Personal Essay

Personal Essay: The Writer’s Journey No. 8

By Garret Miller

Years ago, I occupied a warehouse for most hours of light. Me and a gaggle of burnouts huddled in the hulls of trailers, dolleying off packaged furniture for assembly and distribution— and I’m unsure that I’ve worked an honest day since the summer eve I marked my last. I moved on from the warehouse, taut and frayed, and dressed deer until I couldn’t stand the smell any longer. It took one day. Then it was maintenance work in a nursing home, and on the easiest days, I’d change a lightbulb. The old blinked between life and death. I thought I may as well have been butchering.
Yes, the scent of processed deer, like stale blood, is intolerable. Worse perhaps, but human and essential and thus endurable, are the wings of a nursing home wherein lie the dying. Many times I’ve walked the halls, heard each knell that marked life, the wet coughs and vague moans, and found in their lapsed silence the simple truth that is suffering. I’ve a good friend who tells me that truth is an illusion—and perhaps it is, but at least this is honest.
I teach now, but I do not work… still I grow tired of the speechmaking, the prescriptive, the arrogant hopefulness and laze of it all. On the topic of THE WRITER’S JOURNEY, here goes: there is never much worth saying. There’s even less to write down. The world has sent me where it pleased, pocked me as it has you, and surely, this will never change. There are some fragments of experience that affect me in profound ways, as there are for you, and in the selfish pursuit that is writing, we dwell. This is fine. The sooner you come to terms with feeling the better. I’ve learned that poetry is prayer… only it still works when faith runs dry. Futile, perhaps, but we all must pass the time somehow. Enough speechmaking. Thoreau loved walks, “journeys”, and his mother loved doing his laundry. That’s a truth that is also an illusion. One resident I was passingly fond of, Ernest, loved Thoreau (false, but he may as well have) and never believed I could fix his sink. He shared a room alongside his wife in Payne, Ohio. You have to be able to rely on yourself, he told me, self-reliance. And I nodded. The leak was as simple as a loose pipe nut. He died a few weeks after his wife.

