MFA BFF: “A circle is round, it has no end, that’s how long I will be your friend”

I have friends: a kind group of girls whose passions (baking, pressing flowers, community organizing) do not stir me. I feel guilt about this, a sense that my inability to be at home with them proves, once and for all, that I am no good. I laugh, I agree, I find reasons to go home early. I have the nagging sense that my true friends are waiting for me, beyond college, unusual women whose ambitions are as big as their past transgressions, whose hair is piled high, dramatic like topiaries at Versailles, and who never, ever say ‘too much information’ when you mention a sex dream you had about your father…. They would see the good in me so I could, too. - Lena Dunham on Friendship, from Not That Kind of Girl

There is a week of orientation seminars before I take my position as a graduate teaching assistant.  On the first day, I sit under a palm tree and eat my lunch alone, studying the “Emerging: A Teacher” manual and shooing away lizards.  During orientation we watch videos, plan exercises, and somehow all of these things leave me feeling more unprepared and scared for what lies ahead.  I can’t sleep that night, so I call my brother and ask him about his time as a TA back in graduate school.  He says he remembers loving teaching, that it was an extremely rewarding experience that enhanced his own studies, and that he often learned from his own students –he barely felt like it was “a job.”  He also recalls the array of misfits he met along the way: his “coworkers,” his “classmates,” his “friends.” 

There is a girl in the front row on the first day with a binder full of pre-planned exercises and the largest purse I’ve ever seen.  She adjusts her glasses and turns around, flashing an endearing smile and asking what I'm studying.  She labels us “nonfiction buddies” and begins asking questions about my personal life and where I got my purse.  She writes about her trials and tribulations, the times she danced to Taylor Swift and tried to find meaning in a sea of orange traffic cones, and she is brave and strong and fearless always in all ways.  We eat lunch together that day, and to this day Risa Shiman and I often share meals together at Chipotle, where we delve much deeper into our nonfictional lives and containers of guacamole –don’t worry, we know the guacamole’s extra.

The new assistant to the Director of the Writing program raises his hand upon being asked for an interesting fact.  “I want to be an Imagineer because I'm obsessed with Disney,” he says, smirking in his colorful top and trendy haircut.  I beeline my gaze to him as I share this love for anything Disney-related.  Scott Rachesky and I have not only met up to hang out in Disney World multiple times, but we share Disney music, Disney facts, and Disney recipes, and we plan on riding the Snow White Mine Train together in May after graduation.  His writing continues to be as surprising and colorful as his tops, and he’s not afraid to be honest, to be himself, to show his Disney side.

A tall, dark and handsome man enters the room late on the last day of orientation.  He slips into a chair wearing a polo shirt and tousles his lush hair as he begins to draw boxes and alien-like figures on a handout.  We have a class together where he asks to borrow a book from me that he never reads, but we do end up going for a walk on the El Rio Trail.  He writes fiction about faraway planets and creatures, and his nonfiction makes me cry not only because it’s true, but because it’s happened to him and he is a true artist with his words.  We’ve continued our urban explorations together, making it all the way to the Flashback Diner just the other week. I still find comfort in Donovan Ortega’s wise words, warm heart, and damn good head of hair.

A girl with a braid and a fantastic, scholarly looking sweater is sitting at the end of the bar at my first Coastlines gathering.  I pull up a chair beside her and listen to her tell stories of her hamster collection, her experience working at a Taco Bell/KFC combo, and the poncho she wore at each and every one of her workshops.  During her final weeks of the graduate program last year, she wandered around campus offering me rides to class because she was bored but didn’t want to leave.  She wanted to linger around the lakes overflowing with ducks, to be close to the place where it had all happened and continues to happen for all of us, whether we know it or not.  At her reading, Mikaela Von Kursell spoke beautifully in her fiction and I wondered why she was friends with me, but felt honored to call her my friend anyway.

I wish I had known all this at orientation.  I wish I had known the amount of comfort and support I would receive throughout my time here and that will hopefully continue when I graduate in a few weeks.  That I would be in a group text where I am offered coffee and advice and funny videos that make my day.  That I would have meaningful sessions with the Palm’s Forest stoop kids: everything from dinner parties to Mario Kart tournaments.  That I would attend academic salons to hear my peers read prose and recite poetry and eat more cheese than I ever thought possible.  That I would meet my idol, Jo Ann Beard, and introduce her in front of all my friends, and that they would all congratulate me on a job well done.  That I would wake up every day excited to see what the MFA had in store, what new opportunity would be presented, or what new member of the program would become my friend.

