My recent reflections have, I admit, drifted into craft essay territory. I’ve got nothing against craft essays, but I thought I’d do something less formal this time. And anyway, I just got back from my residency up in Monson, Maine, and wanted to share some thoughts. What did I learn after two weeks of writing? Was it worth it?

 

First, about Monson. It’s got a lake, a slate quarry, the Appalachian Trail Visitor Center, a general store, and an Irving gas station. And Monson Arts. Residents at Monson Arts are given room and board and time to work on whatever they do—sculpture, painting, writing, and so on. I stayed in a Monson Arts house that was about a ten-minute walk to the studio building, where I had a small office that overlooked Lake Hebron. (See my Instagram page for images.) No deliverable was required, but each resident did present on what they’d been working on.

 

What was I working on all that time? Short stories, mostly. And some conceptual work for a longer piece. Most of all, I made progress on a collection of stories that all feature editors. I might call it Copyeditors. (And yes, I’d use the one-word form.)

 

This idea started with “The Bedroom Tenant” (forthcoming in Cleaver), which has an editor protagonist. (So does “Splice,” but that’s already in While I Have You.) I’m attracted to editor-based fiction because, for one, it’s a world I can address with authority. Also, there are tons of stories about writers but not nearly as many about editors, so I like to think there’s a demand. Of course, it may be a terrible idea, but that’s never stopped me before.

 

The most developed piece, currently titled “The Dangler,” tells the story of a recent college grad who, despite a lack of editing experience, is assigned to work a temp job as a copyeditor.

 

Here’s an excerpt:

 

Sam spent the first half-hour of his new career sitting alone in a cramped conference room with glossy white cinder-block walls and cold, citrus-smelling air whooshing down on him. A professionally printed sign by the door read, “Are the right people in the room?”

 

Eventually, his new supervisor—a man with an avuncular paunch, graying hair, and sunken eyes—limped into the room and sat down opposite Sam at the table. He opened his laptop slowly, as if afraid of breaking it, and introduced himself as Plato.

 

“That’s interesting,” said Sam. “Like the philosopher? There must be a story there. Is there a story there?”

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“Yeah,” said Plato. He slouched over his laptop and scrolled. “You went to Grayson State?”

 

“I did indeed,” said Sam.

 

“Film studies?”

 

“That’s me.”

 

The jig, thought Sam, was about to be up. Plato would keep scrolling, find no evidence of experienced editorship, and go, “There seems to have been some kind of mistake.”

 

But Plato kept scrolling. The more Plato scrolled, the more Sam felt as though his true identity as an incompetent had somehow become imperceptible. At some point, maybe while he’d been waiting, it had quietly transformed into some slow-moving aquatic creature that could stay submerged for days, maybe weeks, below the surface of glassy waters.

 

I don’t share this just to dazzle you with my spectacular prose. I share it because it doesn’t seem like much, does it? I mean, is that why I took two weeks of vacation and drove three hours into Maine? To write a goofy story about a profession nobody cares about?

 

I suppose so, yeah.

 

I wasn’t, remember, obligated to hit a certain word count. What I needed was to write, period. To do whatever was needed for a given piece. Sometimes that means typing. Sometimes it means staring out the window, reading, or taking a walk. Most of all, though, I needed to reacquaint myself with my own writing process. To remember what it feels like, viscerally, to get the first draft written, to follow the characters and themes toward an authentic story, to keep writing through the uncertainty and doubt.

 

For the record, I did finish a draft of “The Dangler.” But I almost immediately razed that version and then built it back up. (The first draft went too easy on the protagonist, and there wasn’t enough tension.) But that’s just the distillation process. Build it up, see what works, knock it down, develop more material, knock it down again, and so on.

 

I’m still not sure where that story is going, but I’m not worried. That, I suppose, is what I got from Monson: faith. I have faith that if I keep at it, stay immersed in it, fully commit to it, I’ll eventually get there. Isn’t that, just by itself, ultimately worth the price of admission?