Dear Grad Students: How to Make It as A GTA

First of all, you don’t make it. Instead, as you rush out of your apartment on the first day of class, you skip a block on the staircase and tumble down the rest — right knee and left ankle dislocated. Also, you fall so thoroughly and quickly, like a blink, that you think you imagined it. You, with an entire weekend of lesson planning, bathroom rehearsals and slowly cooked optimism. Naa, this can’t be real, you think. Or! It is a prank, maybe. A joke from the universe stretched too far so you hahah in your head and un-imagine yourself from the ground. Pain, awkwardness and the desire to call your mother. Welcome to the Academia! 

Follow the story to before the chaos begins. Before the fall and the limp and the pool of student’s eyes drilling into you. Before that first phrase: Good morning, Class! And the clear white silence that greets you back. Before that awkward stretch of time, eternity crammed into one teaching session, as you exhaust your lesson plan in the first ten minutes. You know, before that small riot in your head, that slow killing tension, before you realize that your mouth is open, and the words pour out and you are cannot pull them back and force them down your throat – too late! You tell the class about your fall. Laughter follows, sympathy too, and you realize that is not the day you die. 

So yes, before all that. Maybe then to begin at Orientation? That first morning when you skip into the room, bright-eyed and alive with your American dreams. New beginnings shine on your skin. Three years of studenting and teacherly things – how hard can it be? Except you have class activities due for essays one and two. Easy, breezy, you think at first, until night when the words begin to blur and tease and mock, because your English has crossed the Atlantic and now you are simply no longer sure. Also, what is this lingering headache and obsession with bread. What is cognitive distortion? *you cry hot tears! 

It occurs to you on Day Three of Orientation that you are not prepared for this, that you do not know the first thing about teaching and maybe even writing? Because heck, school people like their commas and most times you are too lazy and anxious to care about them punctuations.  But! There is free food and nice smiling-people and the guy from the elevator, so you push aside your doubts as quickly as they enter. Who cares if you ruin the American educational system with your rabid inexperience? 

After three weeks of teaching you will meet K (Yes, K, because you won’t write real actual names in this post; what if K gets you arrested/deported?). The first thing about K is that you think he is a student. You think, from that drowning look in his eyes that he is a freshman trying to piece together an essay, seeking help from an instructor. And then, by means of casual introduction you will find out that K is a Program alumnus with three years teaching experience under his ‘proverbial’ belt. Also, shame on you for thinking otherwise. 

You will learn from K that a student can call you out for looking ‘un-teacherly.’  That anxiety can seep through your pores and leave your palms dripping with sweat. That it is not a good idea to keep the markers in your pocket because those stains are tough to clean out. That some students will sleep in class. That words and your mind will fail you as you lose your thoughts mid-sentence. So maybe then that no matter what you do, the first time was always meant to be a mess. 

Flip the coin. You, Grad Teacher, are also a student. You will begin to use words like Epistemological in sentences and you will do it with a straight face because well, this is your life now.  You will shelve out two separate spaces in your head for reading plots and for your students’ names. Hopefully, you won’t ever address a student by a novel character. (Doesn’t matter that both names start with S and end with A.) Of course, you will learn how to prioritize. There is the unending backlog of papers to grade and your course assignments to wrestle with, but you, my friend, must choose Netflix. Chat all day with your friends from home. Join a dating app and laugh at the absurdity of people on it. Remember that you are a person on it. Leave the app. Cook some meals. Burn hours on Facebook. Try to get some work done. Fail at it. Miss home. Etcetera.

This is the journey and you are figuring it out. Hopefully!


Tochi Eze is a former Lawyer turned wannabe writer. She is a first-year MFA student at Florida Atlantic University, a Program she hopes, among other things, will cure her of her compulsive laziness and procrastination, so that maybe one day she could actually start the novel she has written in her head.