Personal Essay: How to Write a Short Story No. 7

By Sydney Koeplin

Open up a fresh Google Doc. Change your settings from default to Times New Roman, 12pt., double-spaced. The poets tell you that the best poetry is written in Garamond, but you’re a fiction writer, so it’s TNR all the way, baby.
Crack your knuckles, then your neck for good measure. Curl up in your favorite chair in a way you know your mom would hate: legs pretzeled, spine slightly twisted, leaning onto the finest armrest Facebook marketplace could offer. This is why your back hurts! She’s probably right.
Ponder for an hour or two. You had had a story idea in there, hadn’t you? Something about a woman turning into a goldfish or maybe a seal. It was going to be weird and wonderful and sneakily moving. Your workshop was going to clap for you as you walked in the door, beg you to show them how you did it. Grant you your MFA right there. Ask you to run the class, even.
Light a candle—Autumn Leaves scented, even though it’s 85 degrees in Ohio—as if to conjure the Writing Gods™.
Write a first paragraph. Read it, realize it’s horrible, delete it. What type of opening line was this? She’d always loved using the lavender salts in the bath, but now she was a goldfish, and she found they rather stung. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Tap your forehead a few times like you do the busted flashlight in the junk drawer. A few good whacks should make the bulb turn on. Your bulb doesn’t turn on.
Have a moment of understanding as to why all the classic writers were alcoholics. Think of the bottle of Costco Cabernet that is sitting in your very beige kitchen right now. Decide against it.
Remember that you also have a bottle of whiskey a friend gifted you, aptly called Writer’s Tears.
Decide against that, too. You’re not Hemingway.
Try a breathing exercise. Inhale, hold, exhale, hold. Box breathing, your mom calls it. Try it again. Choke on your spit, cough.
Find yourself on Instagram. Spend 27 minutes sucked into the feed. Impulse buy a tote bag with a frog in cowboy boots on it. Open your family group chat and watch the video your dad sent of a duckling who is friends with a goat.
Look up from your phone and wonder what you’d been trying to accomplish in the first place. It was MFA-related, right? It was, oh—
Unpretzel yourself and throw your phone—okay, gently place it—in your desk drawer.
Channel Anne Lamott and her Shitty First Drafts. Write. Finally, just write. It’s awful. There are typos. Plotholes you can drive a combine through. Write like the muses speak through you in disjointed, misshapen prose. Just let it happen.
Shut your laptop in a daze after a few hours curled over it like a cooked shrimp. Rub your eyes, unfurl your legs, shake your head, and feel a few marbles roll around up there.
Spend several days agonizing over the utter filth you’ve just written. Swim laps at the rec center, and hope you don’t run into any of your students while you’re in a swimsuit. Eat a sub sandwich. Call your mom and tell her you’re a failure, ignore all her very sound advice to take a chill pill. During this time, you’ll seriously consider quitting the MFA and joining the vampire cult in Dayton.
When it’s marinated long enough, cautiously reopen your Google Doc. Read through your draft with your hands over your eyes as if they’ll shield you from how much you suck. Get through a few paragraphs, and sit up straighter. Read a few more and put your hands down.
Realize that what you’ve written isn’t as shit as you thought. It’s salvageable, in fact. At times, you’re even clever! At times, your sentences are well crafted! Who would’ve thought? Not you.
Spend all the time you have before your workshop submission deadline revising, revising, revising. Something’s deeply wrong with the intro, but you don’t know what exactly. And what happens, ultimately, when the goldfish woman is flushed down the drain? That’s anybody’s guess.
When it’s as good as it’s going to get, when you’re trembling and spent, email blast your cohort with your attached story exactly one minute before the deadline, question marks and all.
Imagine your workshopmates snickering over your story the entire weekend, wondering how it’s possible you could’ve ever been let into the program in the first place. No wonder she got in off the waitlist, you hear them laughing somewhere in the corners of your brain. You may revisit that notion to join the Dayton vampire cult.
Slink into workshop on Monday like a dog who just found a half-eaten Krispy Kreme in the dumpster and is about to barf it up. Wait for the shuning that—miraculously—never comes.
For an hour and a half, scribble down all your classmates’ comments in handwriting that is hardly legible. Learn that what’s wrong with your beginning is that it actually starts on page three. Bounce ideas off of them where the goldfish woman goes when she is sucked down the drain. Stain the side of your hand inky blue.
Realize that you have survived the workshop, and get a brownie from the dining hall to celebrate. This step is very important. Unless, of course, you have an ice cream bar waiting in your freezer, in which case you can save the meal swipe and have your treat at home.
Repeat this process until you finish your MFA, get hit by a bus, or are microwaved by the inevitable heat-death of the universe. Whichever comes first.

Personal Essay: On Choosing Grad School No. 5

Student staring at books published by BGSU alumni, staff and professors

The MFA Rejection Quarter-Life Crisis

by Hannah Goss

The MFA once seemed like a secret society existing only for the surest, truest, most brilliant writers, and more importantly, a slingshot to success. I wondered if the MFA was a kind of pseudo-nepo-baby? Would Harper Collins or Penguin Random House see the degree and take my manuscript, no questions asked?

I was a junior at Duquesne University when I first heard of an MFA program in creative writing from my fiction professor. The two faculty members in my small program who had MFAs held an informational meeting for all of us who hoped to break into this secret society. Only three of us attended the meeting, eager to know: Was this our ticket to becoming a writer, truly and honestly? Was this the way to see our name in print, making a career out of the scribbling we did in the solitude of our rooms?

Instead, we learned it was, at best, a boutique degree. At least, that’s what they said. I still don’t know what that means except that I figure it’s what a boutique is: unique, specialized, and overpriced. These were not meant to be words of discouragement from our faculty but rather words of caution. Don’t overemphasize its significance. Don’t go into debt. My all-knowing twenty-one-year-old self took it with a grain of salt. I needed that piece of paper.

I spent my senior year of college compiling a spreadsheet of top-rated MFA programs, evaluating their location (East Coast, New England preferred), their stipend (one has to eat), teaching requirements, and professional opportunities (literary magazines, publishing, and editing skills). I was methodical and determined. I prepared my portfolio with the gracious help of my fiction professor with line-by-line editing and revised personal statement after personal statement. I was doing everything by the book, but the thing I wanted so badly, to write, was exactly what I’d stopped doing in the process. By March, I’d been waitlisted by one program and rejected from the rest. The rejections shook me. I saw graduate school as my inevitable future. How could I be done with my academic career? I needed the MFA to waive in front of all my doubters so that I could say, “Look here! I’m worth something.” Instead, I scrambled for the backup plan I hadn’t made as I walked across the stage to collect my diploma.

