I get so emotional, baby
What I didn't learn in my MFA
Hi, readers of the intangibles! I’m essayist Allison Kirkland, and this publication was created to celebrate and explore the world of creative nonfiction and the writing life. I’m so glad you’re here.
A quick announcement:
JOIN US: I’m gathering a lovely group of writers for my June Writing Circle. Registration closes on May 20th. This donation-based, drop-in writing circle is open to adult writers of all genres and all experience levels. I’d love for you attend even if you’re only able to donate a few bucks, or nothing at all. Register here.
I met up with a writer friend of mine back in November, soon after I’d returned from my time in Brighton, UK. We met at our usual café, loaded up our plates with some of our favorite comfort food, and found a place to sit outside on an unseasonably warm autumn day.
As I am wont to do, I skipped the small talk and dove right in. “How’s your book going?” I asked — which, to be fair, is a pretty loaded question. (And if you’re not a writer, I would tread carefully before asking it. Some writers love the support. For others it might feel like unnecessary pressure!)
It was a loaded question, but this writer is not only a friend, she is an accountability buddy of mine. We meet every few months to talk about the nuts and bolts of this writing life: the tough stuff, the wins, the rejections and the winding road that all artists must navigate without a roadmap. (If you’re a writer, I highly recommend connecting with community in this way. Writing a book or a series of essays is a tough road to travel alone. It’s helpful to be reminded by other writers that this work is hard and isolating at times, but also worth it.)
“Well it’s finally starting to coalesce into something, I think,” she said, slowly, between sips of tea. “It’s starting to look like an actual book! And of course the minute I realized that I started wondering if I should be writing it at all.”
“Look at your protective little brain trying to keep you safe!” I said. “That brain is trying so hard to protect you from judgment and taking up space.”
“I guess that is what’s happening,” she said. “Huh.” I could see the cogs turning in her brain as she sat with this information.
And maybe I was projecting my own worries onto her writing process. Maybe I was totally wrong! But when it comes to my own writing I have often noticed, after years of study, that each step of the creative process takes on a different emotional texture.
“That’s definitely not something we learned in our MFA programs,” she said, as if reading my mind.
“Ha! Tell me about it,” I replied.
When I began my MFA program I was 28 years old. I knew so little about myself and my own internal emotional landscape. I had never set foot inside a therapists office (that sounded terrifying). I knew that I felt my own emotions very deeply — and that would prove useful in my writing — but I had little awareness of why I was feeling a particular way. I had not learned yet to tune into myself. In fact, because of my very visible physical disability, I had been encouraged to disconnect from myself — making others comfortable with the sight of my unusual body, rather than tending to my own interiority.
During my time in my MFA program, I felt tired almost all the time. I lived alone during the last year in my program, so I could sleep a lot without anyone noticing. But I was so confused by my fatigue. Why was I so tired? I was in my favorite place in the world, living a lifelong dream of getting an MFA in creative writing. What was going on?
What I know now is that I was also doing a lot of heavy emotional work. I was writing about my inner life, treading through old memories, some of which were painful, even though many were joyful. Most significantly, I was truly delving into my thoughts and feelings about having a physical disability for the first time in my life. I was opening an emotional door that I had kept shut for a very long time, out of apprehension and fear.
No wonder I was exhausted. No wonder I was anxious.
But instead of honoring that fatigue and anxiety, and instead of asking it questions like “what are you trying to tell me?” and “why are you showing up now?” I just chastised myself for having those feelings and tried to work harder so I wouldn’t have time to notice them.
It wasn’t until many years after my MFA that I began to talk to other writers who also spoke about their fatigue and anxiety, particularly while writing memoir. It was so validating to hear them talk about it. I went from thinking there was something wrong with me, to becoming more curious about my own internal landscape.
Writing is about learning a craft but there’s also an emotional component that runs alongside that learning that I believe must be tended to and that I believe can make us better writers if we do.
I could learn all the craft in the world in my MFA program, but if I didn’t also learn to tune into and honor my feelings and to discover why they were there I wasn’t doing all the work. That process is part of the work.
Now, when I am feeling stagnant I can ask myself what that stagnancy is trying to tell me. Do I need a break? Inspiration? Is it informing me that the scene I’m writing is perhaps a little bit of a bigger deal than I am acknowledging?
Now, when I am feeling tired after working on a big chunk of my memoir manuscript I can take a break from it without being hard on myself — and come back re-energized.
Now, when I am feeling hesitant about sharing an essay I can ask myself if my brain is just trying to protect me or if there’s something else going on.
I wish someone had told me in my MFA program that so much of writing is just learning to sit with yourself. To sit with your big feelings. To sit with your own creative resistance and maybe even ask what it’s trying to tell you. To sit with your imperfections, as a writer and as a person. To sit with your life. To sit with the questions you’ve been avoiding, the things you know you need to discover. To sit with your grief and your pain. To sit with it, and stay with it.
That skill can only be learned with practice — lots of it. And then slowly, almost imperceptibly, it becomes a little bit easier.
Until next time,
Allison
You are reading the intangibles, by writer and creative writing instructor Allison Kirkland. This publication is geared toward writers of memoir and creative nonfiction and the people who love them.
If a paid subscription doesn't make sense for you right now, there are other ways to support the growth of this reader-supported publication:
click that little heart to "like" the post
gift a subscription to a creative friend
share this essay with another writer
leave a comment and help grow this creative community
Want more? You can find me on Instagram or visit my website. Thanks for reading. I’m so glad you’re here.
I don't know if you had me in mind, but my goodness, have you and I had this conversation many times! And each time you remind me of this tenderness and patience, it is SO valuable and needed. Thank you for guiding me and others on this journey 💜
Allison, your writing moves through me so deeply. Thank you for naming all of this so I can give myself space and understanding through my avoidance of my ongoing book about my grandmother. I feel now that naming all the reasons for this avoidance can help me to move through these feelings. I will keep sitting with myself and be patient with my feelings. So much about your writing is wise and deeply felt and vulnerable. Thank you!