Conjuring Houdini's Papers: Swann Grant Travel Funding

I spent my summer crying over books. I can’t imagine this is too atypical when speaking to a community of readers and writers. But specifically, I spent a week of my summer crying over escape artist Harry Houdini’s books and other writings in the Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas at Austin.

Harry Houdini (1874-1926) was a writer. It can be easy to forget his intellectual pursuits because even most of his biographers relegate his career as a writer to be secondary to his career as a performer, escapist and magician. Yet, Houdini wrote. A lot. He wrote seven books (mostly on magic), edited a monthly magic magazine, wrote short stories, professional articles on magic, movie treatments for his silent film career, and letters (so many letters), professional and personal, especially love letters to his wife Bess. Houdini left behind a lot more than strait-jackets, leg irons and lock picks. The Houdini Papers are thankfully preserved and collected at UT Austin’s Harry Ransom Center, and I am grateful to have been a recipient of the Swann Grant this summer, which funded my travel, research and tears.

I’m writing an alternate history novel where Houdini doesn’t die in 1926, and I’ve known since I discovered the archive that I would need to visit the Ransom Center. I had done so much Houdini biographical research and yet still struggled with major gaps in understanding Houdini and Bess as people.

When I decided to apply for the Swann Grant, I first spoke with a student who won the award last year to get more information and ask questions on their experience. Then, I met with Dr. Carla Thomas, a medievalist. If I can offer new students any advice, it’s to reach out to your professors, even the ones you haven’t taken a course with and even the ones whose research does not seem to line up with your own. In passing, Carla had once told me she would be more than happy to speak with me about digging around in archives. I made an appointment to meet with her and voiced my concerns. I had never been to an archive before, and while I vaguely understood the genre of the research proposal, I couldn’t quite determine how to write such a proposal for creative work. Carla left me with very practical advice on how to articulate the research I had already completed and show how the specific materials in the archive would contribute to my novel.

At the Ransom Center, even though I was allowed to take (but not share) pictures on my phone, I spent most of my time deciphering Houdini’s handwriting, or copying Houdini’s handwriting by hand into my own notes. As a writer who does a lot of my drafting by hand, it mattered that if I was touching and reading his letters, then I was writing his words. What did those sentences feel like scratched from my pencil? Archival work became even more of a physical experience.

But the best part of the receiving the Swann Grant, was getting to hold the physical published copy of Houdini’s book, A Magician Among the Spirits (1924). This is the only copy in existence with Houdini’s notes for a subsequent edition that was never sent to print—Houdini died before the project could be completed. In reading his revisions—the slash of red ink, the physical inserts of pages glued into the book’s gutter, the asterisks delineating details for new material—I was struck by what I had already known as integral to my understanding of his character all along. Houdini was a writer. And I am so proud and honored to be in that company.

Cheryl Wollner is a second year MFA student studying fiction. Their work has appeared in the anthologies Today, Tomorrow, Always; Hashtag Queer Vol. 3 and The Best of Loose Change. If you ask, they will tell you how Houdini really died (it was not performing a trick).

On Fluidity in the Creative Process

My creative process is young.

Most of the time, I get an idea for a piece stuck in my head and kick it around a while. I’ll think on it, go about my life, and come back to it from a different angle. I know it has potential if the idea follows me around long enough. Usually, I’ll work out the first sentence or so in my mind before I sit down to write anything. Sometimes it’s a couple words that I focus on, sometimes a whole paragraph. I think about the words while driving. I think about the words while talking to someone about an unrelated matter. I think about the words while I’m teaching class. While I’m taking class.

Ideally, I like to meditate before I write, but this is not something that’s always possible. If I’m at home, I’ll burn sage, read a passage from the Tao Te Ching, and lay flat on my back with my palms open. I prefer the lying-down meditation to sitting or walking. I’ve read a bunch of books about meditation and practiced many styles, and this is the one that works best for me. It took a while for me to get there.

