It’s my turn to go into the bubble tonight and it could get
interesting.
“The bubble” is MFA speak for everyone in the room
discussing your work while you remain completely inert.
If post-class commentary is any indicator, my first bubble
experience went exceedingly well. The
prevailing sentiment was that I am freaking hilarious, although with a penchant
toward going “over the top" and relying on endings that “over-state
their case.”
They don’t necessarily see the logical path from a missing sandwich to the complexity of stories on and off the page, or a damaged breakfast icon to the salvage of lost dreams.
Part of me thinks it’s their loss and part of me worries.
“You’re the only one in the program who has ever attempted
to do this,” prof Dan Not His Real Name explained.
Overall, that’s not really great news, because the humorous-yet-meaningful
essay concept of isn’t original. What it
says to me is that no one in the program knows the genre. We’ve already established the fact that I’ve
read entirely different books than the rest of the cadre. Which means my literary “teachers”—writers
like Robert Fulgham and Lori Notaro—are complete strangers to those who will be
coaching me toward what I dream could be my eventual success in the genre.
But I’m also left to wonder if, perhaps in a world where
political unrest, financial crisis, and natural disaster demand the attention
of our best minds, even-- perhaps especially-- our scribes, there’s not much
need for observations from the back of the fridge, or other tiny little specks
on the globe.
Tonight’s bubble experience will be further complicated by
the fact that, due to a formatting error (I forgot to double space) I
accidently sent twice as much material as requested. Further analysis revealed the possibility probability that I sent a less-than-thoroughly edited rendition of the text, thereby
increasing the likelihood for spirited discussion, and an riveting experience
within the bubble. I figure it’s the
closest I’ll ever get to being a fly on the wall.
Note: an email came in from Dan, mid-post composition, asking the workshoppers to go to plug in a few sentences of our work to determine which famous author we are most like. I sampled 4 pieces of text—two were my most recent blog posts) and discovered that I’m a mini Corey Doctorow. Or perhaps Oscar Wilde. Maybe Margaret Alwood. Or, who knows, Stephanie Meyer. It’s just as likely that I emulate my Husky, Audrey, who has a strong voice—prone to all manner of prolonged ululations—but not very good at communicating her intended meaning. Take your pick.
Note: an email came in from Dan, mid-post composition, asking the workshoppers to go to plug in a few sentences of our work to determine which famous author we are most like. I sampled 4 pieces of text—two were my most recent blog posts) and discovered that I’m a mini Corey Doctorow. Or perhaps Oscar Wilde. Maybe Margaret Alwood. Or, who knows, Stephanie Meyer. It’s just as likely that I emulate my Husky, Audrey, who has a strong voice—prone to all manner of prolonged ululations—but not very good at communicating her intended meaning. Take your pick.
And this piece evidently harkens of nineteenth century horror icon:
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