There are many people I have not mentioned specifically in this final blog post, but everyone in the program, students and faculty included, are integral links in my chain of friendship.  I sympathize with Dunham in her book as I always felt alone as a young writer in the world.  Like her, I had this feeling that my true friends were waiting for me somewhere, perhaps sitting at a table outside the Culture and Society Building smoking a cigarette (although that’s not allowed anymore), or spinning around in their office chair to ask me about my day, or even waiting to sit in an uncomfortable position for three hours to discuss a piece I wrote about Space Mountain, validating it and me, showing their love through their encouragement and care. 

These are my people; the writers of the FAU MFA Program, and I am so glad my friends have waited for me because I’ve certainly been waiting for them.

Brittany Ackerman is graduating this semester with her MFA in nonfiction. She will miss wearing leggings and flannels to workshop, but is excited to expand her horizons and perhaps invest in a pair of jeans. She will visit Disney World instead of walking at graduation, and fully expects Mickey Mouse to hand her a well-earned diploma. 

The Jo Ann Beard Workshop and Whiplash Spoiler Alerts

One of my favorite movies of the year was Whiplash.  Andrew Neiman (Miles Teller) is an aspiring drummer for Terence Fletcher’s (J.K. Simmons) studio jazz band at the Shaffer Conservatory, the best music school in the United States.  The overarching message of the film is that no matter what, an artist is an artist is an artist.  In this case, Neiman is determined to make his dream of becoming a musician come true and prove wrong everyone who doubts him, including friends, family, and his conductor, Fletcher.  Neiman is so resolute that even when involved in a horrific car accident minutes before call time, he flees the scene (not unscathed, as he is covered in blood from head to toe) and not only plays, but ruins the show.  This does not deter him from his dream though, as he eventually goes on to play again and wins over the undying respect of his leader, with one final shot focusing on Fletcher’s smiling eyes.  Brilliant.  Bravo.  Loved it. 

Last Thursday I was on my way to day four of the Jo Ann Beard workshop.  I had some time to spare and decided to stop for coffee and a donut at Starbucks (the old fashioned glazed donut) as Jo Ann had read a piece that had donuts in it and I couldn’t get my mind off the sweet treats.  They were doing some construction over by the bank near the Starbucks and I couldn’t see whether or not I had room to get back on Federal Highway, or if I would have to drive around to another exit.  As I kept my eyes on the exit of the plaza, I failed to see the bright blue Prius behind me and backed into him with an audible crunch.  I pulled back into my spot and examined my car, still unaware that I hit another vehicle, checked my own, and saw a tiny smear of blue paint on the back of my black bumper.

“Are you okay!?” I called out, spinning around to see a man in orange shorts walking out of his car and buttoning up his shirt.  He had a fluffy puff of white hair around his head, glasses, and some type of casual beach loafers.  I instantly felt horrible.  I had ruined this man’s day, ruined my own, and my workshop was starting in twenty minutes. 

Neiman takes a bus to the concert for his big show, and it breaks down.  He runs to a rental car office only fifteen minutes from the venue.  Rushing, he forgets his drum sticks at the rental car office, leaving them on a chair in plain sight.  Neiman realizes this and must get back in his car, retrieve the sticks, and hurry to his show.  Fletcher waits but has an understudy prepped and ready to go on stage.   Minutes fly by and Neiman gets back in the car and books it to the venue.  SMASH.  A truck collides with his vehicle.  He is totally f’ed.  However, he runs out of his car, bloodied and bruised but with his sticks, heads to the concert and insists on playing.  Fletcher kicks him out due to his failure to perform and the two brawl it out.

My guy was a lot nicer.  He shook my hand, understood that I had a life changing workshop to attend, and let me go, as I promised my mom would come as soon as possible and handle all the insurance information.  Luckily my mom was off work that day and was able to come help, for that is a godsend, but I still felt awful and began crying hysterically on the way over to school.  I had texted a few people that I was in an accident and that I was running late for class, but that I was okay, just really upset.  When I got out of my car with four minutes to spare until workshop time, I checked my phone and saw a text from my best friend.  He said, “Your day is like the movie Whiplash.  You get into an accident and you crawl out of the car and you run to your workshop!  Blood on your books, you’re still moving forward.  Still doing what you were born to do.  J.K. Simmons tries to take you down during your reading but no!  You keep moving forward.  Keep pressing on.  All of a sudden a close up on J.K. Simmon’s eyes and you can see he’s smiling.  Smiling because he has done it.  He has found that great writer he had been searching for his entire career.  Brittany Ackerman.”