I like to squeeze the writing moment for all it’s worth. I write in large bursts, and I like it that way. I don’t do a little at a time. I’m an extreme person, always have been. This area is no different. Kerouac’s philosophy of “spontaneous prose” is fascinating to me. I’ve never written 50,000 words in a sitting while on large doses of speed, but I don’t think it’s a bad approach. Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of experimenting in that way. I’ve worn out my welcome in the drug department.

So, I create a mood and I proceed to exhaust every bit of energy out that mood as I can. I purge myself onto the page. I don’t really like the word “purge,” however. It implies I have something bad to rid myself of. But I guess a lot of times I do. At least “purge” sounds better than “ejaculate,” the other descriptive word that comes to mind, even though the invocation of orgasm is more positive. Writing is much closer to a purging for me, an evacuation of thoughts. The process doesn’t always feel good as a rule, and I’m not always satisfied when it’s done.

I’m forcing myself to write with greater frequency, which means all these little steps I’ve outlined become less feasible. For instance, I did none of this before writing this piece right now. This is a good thing. I can’t expect conditions to be perfect—or even good—all the time. I do what I can to mitigate anxiety and I write. I get as much on the page as possible, and I work it out later. But the spirit of the moment is always paramount.

My creative process is idealistic.      

Jonny Rawson is an MFA student in creative writing at Florida Atlantic University, where he’s working on a memoir about addiction. He’s from New Jersey, which he actually considers an asset. You can check 

Teaching High School Students to Write Science Fiction and (Not Always) Blow up Their Alien Worlds

Teaching high school students how to write science fiction is exactly like reading science fiction; it’s fun and weird, but a lot of the time you’ll have to do mental gymnastics to figure out what’s going on. For the 2019 FAU SciFi Collab Lab, Christopher Notarnicola (my co-teacher) and I took the classic science fiction trope of a hive mind and used it as a lead into collaboration for a group of high school students to write works exploring the complicated and bizarre. As a class, we dug through classic science fiction writers like E. M. Forster, Ray Bradbury, and H.P. Lovecraft, as well as more modern science fiction stories like Mass Effect and Zima Blue.

We began the “collaborative” aspect of the workshop with exercises combining individual writings into collaborative pieces called “exquisite corpses.” These exercises were a low-stakes way for students to get to know each other and practice writing together.  Each student would write a single sentence on a piece of paper, then pass the paper to the next student.  We started with ten separate pieces of paper, then after each person wrote a line, they would pass it on. We ended up with ten odd and unique stories.

Our ultimate collaborative work came in the form of two (much more structured) short stories.  One was Red Alert, the story of a secret agent infiltrating a post-apocalyptic government in order to save her remaining family.  The other was Shmoppo: The Story of a Grumpy Hero, where the “Froppie” protagonist must survive strange and unpredictable weather.

Of course, no writing summer camp should exist without writers getting to put together their own solo works.  Each of our writers came up with grippingly weird characters and plots ranging from a superheroine in space fighting to find herself to anthropomorphic amoebas trying to survive a science experiment.

Throughout our time writing and analyzing works of the past, we viewed everything through the lens of craft, with discussion geared toward answering the question: how do you write good science fiction?

The trickiest thing about teaching high school students the answer to that question was getting them to acknowledge the narrative points that they took for granted.  For example, having a swashbuckling space pirate with the power to cause supernovas might sound cool, but unless she has human concerns like making sure her dog has food, or a fear to use her abilities because she once accidently destroyed a burgeoning planet with sentient life, the story is almost literally all flash.  Initially, nearly all the students were focused on an over-the-top power or “sciency thing,” while ignoring the element that makes readers care. 

So, my favorite writing element I worked to get them to consider was contrast, something they used to devastating effect.  We went through the first issue of Robert Kirkman’s “The Walking Dead” to see how the calm, (relatively) happy times make the forthcoming zombie apocalypse that much more upsetting. 

In one story, a student wrote about a hellish, fiery apocalypse (obviously, it was delightful).  We spoke about contrasting in more positive elements, so the student added a dream sequence of flowers in a meadow, a concert with glittering bright lights, and a white house in the country with a freshly cut green lawn.  Then she went back to killing off humanity.  Sure enough, her (still slightly worrying) story hit all the harder, and she was thrilled with it.

