DEAR ROW: So being new in Philly, I’m attempting to cozy up to writers who look like me, you know, women and brown. For a little solidarity. Another perspective. To keep me hopeful. Provide feedback. Maybe even find inspiration in investing my time in another artist. Write it forward, you know? Like pay it forward, but in writing: artist genuinely helping other artists. I strongly believe that when others close to you are succeeding, your time will soon come. So help a sister-artist or brother-artist out, yo…
But I also genuinely would like to
meet folks outside of my new theater internship. Because in this City of
Brotherly Love, I truly only know my father and newly relocated cousins. And if
I’m seriously considering Philadelphia as a candidate for a ‘settle’ worthy
city post graduation, I need to gingerly and safely spread the sisterly love.
Anyway, the other day I attended a QBWWC. Mistake. I have nothing against people under
the age of twenty-five. Their spirits are like steamed milk with lots of foam.
Or a cloud. I guess I could have just said cumulonimbus cloud, with no threat
of rain. They’re like ready to jump off of a cliff any minute to feed a
homeless person. Effng gotta love that…
I thought the point of the group was
to write, via writing exercises and/or prompts. We wrote. Did some writing, of
course. No one really wanted to share their pieces though. There was a lot of
uncomfortably awkward silence and darting of the eyes to advert one another’s
stares. And then for about an hour I felt pushed into a discussion about queer
disability advocacy work, or the lack there of. And the effectiveness of
polemical activists, like Cornel West. Were we trying to solve something, and I
just wasn’t in on the mission? A healthy political discussion any other time is
like foreplay to me, but this was to foster our craft and hang with like-minded
writers. But their gosh darn beautiful youthful spirits misled me to a
store-front Queer Panthers meeting... I do hope they never become jaded like I
have though, Row.
My quest to meet other writers
continues.
Write me back,
Chanel (wish I could pronounce cumulonimbus cloud)
Chanel (wish I could pronounce cumulonimbus cloud)
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DEAR CHANEL:
I think what you’re experiencing is the elitism of a “graduate
student trying to assimilate into the amateur world of writing as a hobby
because of loneliness” syndrome. Let’s
face it, we can bitch and moan about grad school workshops but the simple fact
is through grad school we’re growing confidence in our artistic voices; and the
whole point of writing for us is to get published, produced, and be exposed to
the masses. The sheer fact that these
young bucks are not comfortable yet in their OWN writing but happily spout
rhetoric and theories they learned in their freshman ‘seminar intro into the
history of the psychology of the digital caveman’ classes or whatever kids are
learning these days, proves that they don’t have a unique POV or anything new
to add to theorems just yet. Which is
WHY they’re ready to jump off a cliff and give the shirt off their backs to
feed the homeless (even if the homeless can’t eat fabric), because that’s all
they CAN do. They can only give
physically and do – they can’t contribute anything new intellectually to the
conversation of life because they haven’t lived enough to come from a genuine
place to say anything about anything. So
they write their little journal entries and tuck them away in the deep dark
depths of the back of their notebooks covered in Che Gevuerra stickers.
So my suggestion: worry less about finding writers who look
like you and more about them having common educational and experiential backgrounds
as yourself, that way they’ll share and workshop with you and you guys can get
your material to a publish/performance worthy state.
Lastly, you’re not jaded – you’re a WRITER. You’re a realist and you’re trying to say
something with your work. If you were
really jaded you’d still be at that law firm taking away foreclosed homes from
hardworking middle class families to pay your student loans.
Keep on keepin’ on.
--Row