After the rejections, I retreated to my parents’ house in rural Lancaster County–the prodigal daughter’s return. I went back to my summer job as a prep cook and caterer in my small town at a cafe known for being an overpriced tourist stop, passing off Costco ingredients as locally sourced. I sliced deli meat and mopped floors and wondered if this is what it was all for after years of filled journals, carefully annotated short story anthologies, and Barnes & Noble gift cards. I felt myself to be a failure, the starving artist doomed to a food-service job, resentful of her unrealized potential. Still, I was determined to apply again; I needed to prove something. I spent the days after work, still smelling of grease and potatoes, shoveling spoonfuls of short stories down and carving out the pieces I wanted to steal like a butcher. I collaged my rejection letters together using some Modge-Podge to paste in a poster frame – my grand motivator. I got a story published, and some of my coworkers at the cafe read it. I came in one morning to the baker telling me she’d cried; it had stirred something in her, made her feel seen. I realized I was a writer to her.

It was the fall of 2023, a few months after my rejection. I stared at my poster frame collage, and I took it down. Until that point, I had been waiting for someone to permit me to write. I had been waiting for a graduate degree. I realized that having an MFA wasn’t going to make me a writer. It wasn’t a knighthood I needed to be inducted into. There was no monarch of writing and literature, no degree, that could grant me the title.

A year prior, when I was finishing my undergraduate program and our university’s last literary magazine was released, the other senior creative writers and I gathered for our pizza party in College Hall, a windowless classroom on the English department’s floor, and we signed each other’s poems and stories with bright-eyed optimism that our names would be widely in print someday. We treated the inside covers like yearbooks, and inside mine I have six notes that all say, don’t stop writing.

If there’s one thing I learned from my two rounds of applying to MFAs, it’s that intent matters. I reapplied, but this time I wasn’t chasing a degree, a title of prestige, or a sense of validation. The biggest part of creative writing that I missed was being around other writers, and that was my new intent. To learn from others, to be inspired, to sit at a roundtable workshop and voice ideas about how to make a piece work better and in turn, learn how to make my work better.

Now I’m here, at Bowling Green’s MFA program as a fiction writer. The first few weeks that feeling returned–the dreaded imposter syndrome. However, our first Q&A session for our Prout Reading series took place just last week with an alum, Jacqueline Vogtman. We all wanted to know, how do you make it happen after? When you’ve finished the degree and have dedicated two years of your life to writing, how do you return to the real world? We talked about writing habits, about making time for writing in the early hours of the morning, and about doing it every day. But we also talked about the connections formed in an MFA. Their cohort still talks and reads each other’s work. They’ve invited her to read her new book at the schools they teach at. So, the MFA is more than a degree; it’s an investment in a supportive community that knows what it’s like to sit behind the closed door and stare at the blank page. A community that knows what it’s like to Modge-Podge rejection letters onto a poster board.

Sitting in workshops in East Hall 406 with our printed copies of each other’s stories and our marginal notes, each of us tossing out what-ifs and questions, I feel like I am doing a lot more than earning a degree to frame on my wall. So, do you need the MFA? While I don’t think it will get you a published manuscript by default or get your relatives off your back about your employment status, I think it’s worth a lot more than that.

Personal Essay: A Forcerant No. 4

My Descent Into Muskmelon/Muskrat Madness

Our favorite game is Muskmelon or Muskrat.

Think of anything in the world, then ask:

Is it closer to a muskmelon, or a muskrat?

––Henry Goldkamp, “Forcemeat,” Mid-American Review, issue 42.1

That’s it. That’s the game that “Forcemeat” is built around. Before adapting this poem into a full-blown board game, I liked it just fine. Even while playing it, I had no idea how drastically this remix would change my experience with the poem. Expanding on it gave me the vocabulary to articulate facets of my identity which I assumed would go unexplained to my family for the rest of my life.

“Forcemeat” was about––as I initially read it––a normalizing system of logic trying to draw sense out of personal and global catastrophe. (Don’t get me wrong, I promise it’s also a lot of fun.) At points, there’s an absurdist disconnect to the dialogue between the two speakers that reminded me of Waiting for Godot (which is to say I’ve read only one piece of absurdist literature.) It wasn’t my favorite in Issue 42.1, (that would be “Bone Town” by Angie Macri,) but it was the favorite of our hard-working (one could say overworked) Poetry Editor. As a Christmas gift for them, I turned the poem into a structured board game for the MAR staff to play.

