But I’m a writer.

Recently, at work, my position as copywriter has morphed into something ugly: Social media pimp. Or social media whore. Maybe both.

It started innocently enough. After a few weeks on the job, wanting to prove myself, I suggested including a blog on our Web site. My boss loved the idea. They had been wanting to “do more” with the site for ages, she told me, but no one had the time. Enter Julie.

So I set up our blog. Then our Twitter page. Then our blog feed. Now, I spend my mornings trolling the Web for other blogs related to what we do. I read post after post about the use of online networking and then blog about those posts. My tweets are links to other blogs and online articles. I’m blogging and linking and Twittering, reading and referring, commenting and responding.

And I have to say, though I’m using words to do these things, it doesn’t always feel like writing.

Granted, I’m not complaining. I have a job that I enjoy in a suicide-worthy economy. My co-workers are great, and my boss treats us to lunch most days.

But. Some days I long for the kind of writing you can sink your teeth into. You know, paragraphs without links. Thoughts and sentences longer than 140 words. While I know that social media is the writing train of the future and we all have to get on board, I still have my old-lady moments — moments in which I want to slow it down and take stock of what we’re missing, and losing. Because sometimes it feels like a lot.

Perhaps that can be my new Facebook status.

Blogger Spotlight

The Fringe editors aren't the only ones getting all the buzz: our bloggers are doing pretty well for themselves too!


Cindy has had three poems published in the Winter 2008/9 issue of Conversation Poetry Quarterly, and one poem in both the Women. Period (2008) anthology from Spinster's Ink Press and the Empowering Women Through Literacy (2009) book from the Women Expanding Literacy Education Action Resource Network.


Sean's poems appear or are forthcoming in Exquisite Corpse, Elimae, Diode, In Posse Review, Willow Springs, Taiga, Weave, Willows Wept Review, Oranges & Sardines, RealPoetik, New York Quarterly, Copper Nickel, Juked, Eratio, Ditch, Pineapple War, Redactions, and Quarter After Eight. His book reviews wil be featured in Rain Taxi. He is currently working on two books: a 500-trail hiking guide for Oregon, and a nonfiction manuscript, Smoking Waters. His blog site is theimaginedfield.blogspot.com.

Cat had two Soapbox columns in Boston's Weekly Dig in 2008: Liberla Schmarts and Broken appendages cause bonding . She has also taken over as Head Copy Editor for Fringe!

Julie also found success in the Weekly Dig, with her Soapbox column in December. She also recently had an article published in Sirens Magazine about the ways in which overly-educated women are coping after a job loss.


Please, no photographs.

Recycle Runway

I’ll go ahead and confess that I’m not the greenest person out there. I recycle (mostly), I take public transportation when I can, and I even watched Al Gore’s movie (though I’ll confess to getting bored and turning it off about halfway through).

Okay, so I’m kind of horrible, and it’s probably people like me who’ll be responsible for the end of the world as we know it. But that is why I appreciate the efforts of the environmentally-conscious all the more.

Those people include Nancy Judd, who’s managed to turn recycling into art (something even I can get on board with). Out of her green studio comes Recycle Runway, a project that “strives to change the way the world thinks about the environment through innovative educational programs and couture fashions made from trash.”

The runway turns recycled materials, like Coke cans (see photo), CDs, and phone books, into high fashion—then exhibits the clothing in airports throughout the country, most recently gracing the concourses of Pittsburgh International Airport. Judd also offers workshops for young people to create their own recycled fashion, providing them with a fun and unique way to get involved in environmental efforts.

Check out the runway’s Web site to learn more.

Holding on

I recently started a new job. It’s the exact opposite of my previous job: creative, collaborative, lots of work to do, friendly people. Hell, I’m not even in a cubicle, and the walls, they’re not tan. I spend my days feeling challenged and inspired and motivated. Granted, it’s only been two weeks, but so far, I kind of love it.

And yet. Every time I begin something new, every time I commit to doing something that isn’t The Exact Thing I Want to Be Doing With My Life (writing full-time, and for myself), whether I find myself enjoying it or not, I worry that instead of helping me, it will take me further away from my ultimate goal.

What if I love copywriting so much that my unfinished book continues to collect dust? What if “I’ll work on it next month when I have more time and energy” becomes next year becomes next decade becomes never? Liking my job has the potential to become an excuse, a way to justify complacency, a reason to not take the risks I need to take.

Ultimately, whenever I confront the practical vs. the meaningful, I always run smack into the same question: If you’re not currently doing something to work toward achieving your life’s goal, how can you still hold onto it?

Perhaps asking myself this question over and over again is my way of holding on.

Down but not out

When a friend told me that John Updike had passed away, I surprised him with the gravity of my response. “It’s been a tough year for the literary world,” I said, sighing.

I was thinking, of course, of another profound loss last September.