Effectively, teaching this workshop is just like teaching a first year ENC class but with students who all want to be there.  The happier Chris and I were teaching—the more we nerded out about the stories—the more comfortable the students were trying new things.  Craft was important, but this was also a summer camp, where the expectation is to have fun, so that was always our goal.  When in doubt, put on another YouTube video with Wall-E knockoffs racing through a meteor shower.  High school students love analyzing robots getting blown up.





Justin Piesco is a second year MFA student in Creative Writing at Florida Atlantic University.  He has worked as a Writing Consultant at FAU's Center for Excellence in writing since 2014, and he has taught first-year English since August 2018.  He enjoys teaching and writing as both provide avenues for the gaining and sharing of knowledge.

On Sharing Ourselves

I have had the opportunity to work with Ayse Papatya Bucak, professor at Florida Atlantic University, for a few years now. She patiently read and responded to my creative work as an undergrad (even through the terrible zombie-dystopian-Twilight-gothic years) and has encouraged me throughout my graduate studies (reminding me that I am on the right path, that I am not a failure at what I do). These are all things that keep me going and are very important to me—but what I think I’ve enjoyed most about working with this phenomenal instructor is how much of her writing process she is willing to share.

Professor Bucak’s debut collection, The Trojan War Museum and Other Stories was released into the world last week. I’ll have you know; she blew up on the internet. Every email shared, interview posted, and podcast linked littered my Facebook timeline, repeated throughout my Instagram stories. We (her FAU cohort) could not be any prouder or more excited. She premiered her collection at the lovely Books & Books in Miami. The room was full, the excitement palpable, and the appreciation for this wonderful writer abundant, ever-present against the backdrop of floor-to-ceiling walls of books; shelved stories not unlike our own. She read “Good Fortune” from her collection. Lines like, “Before: a nephew-stranger, a brother-replacement, an old beginning. After: still fear but less, still stone but less, still Gudrun but more,” read like magic, defined a main character (Gudrun) and played with sentence structure, which she is always reminding us (her students) to do. We leaned toward her, away from our seats. We listened. Not only did we get to dive into this story as a collective, delighted audience, but she also showed us her notebook, her scribbles. She shared the evolution of her sentences, her notes, her writerly mind. And me, a mere student, a mere fangirl, thought, I have notebooks like that too. I have sentences waiting to be evolved too. Of course, this reading wasn’t for me. This reading was for Papatya, to share herself and her hard work. But how wonderful it is, to find inspiration in others, to be a part of a lineage of hardworking artists who don’t mind sharing themselves.

I am in my third and final year at Florida Atlantic University’s graduate program in creative writing. As expected, I have made countless connections to the writing community, gained quite a few new friends, written a lot of words, had many a breakdown, worked my little writer-nerd’s self into the ground, and—most importantly—learned to share myself. In what other world do people have the opportunity to share their words, their art, their bones and trauma and joy so professionally and so completely? I think we can find circles who support us throughout this journey of life, but to find friends and mentors who openly share their process, their successes, and their advice so willingly and so supportively is truly unique. In my experience, Professor Bucak has always opened her door to students looking to create a world on paper. She remembers our names, our stories, and she helps us practice our craft, all while accomplishing feats in the sometimes-paralyzing but always fascinating publishing industry. Her collection of short stories is a pleasure to read, and an inspiration to those of us who look up to her as a writer. Her reading in such a local, bookish spot was a culmination of all the things the MFA at FAU represents; a community of supportive colleagues and writers witnessing the magic of a new book being articulated into the world by an author we love.

            Congratulations, Papatya. 

Emily White is a third-year MFA still attempting to complete the daunting task of finishing a story. She is a bit further along now, though.

Welcome to Fall 2019!