Obviously, one need only read the opening three lines of the poem to be able to play informally in pairs. It’s as simple as “I Spy” and makes an even better road trip game. When playing in this format, though, one’s decisions go unanalyzed. Each player independently develops their own concept of the melon/rat binary using the fodder their partner supplies. This mimics what we see between the two speakers of “Forcemeat,” who have already established their own codes which (especially if you haven’t been thinking about it for six goddamn months) seem alien and inaccessible.

Our adaptation requires much more intentional analysis––or at least prediction. Players advance on the game board by voting in the majority on increasingly less and less melon/rat-like concepts, within a matter of 5 seconds. The first player to reach the end of the board wins. (Check out the companion post for the full rules and PDFs for the game.) We surprised the 30-strong MAR staff by bringing it to a meeting at the end of last semester.

I had no idea that making the game a communal affair would make it feel so … vulnerable? As our Poetry Editor puts it, voting publicly feels like “baring your soul” ––despite the silliness. Not only do you flounder to quickly draw out increasingly unsubstantiated connections between the given concept and a rat or melon, but it is now something you can get “right” or “wrong.” Your mind is on full display with each vote.

At least, it felt that way. When players landed on red “debate” squares and were forced to justify the melocity or ratitude of that round’s concept, one found that their “allies” share their verdict for completely different reasons. (Example: My friend and I agreed that “butterfly” is a muskmelon. While I thought of the sugary nectar butterflies collect, though, they connected the melon’s rind to the butterfly’s cocoon.) Even one’s opponents used their same reasoning to draw the opposite conclusions. (Example: I thought “stiletto” was a muskrat due to the muskrat’s sharp teeth, but the Poetry Editor thought about the shoe’s sharp heel piercing a melon.) The rules players developed for both categories only grew more abstracted from the physical reality of fruit and Rodentia as we progressed. A huge part of the game (if you played to win) was predicting where those rules were leading your colleagues, but when it was time for a debate, everyone was reminded of how wildly different their perceptions were from everyone else’s. A sense of isolation settled on the room as each player realized that they were the only one correctly interpreting the energies of melons and rats.

This sensation of simultaneous exposure and disconnect enhanced the absurdist feeling I got from the original poem. It drew my attention to the places where the speakers of “Forcemeat” miscommunicate and disagree––it put more emphasis on the end, where the roadkill incident drives a wedge between them. While playing––and now, while reading––I felt a push and pull of intimacy and isolation. It echoes what it’s like to share an experience with someone and find that you had wildly different perceptions of it. I didn’t see any of this in the poem before the board game.

This brings me to my main reason for being obsessed with the “Forcemeat” cinematic universe.

Imagine living in a world where everything is viewed through the lens of this binary: muskmelons versus muskrats. This binary has a largely unspoken ruleset that eludes you, although it seems that everyone around you parsed it quickly and easily. Yet as you discuss this with others, their interpretations prove to be inconsistent with those of your other peers and even internallyinconsistent. Despite this, everything––even YOU––can be cleanly categorized this way. You are deemed muskmelon. Your given name indicates this. On your birthday, you receive muskmelon gifts. You’re expected to wear muskmelon clothes, watch muskmelon shows, pursue muskmelon interests. Every single person who sees you looks at your body to judge: muskmelon or muskrat? They treat you, speak to you differently based on that judgment. Even if you’re hard to sort. Especially if you’re hard to sort.

You feel utterly alienated by this system. The emphasis put on it and the rules that govern it feel absurd, pointless, and limiting. It’s not even that you resent melon life or yearn for rat life. You just want your life to be a muskmelon and muskrat buffet. You don’t want to choose based on that arbitrary status, but rather your own preferences. But alas, when a human is born, the first words it hears are “it’s a melon!” or “it’s a rat!” Whichever they are judged as defines the rest of their life.

…

So, the plot twist here is that I feel much more like a muskrat on the melon/rat binary than I do like either a man or a woman on the gender binary.