While most industries are nothing but gloom and doom these days, the literary field has taken quite a few beatings as of late. There’s the demise of the publishing industry; the technological take-over of books; the ongoing crisis of the short attention span; the destruction of quality literature; the downsizing of newspapers and columns; the influx of dirty, lying memoirists; and the harmful deluge of more creative writing MFA programs. Hell, even Toni Morrison’s latest book was met with little to no excitement and so-so reviews.

By all accounts, it’s a terrible time to be a writer. The great ones are dying off in record number, and the new ones can’t compete with snappy blogs, clever tweets, and celebrity tell-alls.

The way I see it, in times such as these, writers have three options: (1) Drink yourself into oblivion to numb the pain caused by the demolition of your dreams, (2) Throw in the towel and finagle your way into an industry that isn’t dying, like, say, fundraising, or (3) Use the pain to fuel your writing, and write your fucking hands off.

I intend to try to do the latter. Despite all evidence to the contrary, writers may be down, but as history has shown us, we’re never out. According to Updike, “The essential support and encouragement comes from within, arising out of the mad notion that your society needs to know what only you can tell it.”

So I say pick yourself up and keep at it. And if that doesn’t work, there’s always option #1.

The Hoops

If you're a writer or editor who's ever applied for a job, you know about The Hoops. The hoops you have to jump through in order to obtain a full-time gig. As you listen to your friends' simple stories of success—the one and only interview that landed them the job at the consulting firm or engineering lab—you know that this will never be you.

"So, what are they making you do?" one of my friends asked when I explained that before I could come back in for a third interview, I'd have to conceptualize and write the text for an advertising campaign.

In all of my combined months of unemployment, I've probably written or edited my way through the equivalent of one year of work for employers who chose not to hire me. I've edited scholarly articles and doctored stories, written text for travel guides and marketing materials, and laid out pages using desktop publishing software, among countless other projects. And this was usually after I had already submitted 2-4 writing samples.

I understand that competition in my line of work is fierce. Companies have to be sure they're getting what they pay for (even if what they're willing to pay is criminal). But it seems to me that, more often than not, they're getting the milk for free. And often.

Perhaps one day, I'll lead a writers' revolt. In the meantime, I should really get back to that advertising campaign.

This artist likes to eat

Sometimes I wonder if I'm too practical to be a writer.

Upon graduating from my MFA program, while some of my peers continued their part-time teaching jobs, or supplemented their income by working retail, I struggled to find a full-time position with benefits.

"I'll teach a few classes next semester and work at Kaplan [teaching SAT prep] at night," one of my friends told me when I asked him what he planned to do next. "That'll give me more time to write."

My first thought in response to this should have been, "Great! Keep the writing alive, man!" But instead I worried about his health insurance. How would he get it? How would he pay for it?

Even as a kid dreaming about literary greatness, I knew that this particular brand of greatness wouldn't pay. I've never expected to make a lot of money, nor do I need a lot to be happy. But I do need stability. Maybe it's my Midwestern upbringing; or my control freak tendencies; or my strong desire for children, whom I'd like to support. But I worry about things like insurance and savings and 401(k)s. I want to be one of those responsible people who has these things. At the same time, however, I want to be a writer.

It's a dichotomy I struggle with more and more. My current unemployed status merely adds fuel to the fire. On the one hand, I'm writing more than I have in a long time. Awesome! On the other, I've been living without my sinus medication for a month now, and cereal has become breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Not so awesome.

Though I know it's not a black and white issue, I can't help but wonder if a writer has to be financially risky in order to succeed. Or, to phrase the question less practically, must artists really starve, at least for a little while, in order to make it?

Writing and Open Heart Surgery: Totally the same

Two weeks ago, I was laid off. (And no, it wasn't because I wrote about my job dissatisfaction on this blog.) The organization I worked for lost $1.6 million -- don't you just hate it when that happens? -- and had to cut 30 jobs.

As soon as they announced this tiny deficit, I knew I was a goner. Not only was I a relatively new hire, but my position was also a newly created one. Also? I'm a writer; the work I do is not valued.

I don't say this bitterly (well, maybe a little) or to evoke pity, but rather, simply to state a fact. In the business world, and often in the world at large, writing is not valued.

There are many reasons for this, but the one I want to focus on today is: Everyone's a Writer Syndrome.

We all use words, and most of us know how to read and write them. Because of this, many people -- some of whom I've had the pleasure of working with -- believe that they are good writers. And while I would never walk into an operating room and claim that because I know how to cut things open, I am therefore a qualified surgeon, these people actually believe that they can do what I do, and well.

It's an insulting yet all-too-frequent assumption. Case in point: The co-worker who designed and manages the agency's Web site is now additionally the writer/editor for the organization. To him I would say "good luck," but he probably won't need it.

Neither will I when, later this evening, I perform my first open heart surgery.

[Note: I am writing this post from my rightful spot at Panera.]

The greener grass

As I've expressed before, my job isn't particularly challenging. I don't have a whole lot to do, and the projects I'm assigned to do bore me. I'm writing (marketing materials), but not in the capacity I want to be writing (articles, columns, essays, books). My chief complaint isn't lack of time to write, but rather, lack of inspiration, energy, drive. Boredom breeds lethargy. Cubicles breed hopelessness. And so on.

