IN THE BEGINNING

My writer's journey, with some diversions + some book recs to help get you through

In my previous post, I mentioned that I recently finished my MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults at the Vermont College of Fine Arts. Two years ago, when I applied for the program, I was asked to write an essay about my writer’s journey; who I am, how I got here, all that jazz. Now that I’m done, I thought it would be fun to revisit that paper and give it an updated ending. So, without further ado, here’s a bunch of personal information no one asked for.

Writing My Way Through

I was in the sixth grade the first time someone complimented my writing.

I was walking through the halls between classes when my English teacher stopped me at her door to say she really enjoyed my book reports.

“You have great voice,” she told me. I stared at her in a way that must have made it clear I had no idea what that meant—I was, after all, 12-years-old. She laughed and gestured to the stack of papers behind her. “Like, when you say, ‘I really relate to Bella Swan as a character even though I would absolutely never date a vampire on purpose.’ That’s funny! That’s voice.” 

My chest swelled with that special kind of warmth that comes from a grown-up telling you you’ve done a good job. I’d always been a teachers’ pet, but middle school really threw me for a loop. Instead of just one teacher to impress, I had a different teacher for every subject, meaning I couldn’t compensate being very good at one thing in exchange for doing poorly in another. I’d also missed my first day due to an administrative issue, which, to my 12-year-old brain, meant I’d lost out on crucial teacher-student bonding time and the class favorites had already been determined before I even set foot in the room.

Sixth grade was also the year I discovered the magical world of online fanfiction forums. I had dipped my toe into the fray over that past summer, only to be cut down immediately in the comments raging against my “bad spelling” and “over-dramatic dialogue.” But my English teacher liked my writing! She liked it enough to pull me aside after class! She thought I was funny, a statement I heartily agreed with, even though adults didn’t usually seem to think so.

I had technically started writing my own stories outside fanfic at that point, but they seriously lacked originality. I was a baby Arab queer writing about cis white boys being “chosen” to save the world, because those were the protagonists of the books I loved most. I was a voracious reader, tearing through book after book faster than our hometown library could get them back on the shelves. I was drawn to anything and everything with magic and creatures and epic quests. It never occurred to me to write about a different kind of hero, because all my heroes looked the same.

Now I’ll jump ahead a few years. In tenth grade, I enlisted the help of Mr. Higginbotham (Higg, to his students) to form the school’s first-and-only Writing Club. We would meet on Fridays with snacks and handwritten notes for one another on the submitted pieces. I was in charge of everything from scheduling, to lines of communication, to snack distribution. Higg handled the literary criticism. In class, he showed me how to get excited about things like diction and metaphors. He taught me to read with a pen in my hand—a habit I never grew out of—and he took every piece of media just as seriously as he would Shakespeare or Faulkner. For example, we had many conversations about the evolving social justice allegories in X-Men comics. 

I’d decided freshman year that I wanted to write a novel, a very 14-year-old type of story with angels and demons and magic and lots of awkward teenagers. Higg was kind enough to read the whole thing and tell me exactly what he thought: it was boring. 

I had made the mistake I think many young writers do: I believed that in order to write something important it also had to be impressive. I thought it had to look and sound like all the other “important” books looked and sounded—don’t get me wrong, these are books I adored! I was that kid at my high school. I’d get mistaken for being a substitute teacher because I spent all my free time hanging out with the English department. I found something to love in every book I was forced to read, no matter how boring the rest of my peers insisted it was. I hosted a “study group” before our final unit on The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn where I invited my entire AP Lang & Comp class to FROYO WORLD to present a Power Point I made in my own free time detailing the plot points of the book because I knew no one else had actually read it. I think they all probably hated me, and I don’t even blame them.

“Why don’t you write like this?” Higg asked, referencing my notes for Writing Club. They were written as me talking to myself, colloquial and full of self-deprecating humor—much like my sixth grade book report of Twilight. At the time I had thought, can I do that? But later, when I tried, I realized the words came so much easier when I was writing them with that special ingredient my previous English teacher had tried to tell me about years before—voice. My voice, specifically. I read The Catcher in the Rye over and over when I was 16; my high school editions of The Great Gatsby and Frankenstein are so abused they no longer lay flat. But Higg helped me realize that I shouldn’t be writing books like Fitzgerald or Shelley or Salinger, I should be writing books like me.  

Higg also answered hundreds of whiny, self-important emails from a lonely teenager trapped in their youth and no language to express themselves with a level of compassion and understanding I can only hope to emulate in my adult life. I was bizarrely self-aware for an adolescent, and Higg clocked me from a mile away. I’d address emails to him like, “Dear Batman,” and sign them “Sincerely, Robin.” He’d reply in kind; “Dear Thoreau,” “Sincerely, Emerson.” These emails didn’t stop when I graduated high school; Higg remained a dear friend and close confidant until his death—sometimes, I get trapped in the irony of the fact that he is the reason I found myself (eventually, against all odds, and with a lot of self-imposed obstacles set against me) yet he never got to meet this version of me. When I stood at the podium at graduation and listed out all the thanks I owe, I skipped perhaps the most important part¹. So, if you’ll all allow me to get deeply sentimental for a moment—

I owe an immeasurable debt to the teachings and kindness of Geoffrey Higginbotham. I don’t know that I would have survived high school without Higg. I don’t know that I would have kept writing, or had the courage to share that writing with anyone, if Higg hadn’t believed in me at that crucial time. I know I’m not the only student he saved in his many years of teaching; and I hope, one day, we can all make you proud. I carry you with me in every word I write and strive to remember your favorite kernel of wisdom; to take it easy.