Playing “Forcemeat” deeply spoke to me as a nonbinary person, particularly as a nonbinary person on the autism spectrum. As a kid, social norms didn’t (and still don’t) come easy to me, including the gender ones. (Examples: Women wear makeup. Men don’t cry. Women should be skinny, men muscular. What the hell are you talking about?!) Some will offer evolutionary explanations for such classifications, but I would counter that the way our pre-civilization ancestors survived shouldn’t have such a strong bearing on how we live today. Furthermore, our understanding of our evolutionary past keeps evolving (such as with the men = hunter, women = gatherer myth.) Some cite biochemical reasons for their way of sorting, but in many cases, even when they are scientifically sound, one could argue with similar reasons for the inverse expectations. (If testosterone grants men social leniency to be more expressive of frustration and anger, why does menstruation not call for a similar grace?) The foundation of many of these hyperspecific categorizations are a stretch, much like the reasoning one comes up with when playing “Forcemeat”. They latch onto something like assumptions based on shaky conclusions drawn from a cultural myth of a bygone era, which itself was a departure from the previous assumption of blah blah blah blah blah.

This is all to say that engaging with this silly poem not only resonated with my experience but helped me put into words what makes me so averse, both personally and intellectually, to the gender binary.

Now everyone else, stop reading for a bit. This next part is just for my mom.

––

Hi, Mom!

I was sort of planning on this being an open secret for the rest of my life. Had Outlook not added my email signature––with my changed name and pronouns––to that message I sent you a while ago, I was going to try keeping it a closed secret. Well, as closed as I could keep it after sharing very vocally with my middle school classmates my hope that puberty would grant me hairy arms and a beard.

I’ve been so scared about trying to explain this to any of my family, not because I’m scared of being disowned––I know your love is unconditional––but because I freeze when I even try to think of how I would articulate what it means to consider oneself “nonbinary” to you. I hate arguing and I hate conflict, even in the form of the most sophisticated and gentlemanly debate. I would shatter into a million pieces if any of you responded by starting with so much as the word “But.” That’s caused me to let a gap grow between us. But now, analyzing this poem has given me the words to explain it, and I’m no longer afraid of that conversation.

Maybe you’re thinking, why not live with the “muskmelon” label and do whatever I feel like anyways? You yourself were a tomboy (or tomrat, if we’re speaking metaphorically.) In some ways you grew up to be a thomaswoman. In fact, my own upbringing didn’t pigeonhole me into a strict definition of womanhood as readers might assume, given the little “Twilight Zone” episode they just read. What makes me so sure I haven’t been a muskrattish muskmelon, or a boyish girl, or a masculine woman?

On a practical, everyday level, I feel so much more comfortable with myself outside the labels of female/male, labels which feel as irrelevant to how I carry myself as the labels muskmelon/muskrat do to most people on earth. Being referred to with she/her pronouns felt like wearing a really uncomfortable sweater that irritates my skin, a fashion choice which is liable to make me 54% grumpier on any given day. I physically felt better when I came out to my friends and colleagues as Jamie Manias, when I wasn’t referred to as a muskmelon all the fuckin’ time, when people knew that they’d likely misinterpret me if they looked at me through the paradigm of man- or womanhood.

On a touchy-feely “who am I” level, “melon” or “woman” being the core descriptor of me as a person––the noun onto which every other aspect of myself is an adjective piled on––does not feel accurate at all. To be considered a masculine woman is still to be considered, grammatically and socially, a woman above anything else. More than that, it is to be considered a woman who is bad at being a woman, according to the rules of the mutually exclusive binary. Like being a cold pot of coffee or a shy public speaker.

Maybe you’re thinking that the way people see me won’t be affected at all by my coming out, that they’ll always see me as a woman. That it’s practically impossible for anyone to mentally accept someone as “in-between” or “neither.” That this binary––even if it is as silly as a binary of melons and rats––can’t really be set aside by anyone. That could be true, especially of me. (It’s hard to divorce a pronoun like “she” from a rack like mine.) But even if the only thing that’s changed is the way people refer to me, that still makes me feel more at home in my own skin. That was a rare feeling for me before realizing this about myself.

Anyways, give Morty and Bella lots of pets for me. Keep the pool table ready, I’ll see you over Spring Break.

With much love,

Jamie Manias.

––

…

Anyways.

I often fear that I neglect my duty to this burning, burning world by wasting my time and talent on writing poetry.

But before playing “Forcemeat,” I was planning on never having this conversation.

I was terrified.

I thought I could never clearly communicate my internal experience to anyone not already well-versed in gender-ology.

Maybe I can’t. Maybe I can’t communicate it to anyone. But that’s not the point. The point is that even if nobody understands me any better, even if the writer of “Forcemeat” is appalled by my interpretation (hi Henry!), even if I’m banished from the academy for my mad science of grafting a board game to a living poem, no matter what, I found a way to explain myself to myself here. And if a poem can give that to someone, maybe I’m not wasting my time as a poet.

