Grants Wished and Wishes Granted

On Thanksgiving of 2004, I spent two hours on an essay I had wanted to start for a long time. It’s called, “Lists: A List,” and I finished the first draft two days later, after eight more hours of writing. I blogged about it. In that entry, I talk about my writing dilemma, especially as concerns my family.

When he finished reading my essay, Marty told me he liked it very much. He liked the writing. He liked the subject matter. He liked this and that of it, the weaving, the message, the music. But what makes me think, with my credit card debt, I should be sitting on my ass all day writing, doing things that don't pay me yet, expending all this effort on speculation that I might, some day, get this piece published?

The essay firmed up my decision to pursue my MFA in Creative Nonfiction at Goucher College; I enrolled the following fall. I took “Lists” to my first summer workshop because my mentor had worked for The Atlantic, and I so wanted to have a piece like this published in a place like that.

I could tell right away that I was not his type of writer. I wasn’t reporterly; my phrases were too gymnastic. He said he liked some of it but later advised me to remove the more personal, experimental part. I wrote a separate version his way, which he thought was almost there. But I hated it. It had lost all its soul. I wanted the world to know what my husband keeps on his night table:

1. at least four books against George W. Bush, one for him, a biography he has yet to read (for a year now, Theodore Rex), and two selected works of Neitzsche, sandwiched between silver elephant bookends that he didn’t want and, if it were up to him, wouldn’t have;
2. a pair of dollar-store reading glasses;
3. a lamp;
4. the telephone;
5. two alarm clocks set to beep and to chime at five and five ten a.m.
Twice a week, for about ten or fifteen minutes, there is also a foil condom wrapper.

(In the interest of nonfiction, I should reveal that it’s now on the nightstand only once a week.)

Experimental and personal might be a harder sell, but it’s a much better piece with my favorite words and the things I keep in my “gross things box.” It has now been rejected by a few nice places, including Creative Nonfiction magazine, which wrote me a nice letter of praise.

Last winter, I entered “Lists” in the Mid-American Review’s Creative Nonfiction contest, and I made the short list, the top five. I was proud of that accomplishment, though my name and honor wasn’t listed anywhere except a private telephone call and a personal e-mail.

I haven’t sent the essay out since February, when I used it to apply for a City Arts grant. Yesterday, I won that $1,000.

It’s great to be acknowledged for my writing—especially monetarily, and especially when I sat on my ass those many hours those years ago, taking the risk.

The only downside of this event is the fact that all of my windfall will have to go toward chipping away at my relationship with Bank of America, who, incidentally, sent us a $50 gift certificate yesterday for our application troubles.

Today, in celebration of my grant award, I spent a couple hours writing a 1,300-word essay on the state of Baltimore City’s 311 services, as they relate to graffiti in Herring Run Park. I have a query out to The Sun. If they decline it, you’ll likely see it here. Either way, I’m doing what I’m born to do: “sitting on my ass all day writing, doing things that don’t pay me yet....”