Fletcher had taunted and tormented the members of his jazz studio and was unrelenting about finding that “great one,” a musician that could make his work worthwhile, all the years spent training one after another, all the name-calling and physical assault.  While Jo Ann Beard did not abuse us or say anything negative all week, Fletcher’s character represents for me anyone who ever has said something negative about my work ethic, my place in the program, my writing.  Neiman continued on despite what anyone said about him, and although Fletcher was a bastard, he did prove his point that “the great ones” will not stop and will always continue to move forward and press on. 

Jo Ann Beard confesses it takes her an unusual amount of time to finish a piece of writing.  She also tells us that it would be “easier for her to dig up the sidewalk with a spoon than to write” because it is truly her opus.  But if I wish to call myself a writer, the real deal, then an impenetrable impetus will propel me forward from all of life’s unfortunate occurrences and I will write write write. 

It often feels as if Fletcher is standing over my writing desk whispering, “What are you doing, man?” (just like in the movie!) in a way that makes me question myself.  But in reality, Jo Ann Beard is sitting beside me, assuring me that “Your piece was magnificent!  How beautiful!”  No matter the positive or negative feedback we receive from others or give to ourselves, the only way we will be successful writers is if we continue to write. 

Yelling “I’ll cue you in!” to Fletcher, Neiman demands to play on stage and commands his position as a drummer. It is in this moment that he becomes one of the greats, student transforming into teacher, roles reversed.  Fletcher watches in awe as Neiman succeeds, and that is what I wish to have for myself- the moment where I amaze and surprise my greatest critic, myself, because I am able to show up and write the damn thing.

Brittany Ackerman is a third year MFA candidate for nonfiction.  If you can't find her frantically typing at Spot Coffee in an ironic t-shirt and an unamused scowl, she is probably at Disney World realizing that it actually IS a "small world after all..."

Cooking Eggs and Writing Fiction

I have a good friend in Los Angeles who always tells me to be strong in my relationships.  She says I can never let a man see my “yolk,” the uncooked me, the droopy, yellow sadness of a mess I can be after a breakup, a rejection, or just a bad day.  “They only want to see your shiny shell,” she’d affirm.

In Tayari Jones’s revision workshop, we learned that creating fiction is a lot like cooking an egg.  She often referred to that task, the crafting of the text, as more of an emotional undertaking than writer’s work.  The raw egg is your unadulterated sentiment that stems from real life experience, the pure grit of feeling, the essence of your opus.  In order to cook it up into a fictional piece, compose characters and breathe life into them, you must first boil the egg, therefore solidifying the emotion into something tangible, unbreakable, and palpable.

He saw my yolk!  Over easy, for sure!  I’d cry to my pal as she sat sunny side up listening to my trials and tribulations.  “Stay strong, no one wants runny eggs!”   One day, she actually made me eggs at her apartment, and I watched her patiently time out the cooking.  She dressed them with a bit of salt and pepper, sat them next to garlic spinach and fresh berries and served me the plate, hot and steaming.  The eggs were perfect - centers sturdy with just the right amount of yolk melting like lava when I pricked them with my fork.

Tayari Jones is right.  It’s not only about becoming a better writer, but also growing as a person.  If we serve a bunch of raw emotion on a plate, no one will want to finish the meal.  But, if we study practices of writing, sharpen our tools, become skilled in all areas of the craft, then we can lure readers in with artful appeal and the delicious tales we tell.

I don’t want to be fake though.  The right person should appreciate all my angst!  “Sure, sure babe,” she would say.  “The right one can handle the yolk, but you can’t let them see it all spilled out in the first act.”

Brittany Ackerman is a second year MFA in creative non-fiction.  She eats two hard boiled eggs for lunch every day to ensure stability in her writing and emotional life.  In regards to the recent Cheetos debate that has broken out on campus, she prefers the puff to the crunch.  

Jumping out of Planes

Sitting on the edge of the mini plane is reminiscent of sitting in front of my laptop.  The luminescent monitor that glows blue and white in front of me is very much like a sea of sky awaiting my entrance, my plummet.  It is terrifying.  I want to jump, I want to write, but I fear the fall, the plunge, the loss of control.

