As an early Christmas gift to myself, I ordered a copy of Of a Monstrous Child. It’s self-described as an anthology of writing relationships, with mentors* introducing the work of their mentees and vice versa (and it features Bark’s own Sam Ligon).

Three days ago, I finally started reading it.

I’m not very far yet—only through the first duo of introductions and stories, but this is largely because I spend most of my time with this book flipping through it. I glance through the introductions, looking for connections and observations, but then, when I start to read—really read—I let the book fall, let the pages close. Anthologies can be explored in any order, of course, but for this first read, I want to experience it in the way the editors thought best.

I met with a fellow faculty member yesterday to discuss a freelance writing course we may end up teaching together this summer, and our discussion eventually turned to the idea of mentorship. We talked about our experiences in our MFA programs (and before, in undergrad), talked about the ways the faculty helped us over stumbling blocks, the ways they saw and encouraged our strengths. We talked about times we hadn’t been challenged enough. Read more »

Last summer, I was invited to attend a summer writer’s workshop, the kind that could expose my writing to agents and editors, decreasing the inevitable future of paying off student loans as a green-hat at McDonalds. As part of the acceptance packet, I received a card with a questionnaire about my living arrangements. With the exception of not being a vegetarian, or bi-curious, the questions seemed to define how much of a wannabe writer stereotype I am. Yes, I eat meat; yes, I smoke; yes, I drink alcohol; yes, I’m filled with angst. The last question asked me to rate, on a scale from one to five, how social I thought I was. Instead of being honest, I shaded the fourth box.

For the last few years, I’ve operated under the false assumption that an aspiring writer is a shut-in. As a matter of fact, what’s most appealing about the idea of being a writer is that it’s one of the few jobs you can do in your pajamas. With a computer, a television, a treadmill, and a trip to the grocery store, you too can live like hamster. Sweatpants and ugly T-shirts with things like ONE DOLLAR MAMOGRAMS can be your business casual. But that’s only partly true.

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