The Archives: Vol. 3
In which I talk about the work from my past
I’m doing this little flashback series to combat the feeling of wanting to bury myself and my past during scary times. Here’s the first and second. Now, here’s the third.
Stellium
After half of a three-year MFA program at the University of Minnesota, I had to admit that it sucked. I was an underdeveloped graduate teaching assistant and I felt awful for my students. There were no friendships of substance. I had yet another racist incident with a different professor (or two, or three). Then, less than a year in, I was diagnosed with transverse myelitis. It was a mess of a time.
I wrote a whole piece I planned to share while I was there, “exposing the truths” that everyone already knew, but I benched it. That essay has been sitting in my drafts for about four years now. So, of course, now’s the arbitrary time to share it.
Before I do that, however, I do want to talk about the shining beacon I made for myself and other Black queer writers during that time. It happened fast. I started grad school in September 2020 and Stellium was up by November.
Above, you’ll see a screen recording of the now archived Stellium Literary website. The URL got snatched up fast after the site went down in 2023, now belonging to a generated SEO-grabber type group that talks about libidos and sex drives. I feel like I’d be less offended if the squatters published something more closely related to stelliums.
I describe what a stellium is on that site — I was and am still pretty heavily into astrology — but the gist was that I felt like Black queer writers everywhere were all connected by our similar experiences even though we were different people. Sappy? Perhaps. But true.
We had five issues. We had amazing editors. We paid every contributor. But when we ran out of funds, that’s when I shut it down. Many a magazine has no issue publishing folks’ work for free, and some people agreed that they would’ve been happy to do it. But I took issue with that. Writing is work. Art is work. You should be paid — in one way or another — for everything you wish to produce, in my opinion.
I felt like if the writers and artists were okay publishing for free, they didn’t need us. Maybe that was the wrong choice. Still, securing grants felt like a laborious and labyrinthine task. One person told me that I’d have no problem getting money because we were so “minority-focused” but that just felt like the kids in high school assuming I’d get into every college because of affirmative action. It’s just not true.
Anyway, I loved that magazine. I like to think that when I magically get the funds, it’ll be revived, maybe in a different form. Maybe as a publishing house or a production company.
I’ll share now the piece that I planned to publish those years ago. Keep in mind that it’s very specific to 2021 and the issues that plagued us then. I was also a lot more long-winded. But the issues aren’t unfamiliar; I wish I could say we’ve progressed so much since.
Summer 2021
A week before my 25th birthday, I took a virtual Clarion West course on Modern Southern Gothic with writer Eden Royce. In the course, there were still a number of non-Southerners demanding to be taught more about the South, and a peppering of white people requesting the instant formula for writing “diverse characters.” But by the power of the ancestors and Royce’s guiding hand, my writing style was validated. Certain craft questions were answered in under two hours. A game-changer compared to the last nine months spent completing my first and last year of graduate school.
I frequently use the phrase, “it dawned on me,” in my writing and I was just about to use it here but the truth is that I've been beat over the head with this knowledge for at least a year before this course. There is a conformity about the writing in most MFA programs across this country and, if you do not fit it, you will learn to do so or your will to write will be crushed unceremoniously. That doesn't mean that you’re unable to circumvent this conditioning, take your degree, and run. Nor does it mean that it’s all bad. But I have a feeling it changes you forever.
Royce’s course outlined the themes of Southern Gothic writing today (think Eve’s Bayou on the page or Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God) and throughout, I recognized my preferred style and craft choices so clearly.
The course released the reminder that there is an unnatural amount of work needed to paint your writing as legitimate when it is just misunderstood (especially when you’re queer, almost always when you’re Southern, and most definitely when you’re Black). You rarely have this opportunity when you’re in workshop (in my case, the traditional Iowan “silent until the end” style) to correct or explore certain interpretations. By the end, you’re so flooded with a mixed bag of suggestions that you may be unable to ask follow-up questions, and if your target audience is not present (which mine was not), you may end up with a host of concerns that will encourage you to conform to how everyone else writes to make next time simpler.
Eventually, my tricks for doing the least amount of emotional work were failing me. Turning in stories to workshop that I knew were incomplete or unready so I didn’t feel as bad when they were ripped to shreds only served to leave my “best” work untouched and unedited.