All the people who say “I would never do that” remind me of all the people who respond with “I could never do that” when I’m tell them I’m a writer. I’m not saying all writers should skydive, or that all skydivers should write about their experiences, but a lot of writers are a little insane, and many insane people would jump out of planes.

I begin my dive.  The earth is a grid below me.  An 8 ½ x 11 inch piece of paper with an MLA heading and a title with a perfect colon at its center.  The ground is the goal of the graduate student, of the English enthusiast, of the writer.  The clouds become paragraphs, seemingly heavy and filled with molecules and weather, but they simply float, easeful on the page.  I fall through them and my adrenaline builds, my ideas soar.

I find that there is no loss of control.  The fall puts me into the “zone” and it is a controlled fall.  My body scrolls through the air, gliding and picking up speed.  The energy of flying is indescribable. 

The biggest risk is whether or not my parachute will open and catch me, cradle me, rocking me gently back down to land.  Instead of lingering on this matter, I keep my body light, I practice my craft, and I pull the cord.

When I'm falling, zoning, creating, I can’t be sure what to call it, what genre bucket to toss it into, what feedback to look for when fishing for critique.   All I can think about is the moment; the way the white space gets filled, the way I hug my knees to my chest in preparation for the descent, and how good it feels to press enter.

When I undo my safety apparatus, I am set free from the deadlines, the heavy reading load, the pursuit of my voice, because in searching for all these things, in accomplishing a death-defying feat of flight, I have seen how small the pages really are from up above, each plot of land resembling chapbooks and novellas, and I know that while my time is valuable, my work is what’s important.

As writers, we all end up jumping.  The university becomes a great skydiving school teaching us all how to fly, fall, leap, and land on our feet in metaphorical Elysian fields filling them up with our stories.

Brittany Ackerman is a second year MFA in creative non-fiction.  She believes in magic and wants her life to be a Disney movie.  Her work has been featured in 3Elements Review and One Image, One Hundred Voices.  She would also like to thank all the haters, because as stated in Hustler’s Ambition in the words of 50 Cent, “I need you to hate so I can use you for your energy.” 

The Essential Truth: Blurring the Lines of Creative Non-Fiction

Blurred Lines

I send my brother a piece of my writing.  It’s about us- something that happened a while ago, a moment from a time I assumed he wouldn’t remember, but that I had held onto tightly.  He ponders it over for a few days, then he calls me to discuss…

“I read the story you sent, and it was extremely well written (why thank you, dear brother), but I had to read it three times, because I specifically remember that experience, and my set of memories seems to color things differently, so I think I'm overlaying things I remember with things you didn’t necessarily remember or feel, but the way it was written definitely evokes a feeling of anxiety.”

Did I blur the boundaries too much?  Or was that my goal?  Is my writing meant to only be “gotten” or “understood” by me?  Am I that selfish?  Probably.  But I also think that the way we as writers “color” things, as my brother so eloquently put it, can be an elegant method to fill our stories.  Writing is an art - we’re making things beautiful.  It works the same way it did in kindergarten when your neighbor might have colored the dog blue and you colored it beige or brown.  Your five-year-old self might have scoffed, but the dog can be blue if it appears as such to them.

The essential truth, however, the “anxiety” that my brother felt when reading, was the main point I was trying to capture in the piece, and how it comes across is always going to be based on the reader’s perspective.  It is the responsibility of a writer to illustrate emotion on a page, while the reader is entrusted with interpretation. 

A good friend once told me, “Everything is perception.”  It is our passion to paint pictures for people, but we can still craft a portrait that someone might color differently because of their experiences, opinions, and feelings.  If everything is undeniably about our insight, then we must have faith in our readers to make the leaps between our lyric essays, discern our extended metaphors, and understand all of our undertones, no matter what shade they choose to look through.  And as for staying inside the lines, it may be the right thing to do, but so much beauty comes from our flaws, our inability to stay inside our specific genres, and our need to blur boundaries so we can lose ourselves in pages and pages of colorful splendor.

Brittany Ackerman is a second semester graduate student studying for her MFA in creative non-fiction.  It is her first semester teaching English Composition, and so far she loves it.  Aside from reading, writing, and now grading papers, she does ballet and enjoys baking treats.  She has a mean recipe for a cookie dough filled cupcake!  Yum.  She is also a Disney enthusiast and travels often to the magical theme parks worldwide.