, an online magazine with a monthly readership of 60,000. They reprint recent work that is recommended by authors and editors as well as old gems by established writers. They asked TSR to recommend a few stories from their archives. Out of those stories, Electric Literature chose mine.

“Fantastic!” I thought. It was an honor to have a story published on a site I loved, and maybe I would never be lonely again and maybe people would at last appreciate….no, it couldn’t be….maybe Susie, who is an editor at TSR, pulled some strings (she wouldn’t do this); maybe the other choices were carelessly picked, maybe, I don’t know, luck? The editors were on drugs?

The week of its publication, I was nervous. People on the internet are mean. What if they tweeted hate? Worse, what if they tweeted nothing at all?

“The Monster” received an excellent response. Hundreds of Facebook shares, tweets…tumbles? People were talking about it, people were enjoying it, my words reached people…who were probably all just my mom in disguise, right?

An agent contacted me, wanting to see my collection.

An editor at Penguin contacted me, wanting to speak to my (non-existent) agent.

Another agent, who had requested to see the entirety of my collection based on the strength of “The Monster” and a couple of other stories, was suddenly a bit more interested. 

It wasn’t just industry people who found the story compelling. A high school teacher in Pennsylvania, who taught “The Monster” to his class, wrote to say that his students loved it. A professor at Texas State University is creating an exercise based on the story for his blog and interviewed me about the writing process ( —a very cool blog by the way). 

All of this is glamorous. But more importantly, the success of “The Monster” shows me that I’m not crazy, that I’m not delusional. I have things to say and I say them in a way that moves other people, and that is one of the only things I have ever wanted.

At the end of October, I will be reading “The Monster” at Fiction Addiction’s reading series (, which will be hosted by Electric Literature. I’ll probably vomit beforehand, the other readers are much better than I am and the only reason that I was also chosen to read was because my story kind of fits with Halloween, and everyone in the audience will be my mom in disguise.

These are the things I think about while I stare at a white screen.  


The course of my day is entirely dependent on my class schedule. My classes are night-only, meaning I have the entire day to work, or get some writing done, or do nothing but play video games all day, as the case may be. This leaves me bright-eyed and ready to write in the evenings (rather than the perpetual fog of grogginess in which I stumbled about during my undergraduate years, plagued with 8 AM classes throughout the week).

Based on these considerately timed classes, what I write will vary throughout the week. Early in the week, my work is strictly memoir in nature: I will pen creative nonfiction in class and prepare a larger submission for workshopping every few weeks. Midweek, I attend the graduate writing class with the rest of the MFA students in my year, writing personal essays and stories connected to our assigned reading material. And towards the end of the school week, we critique one another’s fiction and discuss the work of published authors in a short fiction workshop.

The effect that this (coupled with the writings of a more academic or professional nature which I do for the university when I’m at work) has impressed upon me is that, unlike in undergraduate school, writing is integral here, and it will continue to be so from here on out. Of course, I take no issue with that. It’s all good practice. And the evening classes aren’t exactly a dealbreaker either.


It’s all about the writing. Go to class, write. Go home, write, read some required readings, write immediately after. Write, write. Right? That’s a typical day for an MFA’er, and that’s what it should be: Action. Because that’s the only way to get better and, well, that’s why I’m here. All three of the courses I’m taking this semester—Intro to Graduate Studies, Screenwriting, and Short Fiction—have heavy reading loads. But all of that reading is the only way to lay a sturdy foundation to write better. It’s not just to learn technique, and reading isn’t always for learning. Often it serves as inspiration. See something you like in a short story? Try doing it yourself! How about something you can’t stand? See if you can do it better! So far in my young experience here, that’s what these classes do: give you a constant supply of gas for your creative tank. I leave every class with no less than 50 pages of new material to go over. With three classes like that, it’s pretty tough to not find something to write about. Just keep writing, just keep writing. That’s MFA life here, and that’s how it should be. It’s a pleasure to be aboard!