––Jamie Manias (they/them), Mid-American Review

Personal Essay: How I Almost Met Dan Stevens Eight Times on a Mission from MAR, Part III: There’s a Dog in the Car No. 3

This is our third and final installment (read Part I: The MFA Can Kill You and Part II: Gadaffi, Frogs, and Jungian Beetles) of this special series about Mid-American Review (MAR), Dan Stevens of Downton Abbey fame, and the post-MFA life. (Image, above: Ivan T)

Part III – There’s a Dog in the Car
By Suzanne Hodsden

The guy was everywhere, and it was weird.

I was up and out of the house four days after surgery, and I stuffed my days full of appointments. Wherever I ended up—job interviews, errands, apartment viewings—he was either two steps ahead or two steps behind. Eastside, Westside. Uptown, Downtown. I’m not a creature of routine, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. Weird.

It was like a gift from a distant aunt who doesn’t write or visit. It’s nice. It’s lovely. But she’s obviously never met me or was confusing me with someone else. What am I supposed to do with this?

Let me be clear. He seems like a decent enough guy. Or maybe he’s not. My point is, I didn’t know. After a while, it got silly. What is the statute of limitations on introductions? How many times can you ignore someone before you admit you know who they are? What are the statistical odds of running into somebody that many times?

In fairness, he sticks out. He’s forty times prettier than the average Clevelander, and no one gave him the standard issue cargo shorts and sandals. Nobody told him that no one here wears skinny jeans and a baseball hat at the same time. It’s like watching a blue dolphin leap out of a sink full of dirty dishes. A blue dolphin who drives a car with the erratic over-caution characteristic of senior citizens.

Up until this point, Abby was the only person I told about any of this. According to her, it was because—in her words—Magic. Literary destiny.

Magic is an excuse for seven-year-olds, I said. If I was magic and capable of supernatural phenomenon, being able to manifest the presence of British actors wouldn’t make the list. Not when there was invisibility and teleportation on the menu.

No. In the stark light of day, I prefer science. Magic was just something that covered up a long road of complicated math.

To prove it, I started memorizing the faces of strangers and waiting for them to show up again. Redheaded girl with birthmark and pet pitbull. Goateed man with leg brace. I made notes. I must have memorized close to twenty faces and then spent days shuffling around muttering. “C’mon redheaded dog-girl, get back here. Don’t let me down.” No one ever reappeared.

My roommate in college was an astrophysicist named Cindy. She has a PhD now and two small children. She does math for fun. For a variety of reasons, I trust her with my weird. I told her about my experiments, my research, and my results, and she offered this scientific conclusion: “Wow. You must really be bored.”

She had a point. I was busy with the job and house hunt, but nothing close to what I was. I hadn’t been bored in four years. I’d forgotten what it felt like.

He continued to show up and in the oddest places. His presence on my path became so quotidian that I forgot I was supposed to be delivering a literary journal.

“Math, math, math,” I chanted to myself, every time forgetting MAR 34.1 weighing down my bag. This was during the day.

At night, I sat alone in my bedroom and tried to light a candle with my mind.

***

“You need a vacation,” said Jill.

The last week in June, she came for a visit. Together we’d find me an apartment, deliver MAR 34.1, and raise a little hell. She stated all three objectives with the confidence the universe portions out to leggy blondes. As an added bonus of badassery, she’s from Detroit. Together, we wouldn’t fail.

Both of us were way overdue for a holiday. Even when it started to rain, we ate our West Side gyros and jumped through rain puddles in the square like children. She hung out the side of the car and took pictures of the art deco statues guarding the Lorain Bridge. I showed her the exquisite glory that is Rising Star coffee. It was a great day.

The next morning, she woke me up early. In addition to being tall and blonde, she’s also a morning person. I scratched the sleep out of my eyes, and she pulled out the issue of MAR and shook it around.

“How do we make this happen?”

I sniffed and looked around for coffee. “Well, first we must dance naked under a gibbous moon. Cut our hands and become blood sisters.”

“Be serious.”

“I don’t know. I just. Live. And …” I spread out my hands in the universal gesture of TADA!

“All right, then. Let’s go live.”

Living for me involves bookstores, vinyl records, and modeling fashions from the 60s, so that’s what we did, and we had a great time. We had our arms full of books and clothes and were heading to a French café to drink some wine, happy as clams. Until the dog on Bridge Street ruined everything.

