Weekend Diary

Deadlines, book reviews, kittens

Dear friends,

For once I don’t have a deadline, so I thought I’d sneak in a Substack.

On Thursday at E and T’s place, we have pizza and talk about deadlines, how they’re so often fake. Who among us honors them, and when? T: always; E: rarely; me: sometimes. I often request different deadlines when they’re assigned, or, in the thick of it, extensions. I have my habits. I’m almost always working right up to the deadline, which is both a threat and promise of release.

Where does the word come from? E wonders. They look it up. The term goes back to the 19^th century, when it was most commonly used to name the line within or around a prison that prisoners weren’t supposed to cross. If they did, they would be shot.

We’re on the topic because I’ve been explaining the new system I’ve negotiated with one of my editors. Lately, whether due to competing deadlines or general overwhelm, my first drafts have not been as strong as I’d like. I write them in a rush and find myself upset, unreasonably so, when my editor takes my draft seriously and thus subjects it to rigorous edits—instead of simply telling me, for example, “Good start! Now try again, and do better.” That’s all I want. A little faith. No, the solution, of course, is to start writing earlier. So (this was her idea; apparently she does this with a few writers): Now I turn in a “pre-draft” two weeks ahead of my first deadline, and we have a quick conversation by phone, following which I have what feels like a luxurious amount of time to revise, reshape, rethink based on her notes. I love this: the cushion, the push, the chat (by phone, I find, she is much more forthcoming with compliments). It’s like I’ve gotten away with something in calling what is actually my first draft my “pre-draft” – and I have. By the time I turn in my “first draft,” I have restored a sense of confidence in my work and my intelligence.

Conversation shifts to the violence in Israel/Palestine. We’re heartsick, sorrow-struck. Appalled by the blunt dehumanization of Palestinians in mainstream U.S. media coverage. We process. We grieve. We turn to the sketch comedy show You Should Probably Leave in an effort to lift our spirits. We can’t decide if we like it, or—when we do—why?

At home I get the news update reporting Israel’s announcement of a 24-hour deadline for Palestinians to evacuate the northern half of the Gaza strip before an expected ground invasion. I sit with the heaviness. I try to find sleep and find new news sources instead.

*

Friday. In the morning I Zoom with an emerging trans writer who has reached out for intel on publishing. I’m happy to share what I can, though publishing was much different when my first book came out—it’s been nearly ten years. I put together that book, the first edition of what is now Slug, hastily to build my profile for teaching jobs and sent it to a few contests and indie presses. My advisor knew the guy who eventually published it. The press shuttered a few months after my book was released. I guess that was my pre-draft.

Since Margaret and Slug came out in fall 2021, I’ve been focusing on generating new work and haven’t published much. This has been a welcome relief after putting out too many books at once. It also feels like I have left the party. I miss the party. But I’m trying to do the work and be patient about it.

What I have been publishing is criticism—I recently wrote on Alison Rumfitt’s Brainwyrms for The New York Times, and on Justin Torres’s Blackouts for 4Columns. They’re among my best reviews, I think. I enjoyed thinking deeply about both of these books, and you can tell in the writing.

I’ve been publishing book reviews since 2003. Only a few duds have I ever reviewed. Only once did I agree to review something that I did not like so much that I couldn’t fathom spending hours with it, and so gracefully backed out. Only once did a review I was assigned and wrote get killed (after reading it, my editor decided against giving space to the book, which was Joey Soloway’s memoir).

At this point I write 2-5 book reviews a year. It’s a side gig that complements my writing practice and helps me feel more engaged in the discourse. At any given time I’m managing three to four part-time jobs (teaching and developmental academic editing), not counting freelance writing. I prioritize my creative work as much as I can. Criticism has been an additional (minimal) income stream, and I sometimes let myself resent it for being yet another thing that pulls me away from my “real” writing: a review usually takes two to three weeks of the time I would otherwise put towards creative work. With these two latest reviews, I gave myself over to them in a way I don’t typically do with book reviews. I gave myself time. I made myself think—hard! I prioritized instead of resented them. It worked.

I did not tell this emerging writer to go forth and write book criticism; I’m not advising anyone that, it’s simply too hard to find well-paying venues. Still, I have benefited from this practice. Some things I have gotten and still get from it:

• The opportunity to think deeply about one book. This is maybe obvious but it’s an important practice. I rarely read so attentively as I do when reading to review.