A friend of mine, however, has the opposite problem. She, too, graduated from a MFA program last December. She found a job that allows her to write, and constantly. She gets paid to craft fun, creative short pieces about pop culture, TV, and politics. Unfortunately, her employers under-appreciate and under-value her work. The results? Long hours, constant criticism, and an environment that she describes as "toxic." Working 12 hours a day in a toxic environment doesn't leave her with much time for her own writing, let alone a social life. She enjoys the work, she says, but wonders if the job is worth it.

When we compare notes at the end of a long week, I can't help but wonder which one of us is worse/better off. Would I rather be too busy in a job that more closely resembles the career I envision for myself, or not busy enough in a job that allows me the time to write (if only I could motivate myself)? Which type of job would better serve my (our) writing?

Thoughts?

The material and the dream can join

Writers tend to be very particular about the hows and wheres of their writing sessions. Entire books have been devoted to the subject, featuring 50-year-old desks, walls covered with post-it notes, and over-stuffed bookshelves.

Nowhere in one of these books will you find a tan-colored cubicle.

My preferred workspace consists of a table at Panera in Watertown, Mass. On this table are two things: (1) my MacBook and (2) a refillable cup of Mountain Dew. To my mind, I do my best writing here, with the Dew and the sunlight and the white noise of quick lunchtime conversation.

Alas, I spend 40 hours a week in the aforementioned cubicle. Inspiring it is not. But I have found ways to push through the pain of my spirit-killing, I mean, less-than-ideal, confines:

• Procrastinate. Most writers, when sitting down to write, find ways to procrastinate. When you have a day job, however, you can use your own writing as a means of procrastination. In this way, writing almost becomes fun. Almost.
• Decorate. Tack quotations and poems to your cube walls. Some may view this as pretentious and/or weird. Just tell them that, without these things, your muse might abandon you altogether. They’ll think this is totally normal.
• Exploit. Write about your co-workers.
• Blog. Blogging may not do what the Dew can do, but it’ll get the creative juices flowing. See here and here and here.
• Research. Put all that non-work-related Web-surfing to good use and research magazines and journals, or places to submit your work. See “Procrastinate.”
• Compete. If you’re at a loss for writing material, find a writing contest that dictates your subject.
• Believe. Believe that if you persevere, one day you’ll be able to return to your rightful spot at Panera.

It worked for Joshua Ferris.

While an uninspiring office environment can strip you of your creativity and drive, at the same time, it can also be the source of some of your best stories, or, if you’re a writer, some of your most promising material.

Characters
Let’s face it: Never in our lives do we encounter stranger people than in our work spaces. In my first job out of college, I sat next to Nancy. Nancy was 45 and lived with her mother; she sported thinning hair and a thick, dark mustache; she didn’t drive, had never been to Target, and refused to set foot on a plane. She kept six pairs of shoes under her desk. They smelled.

The office is rife with interesting, bizarre, and, yes, compelling characters to be used and exploited for the sake of a good story.

Themes
As illustrated by popular TV shows, movies, and books, nowhere is the relationship between humor and pathos more apparent than in the office. The disillusionment of the American dream; birthday cake in the kitchen; the importance of work; the unimportance of it all. People like Nancy, who ask, “Did you guys know that bookstores have coffee shops now?” People like Nancy, who live for their jobs because they have nothing and no one to come home to.

If you’re smart about it, writing about work could be your ticket out of your cubicle. At the very least, it’ll make that dreaded Friday morning staff meeting seem just a little more meaningful, not to mention entertaining.

Is this it?

When I enrolled in a creative writing MFA program three years ago, I did so with very few delusions. In response to the inane "What are you going to do with that?" question, I was clear: I'm going to devote two years to my writing. And then? See what happens.

It was the "see what happens" part that I didn’t give much thought to. While I certainly didn't anticipate a book deal post-graduation, I also didn't anticipate returning to the kind of mind-numbing cubicle life I had abandoned. Or the depression and despair that quickly followed.

Though the reasons for my foray back into cubicle land were obvious -- food, rent, health insurance -- this time my reasons for disliking it were different. I likened myself to Francesca in The Bridges of Madison County (two months in a cubicle and already my literary allusions were slipping). I had strayed from my safe, passionless marriage (first job) and had a torrid, all-encompassing affair (MFA), only to return to my boring husband (new job).

Though the program had warned me of long-term hardships as a writer, it hadn’t prepared me for the day-to-day indignities of the grad-school-to-working-world transition. And though I wasn’t alone in my strife -- many of my fellow MFA grads suffered from a similar downward spiral -- the question remained: Were our writing days numbered?

The answer, of course, is absolutely not. Whatever your MFA experience may be, it changes you. The key to post-MFA survival? Remind yourself that no matter the size or shape of your cubicle, your job is simply one stop among many along the path to your ideal writing life.