***

There’s little in life that amuses me as much as a fat dog so when I saw one bouncing in the back of a white Buick, I pointed it out to Jill. She looked but as soon as she did, it ducked out of view.

“I don’t see anything.”

“It’s there. Look.” I swear that dog blew me raspberries before he disappeared again into the bowels of the car. She looked, and he was gone.

“Listen.” Her voice was slow and measured. “Do you think there’s a possibility that all of this is in your head?”

“You’re asking me if I hallucinate British actors and fat dogs?”

She looked away and shrugged.

I wanted to say yes. Run back and forth between the real and the imaginary often enough and someday I might just let go and let my sanity pop in a power line like a Mylar balloon. Maybe it already had, and I didn’t notice. There was the issue of life choices. I could have gone to dental school, but no. I’ve been a derelict. I’m in my thirties for god’s sake. I’ve neglected to establish a marriage, a baby, a 401K. I could have done those things, but instead, I wrote a novel. How stupid is that? Every week there’s another article declaring the novel dead, and I have a better chance of joining NASA and being shot to the moon than ever publishing one. What had I done? These are the actions of a crazy deluded idiot.

But I didn’t say that. If I had, I’d have cried right there on the sidewalk and that wouldn’t do. Instead, I gritted my teeth and told her: “There’s a fucking dog in that fucking car.”

She sighed. “Ok.”

She walked on ahead of me, and I followed a few step behinds. As soon as I saw her spine stiffen, I knew what she saw. Dan Stevens. Smiling from plastic chair on an outdoor patio.

***

Coincidence? It would take a team of mathematicians forty square feet of white board to work out the equation on that one. Better maybe, definitely easier, to just say magic. Maybe the universe cavorts from time to time on my side. Maybe it just wants to make me laugh. Either way, my spirits lifted considerably, and I vowed on the spot to buy this guy’s movies forever. Blue-ray and everything.

I smiled, and I waited for Jill.

We’d agreed ahead of time that we’d cover my month of rudeness by having her be the one to recognize him. At first I thought she’d missed it because she just kept walking. By the time we reached the next intersection, she was bug eyed and wordless. She didn’t miss it.

“He’s so beautiful. It’s like looking into the sun.” She had one arm draped dramatically over her eyes as if, from two blocks away, he still had the power to blind her. She sat down in the middle of the sidewalk.

By the time I dragged her back, he was gone. We ordered a bottle of wine and toasted our failures and shortcomings.

***

We were drunk when he showed up again in the intersection.

He hung out in his car at the green light for a while. Doing what, I don’t know. Nothing? Changing a CD? Making a phone call? Thinking: “Oh god, there she is again. What does it mean?” He’s a writer too, after all.

“Do something,” said Jill.

But what could I do? Run into the street? Jog past and throw the journal on the windshield? MAR 34.1 deserves better, and my luck, he’d hit the gas and I’d be back in the hospital. No, thank you. He turned the corner, and as soon as he did, I started laughing.

The very best kinds of laughs are the ones with no clear origin. These are the ones that go on with no signs of stopping. We had no idea why we were laughing, but we were. Like a cage full of gibbons. Why is it funny? –I asked, but she couldn’t stop laughing long enough to answer me. We laughed until we collapsed, exhausted. It felt great. Fantastic even.

Then it started to rain.

“No.” I stood up, wine wobbly and shook my fist at the sky. “Don’t you even think about it. Go away. Don’t you see I’m having a good time here?”

As if it’d heard me, it stopped. As quickly as the clouds had appeared, they left. The rain was replaced by warm light, the post-rain glimmer of a revenant sun.

“Holy shit,” said Jill. “Maybe you are magic.”

I’m as surprised as you are.

Post script: I’ve compared my story with others and found a number of consistencies. If you, or a loved one, has recently gone through an MFA, you’ll find that these mood fluctuations, over-reactions and crises of self-doubt are typical and will probably pass. Cuddle with your cohort as needed. Don’t be a banker. There’s enough bankers, but this world needs its story-tellers and that’s what you are. It’s time to tell your parents the truth.

Suzanne Hodsden is Mid-American Review‘s Technical Editor.
Her fiction appears most recently in Crab Orchard Review. Find
her on Twitter: @zannahsue.

Part III – There’s a Dog in the Car By Suzanne Hodsden

Part III – There’s a Dog in the Car
By Suzanne Hodsden