Welcome to the Fall 2019 semester! I hope you had a wonderful, productive summer. Finding time to write is one of the most important jobs for a writer. Professor Bucak has something to say about that here.

And speaking of Papatya (and her new book!), please come to her reading Thursday, September 12th, at 7:00pm in the Student Union.

And speaking of readings, please also come to the reading of our wonderful visiting fiction professor, Dantiel W. Moniz, Wednesday, October 16h, at 7:00pm in the Student Union. You can read one of her stories here.

And speaking of and, come out to the Swamp Ape Review's open mic nights the first Sunday of each month! It's at Mad Robot Brewing (2621 N Federal Hwy, Boca Raton, FL 33431) from 5 - 7pm.

What else? Hm. I want you to come meet with me so that we can revise or create your Plan of Study as needed. If you're graduating, let's go over deadlines and concerns. New folx, returning folx, come see me with your questions, your queries, your quests...

Okay, maybe not quests, though who even knows at this point. I could probably help you figure it out. My number one job skill is knowing who to call with questions. I am only sort of kidding about this.

My advice (other than to meet with me)? Attend readings, make friends, create a writers group, get involved with Swamp Ape Review, take your vitamins, get that rash checked out, I think I'm getting off track.

Listen - I'm also looking for blog posts about writing: the craft of your genre, choices you've made in revising, how you know a piece is finished, etc etc etc. Please let me know if you'd like to contribute. Thanks!



MR Sheffield is really Mary Sheffield-Gentry, a person who sometimes goes by MR, but not that often, and who is your creative writing advisor, which is why she's writing this in the first place. Her first book was published with Sundress Publications this past winter. She's got a stack in her office if you want to see.

Cracking Shells

Invariably, my favorite part of any workshop has been the community that gets formed throughout  the semester. The inside jokes, the unique intimacy, an understanding of peers that can only come from picking apart their writing. The vulnerability that comes with sharing your art leads, inevitably, to a sense of trust and camaraderie. So while I was stoked, this spring, to learn from a poet I greatly admire, I was disappointed that the workshop would last only a week. Too short a time, I thought, to develop that kind of bond. Of course, I was wrong.

Danez Smith came into the room, so overwhelmingly themself, so comfortable and ready to begin. There was no academic veneer, no stuffy posturing, no attempts to mute their personality. They had us laughing, and, on the first day of passing out poems--to the left--had us singing “Irreplaceable.” A chorus of “To the left’s” erupted, and the energy in the room was light, lively, accepting. Now, it takes me a while to warm up to people. I hold a lot back. (A friend has said of me that it takes a while to crack the shell, but once you do, you find “a pretty weird fucking bird.”) Point is: I’m reserved, upon first meeting people. But Danez Smith had me, on that second day, table-drumming and belting Beyonce. If that’s not a testament to their teaching ability, then the rest of this blog post better convince you.

It wasn’t just the affability or realness that Danez brought to the table. They forced us to reconsider our relationship with language, to step outside the comfortable. For one assignment, they had us list the poetic strategies we rely on, and a second list of all the topics that appear in our work, and then had us write poems in which we abandon those crutches. Writing those poems felt like stepping out expecting a stair, and tripping awkwardly down. Eventually, though, I found my footing, and was able to see language from an entirely new angle. Defamiliarizing myself with my language allowed me to enter a fresh, generative space. By the end of the week, I felt rejuvenated, closer to writing than I had in awhile.

Danez spoke passionately about language, life, community, and communication. The lack of pretense, the lack of a professorial guise, the complete absence of a fake-self, allowed them to speak directly to us, to the point. The cliche I'm about to offer you is that they taught me not just about writing, but about being. Their parting bit of advice for us writers, the last wisdom they imparted, was a small phrase that I don’t think I can hear enough. “You want to be a writer? Then write. Just write.”

Aiden Baker is a first year MFA candidate in Fiction at FAU. Originally from Chicagoland, she now lives, writes, and sweats in South Florida. You can find her work in The Ninth Letter Web Edition.