All right, I promise that mushy shit is over now. Back to how I ended up writing for children.

So, while I slowly but steadily wrote my way through to myself after school, I also got a job at my local indie bookstore. Though I was still a teenager, most of what I read was from assigned lists at school; it wasn’t until my college roommate helped me re-discover the magical world of genre fiction and YA that I finally figured out what kind of stories I actually wanted to tell.

Unfortunately, this was also the year we lost Higg, and my connection to my writing floundered.

It wasn’t until in 2019, when a co-worker introduced me to Rainbow Writer’s Weekend Intensive workshop at the Writing Barn in Austin, TX that I dared to take myself seriously again. I was lucky enough not only to be accepted but to receive a full scholarship to attend the event under the instruction of authors Cory McCarthy and AR Capetta as well as agent Jim McCarthy. 

I was both excited to get feedback on my writing and terrified to realize I was one of the youngest people in our group. When the time came to workshop my submission, I received many versions of the same critique: Interesting premise, but where are the stakes? I loved the characters, but where’s the plot? I began to realize that while elements like voice and tone came easily to me, I struggled with structure and physicality. 

As we discussed different elements of craft and style, I took furious notes. I felt like I had just opened the doors to a whole new world of understanding in my art; that I was learning for the first time since I’d lost Higg, and within this new context of understanding myself as a queer person. After listening to faculty lectures about the history of LGBTQ+ representation in children’s literature I felt more inspired than ever before to write the kind of stories I had lacked growing up.

Maybe, like my sixth grade English teacher and Higg before them, Cory and AR saw the passion and excitement I had for books and storytelling. Maybe they sensed that latent teachers’-pet instinct that still lives inside me. Or, maybe, like Taylor Swift says, there was some invisible string tying us together all along. They scooped me up from that one writing intensive and helped nurture both my creativity and blooming queerness in the years to come. They are the ones who encouraged me to apply to VCFA, resulting in the very first version of this essay that I am now revising. They are my Owl Dads, and I am so, so lucky to call them mine.

At VCFA, I worked with my advisors to deepen my understanding of craft. With a lot of trial and error, I pushed myself to focus on the parts of writing that didn’t come easy—the structure, the physicality, and, of course, the emotional intensity that can often come with revisiting your inner child. The result was about 60% of a speculative YA novel I am now tasked with finishing, lest I incur the wrath of my incredibly supportive advisors and cohort. In the next few months, I’ve already scheduled a writing retreat, monthly check-ins with a friend, and a workshop to help me finish this manuscript and seek publication.

So there it is—the road so far. My writer’s journey, up to this moment. I skipped some essential stops along the way; namely, all the amazing writers I’ve had the pleasure to meet and the friendships we have forged since. I’m one of those lucky assholes whose day job is working creatively with dear friends on projects I’m sincerely passionate about. I hope to never take a moment of that for granted. But honestly, I’m still in denial about finishing my MFA. I’m supposed to do something next, right? What the hell does next look like?

I might have got a glimpse of next at residency². Naomi Shihab Nye, poet, novelist, editor, songwriter, and all-around rockstar received an honorary degree from my college this semester, and was invited as a visiting writer to attend some parts of our residency. She gave an amazing presentation on her life as a writer, the way her career has evolved with publishing to the place it is today, book bans, xenophobia and racism, and the incredible healing power of art and community. She told a story about how, in the early aughts, she would visit elementary schools and always make a point to introduce herself as Arab-American. There would often be children who hung around after her talk or reading, Arab kids who had never been given permission to talk about their identity at school or in public due to the incredible fear and hatred for Arabs in America.

Naomi also told a story about putting yourself out there; so I decided to take her advice. At the end of the presentation, another SWANA friend of mine and I walked up to Naomi hand-in-hand. Failing quite miserably to hold back tears, I told her: “that was me. I was one of those kids who didn’t know I was allowed to say I was Arab.” Naomi reached into her bag and handed me a collection of poetry written by women in the Arab diaspora. “I brought this for you,” she said, without skipping a beat, because she is (and I cannot stress this enough) the coolest person to ever live. Naomi, if by some twist of fate you find this random newsletter and recognize yourself in this story: thank you. Thank you for seeing me, thank you for being there, thank you for doing all the work you have already done to pave the way for more Arab voices in children’s literature.