• Incentive to (when relevant) immerse myself in a writer’s full body of work. Ideally I want to have read or reread as much of an author’s oeuvre before I get into their latest book. Sometimes this isn’t possible: a writer’s bibliography may be simply too extensive for my timeframe, or some works might not be translated into English. Anyway, I love this part because it’s an education.

• Time spent with writers I’m interested in, without having to deal with social stuff. I’m awkward! Sometimes I just want to read your books. (Yes, criticism brings its own set of social considerations—let’s save that for another day.)

• That said, I have been cheered by the social stuff—friendship, connections—that writing criticism has brought in. Reviewing Kate Zambreno’s O Fallen Angel for Rain Taxi in 2010 led to an online friendship that led to Kate asking me to read with her when she launched Green Girl in Chicago, which led to my meeting poet/writer Johannes Göransson, who also read, and who later invited me to join the collective literary blog Montevidayo. None of this was strategic or calculated, just writers finding each other.

• Incentive/reminder to keep an eye on forthcoming books. Every few months I browse through publisher catalogs, Netgalley, Edelweiss, and Goodreads, adding books to my pitch list and getting psyched about what’s coming out.

• (Some) money. This year, the income I’ve earned through criticism has already outpaced two years of royalties for both of my books combined. This is more a story about how little income (my) royalties bring in than it is about the abundance criticism has brought to my life. The same income also outpaces the cumulative money I made from criticism between 2003 and 2016. Lol. Sad.

• Free books.

I do hope this humble listicle has been useful and/or interesting to someone.

*

In the afternoon I have a phone chat with Erica that I nearly bungle because I forgot to update my WhatsApp, though I was the one who requested we talk by WhatsApp and then sat stupidly wondering where she was. For eighteen minutes! When I get off the call, I see Jewish Voice for Peace’s announcement of an emergency action at Grand Army Plaza protesting Palestinian genocide. I meet up with Liz and we walk over. The grief and anger are intense, and powerful to share in. I duck out early to head to the launch party for Marisa Crawford’s new poetry collection Diary. It’s a celebratory gathering in the backyard of Unnameable Books as helicopters drone overhead. Marisa’s reading is fantastic – “I hate this sweater but I’m too cold not / to wear it as a metaphor for my career” (“Diary”). I love what she does with the poetics of the everyday, the present teetering on a pile-up of pasts. “The TA I had in college / who asked what poetry I liked to read. / I said Frank O’Hara, unconfidently. / And for some reason he laughed at me. / The part of Fast Times at Ridgemont High when Linda says, / “Stacey, he’s not a guy. He’s a little prick!” (“Diary”)

*

Saturday starts with NYT book critic Dwight Garner’s New York food diary then more of Marisa’s Diary. I realize this newsletter can just be a diary, and that helps. Heidiwranglescats follows up on the application I submitted on Wednesday and we arrange my first set of fosters, two kittens named Slacker and Drowsy. I trudge through the gross day to pick up supplies: litter box, pine litter, wet and dry kitten food, toys, bowls, Churus. Meet Shuli at BAM to see Paul B. Preciado’s new/first film Orlando: My Political Biography, which is excellent, I mean, really. A wily, original, perpetually astonishing love letter to the trans community in the form (sort of) of a letter to Virginia Woolf. Centers trans youth. Layers contemporary trans life over Orlando in a way that is critical, loving, expansive, fresh. To end with Virginie Despentes in the role of judge is maybe excessive but we’ll grant him the indulgence, for it is his political biography. I love the way transness flows out of and back into the book through all these Orlandos, played by trans and nonbinary actors whose lives smear into their character, who becomes a collective entity, a swarm and a net. Many editions of the book appear; one undergoes surgery.

*

Sunday: I work on this. I eat my eggs. I doom-scroll. I follow more news sources. I bike to Crunch. I Sweatshed. I pick up the tinies and set them up in the bathroom. I prep a midterm review crossword puzzle for my asynchronous course. I cut twine for the kittens. Only Drowsy will play. I feed them. I pet them. I scoop small nuggets of poop. I skillet a salmon burger. I start reading Hazel’s new book ahead of this week’s writing group. It’s gorgeous, and hurts. I check the news, my feeds. I check the kittens. I work on this.

Yours,
Megan