We also touched on the overwhelming hand Blackness has on this style of gothic writing and discussed tenets like dialect, inactive protagonists, exposing violence, and the way it’s frequently reclassified as “genre writing” (fantasy, sci-fi) instead of literature due to the presence of ghosts or other otherworldly experiences. There is also a heavy discussion of class in almost all types of Southern work, often avoided by other styles.
It also answered my concern around my supposed lack of nuance and fluidity in my work. The idea that I don’t map out recurring themes to drive the point of my stories home is an inherently racist one. Black people think, too.
During the program, I internalized and participated in dishing out all of these interactions. By the end of the year, I hated my writing style. Royce’s course warned me to quit while I’m ahead. There is no effort to understand in workshop, only to correct. And I kick myself for falling into the trap, too. I don’t want to change my (or anyone else’s) style of writing, I want to improve understanding. And if that requires starting from scratch, I’d rather not.
After all, the CIA-funded origins of the program persist, encouraging uniformity across the board. What could I expect? At UMN, it has been pushed back on by professors of color. They can see the impact that traditional workshop structure is having on Black writers explicitly. The lack of support for them is telling.
I’ve also found myself working through questions largely alone, despite the space I’ve made for my voice in my own lit mag, which seems to render the program useless.
Is my use of magic or violence within Black characters contributing to a certain trope or is it an on-going intracommunity discussion around power? Am I capable or is it right to write in different voices even if tangential to my #ownvoice? Can I establish myself as a Black queer Southern gothic writer without the “helping hand” of a space that has already written me off? Will someone want my packet of simple stories? Or should I just hold my breath for the next death in my community and pray publishers will look my way to cash in on a wave of hypervisibility?
***
When I think back on why I applied to programs, it was to prove a point. I am smart enough to be somewhere that only accepts a certain number of people per year. Their acceptance is my value and will reflect it as such. My desire was tainted by wanting to lean into a silly vision of #BlackExcellence.
Once I was in, that feeling mostly diminished. So perhaps my lack of competitiveness made the experience less enjoyable. I didn’t see my classmates as enemies but, frequently, this is the feeling and actual message I get from instructors, guests, and my peers alike. There is only so much room for success and not all of you will get it. This was hard to swallow. Scarcity doesn’t come from my writing community. It comes from those controlling the output of literature and, if anything, I’d rather eat them alive. Not my neighbor.
Am I here to create or to compete?
This has been a theme in every professional space for me, which makes it hard to work. My lack of aggression is seen widely as a lack of drive. But it’s just my way of self-preservation in an overwhelming, cutthroat world.
For a minute, before dropping out, I assumed that maybe I just wasn’t ready; that I should have built up my brand better as Alexander Chee suggests. But I entered with no expectations, not low ones, despite how often Black writers warn against their own programs (Pittsburgh, Ole Miss, Iowa, and so forth). I was still underwhelmed by the level of support. The amount of emotional effort needed just to make it through the day/a class/the year is ignored. These places itch to avoid larger discussions of mental health, racism, homophobia, and other strains on our collective psyche.
Yet, I completely understand why marginalized people may feel the need to just tough it out. There are so few opportunities outside of this space unless you are well-off or connected. If you have the funds to submit multiple entries for a number of contests or publications, you’ll certainly catch the eye of that well-known residency which could then allow you to pursue this high-end book deal. There is a chance for publishing on merit-based work alone but you must be patient. Only a certain number of marginalized writers are published per year and if it doesn’t comp, you may need to wait until it does.
The resources needed to pursue our literature, art, and even community-based work are hoarded. The number of fellowships, residencies, and grants that I am eligible to apply to have dwindled because I do not currently have a book deal nor am I a candidate for anything related to academia. The exclusivity is exactly what keeps you feeling like you are “worth it.”
***
So what next? Work. Fellowships. Individualized workshops.
I am worried about the loss of writing time but I am quite capable of living frugally as a writer. I’m clinging to a bunch of tips and tricks from my childhood in a single-parent household. My biggest concern is finding health insurance that will help me sustain myself after a scare of transverse myelitis this spring. I’ll miss the structured writing time but not the pressures of its community (or lack thereof).