This moment felt like a really fitting conclusion to my time as a student in the Writing for Children and Young Adults program, where I met an incredible community of SWANA kidlit writers who encouraged and uplifted me every step of the way. I heard this quote from Former Sergeant General Joycelyn Elders once: “You can’t be what you can’t see.” In order for people to believe they have a place in the world, they need to see that place reflected in their culture. Kids are wells of limitless potential; their curiosity and creativity is a beautiful constant as they navigate their way through their formative years. I believe the stories we read as children are the ones that stick with us throughout our entire lives. They shape the people who we will become. If we wish to see a brighter, more inclusive, happier future, we need to invest our time in telling children stories that show them all they are capable of being.

That’s the same concluding paragraph I ended my admissions essay with 2 years ago, and I stand by every word. I’m so grateful to have spent these last 4 semesters writing and learning in the spirit of that optimism; I hope to keep doing so for a long time.

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Some Book Recs to Get You Going

Once a bookseller, always a bookseller. Here are some recommendations based on the topics of this post; you might notice they all link to Bookshop.org! Bookshop is an awesome online retailer that supports independent bookstores. You can set it up so proceeds go directly to your own local indie or, if you feel so inclined, you can use the embedded links below to throw some affiliate change to yours truly³.

3 Craft Books I’d Recommend to Anyone

Never Say You Can’t Survive by Charlie Jane Anders, Steering the Craft by Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dark Fantastic by Ebony Elizabeth Thomas

1. The inside flap of Charlie Jane Anders’ Never Say You Can’t Survive reads, “The world is on fire. So tell your story.” I think that might be the best way to summarize what this book is about. It’s what happens when a craft book and a self-help book harmonize; full of practical advice for your writing and your life that serves as an important and timely reminder of how art saves us every day.

2. Steering the Craft by Ursula K. Le Guin is a classic, but it’s a classic for a reason; Le Guin is a master. She first wrote this as a handbook for leading workshops, but its full of great advice to use on your own as well.

3. Ebony Elizabeth Thomas’ The Dark Fantastic takes its reader on a journey though popular children’s stories and asks us to look critically at the depictions of race and gender through a lens of Black feminism and Afrofuturism. An important text for any writer wanting to include thoughtful representation of people of color in fantasy worlds.

3 Children’s Books with Arab Protagonists

Once & Future by Cory McCarthy and AR Capetta, The Turtle of Oman by Naomi Shihab Nye, Other Words for Home by Jasmine Warga

1. Once & Future by my own Owl Dads, Cory McCarthy and AR Capetta, is a queer, gender-bent King Arthur retelling set in a dystopic future where humanity has retreated to the stars. If you have big feelings about colonization, Jeff Bezos, and/or the legacy of King Arthur, this one’s for you. (I’d be remiss not to offer an additional rec here for Tracy Deonn’s masterpiece of Arthurian lore, Legendborn)

2. The Turtle of Oman is Naomi Shihab Nye’s beautiful and moving story of immigration from a beloved homeland to a strange new world; its sequel, The Turtle of Michigan was released just last year!

3. Jasmine Warga’s Other Words for Home is an immigrant story from the other side, following a young Muslim girl through her first few months living in America. Like the title implies, it’s a story about the meaning of home, as well as family and self. I love this book so much I’m getting a tattoo about it, so—let that speak for itself.

3 Nonfiction Books That Got Me All Revved Up Recently

1. If you’ve spoken to me in the last month or so, I’ve probably recommended Huw Lemmy and Ben Miller’s Bad Gays to you. Based on the podcast by the same name, it’s a look at history through the lens of 10 truly atrocious queers who helped shape history for the worser. It’s a testimony to the importance of intersection, the failure of white masculinity, and the work that lies ahead.

2. If you’ve spoken to me in the last decade or so, you know how much I hate Amazon. Danny Caine’s How to Resist Amazon and Why⁴ does a beautiful job of breaking down all of Amazon’s greatest crimes against humanity, as well as offering actionable solutions for resistance at any level with the understanding that Amazon has made itself an almost inextricable part of our lives, and if we ever want to see real change, it needs to come at the government level—not on the backs of the disenfranchised lower classes.

3. Okay, this one’s a bit of a cheat. I am one of the lucky ducks who gets to read an advanced copy of Martha Brockenbrough’s forthcoming Future Tense, a history and testimony of AI and its relationship with human creativity. Most of you will have to wait until next year to get your hands on it; but I promise its well worth the wait. You can pre-order it now, forget, and have a nice little surprise for yourself in March!

Thanks for reading, y’all. Much love,

Alex

1. I stand by my choice to not include Higg in my thank-yous at school for two main reasons; the first being that no one in the room had any context for who he was or what he meant to me; the second, I was already struggling to keep my voice steady, and I think if I became a blubbering fool over his loss at my own graduation his ghost would have been eye-rolling me hard.

2. I did a low-residency MFA, which means for a majority of the semester, I communicated with my faculty advisor via email or Zoom. But every semester kicks off with an in-person residency; this is also when graduation takes place for students who just completed their final semester. This model has made higher-ed so much more accessible for folks working full time jobs, raising families, etc and if it sounds like something that might work for you, I sincerely hope you give it a Google.

3. No pressure.

4. NO PRESSURE.