I Am Here to Give You Bad Advice

by Jessica Walsh

When I was a junior at a small liberal arts college, I began applying for English Ph.D. programs. (The entire story of why I chose this path was my professor’s statement that “If you get a Ph.D. in English, you’ll probably never get a tenure-track job. If you get an MFA in Creative Writing, you’ll definitely never get a job.” Seriously. That was the whole conversation.) Another professor told me how to write my personal statement for graduate school, emphasizing intellectual rigor as the primary requirement, recommending that I ground my essay in theory and criticism rather than talking about how passionate I was about literature and writing. He sent me forth with the words “Don’t tell them that you love it.”

Don’t tell them that you love it.

So now, nearly three decades into my career, I pass along those words in order to say that it is terrible, wretched advice. The worst I’ve ever received. Do not take it. The essay I could write on the damage I experienced because of that advice would be a bleak and ludicrous one, something best left unwritten.

All ended well, eventually. Six years after starting graduate school, I accepted my position at a wonderful two-year college. And my time in the classroom has been lesson after lesson in letting go of the awful advice given to me so many years ago.

I do love it. I love it unabashedly and openly. Walking into a classroom for me is a joyful and sacred experience. It is a gift to come to a space where people gather not to buy or sell but to think, create, connect, consider. I shepherd students through processes of critical thinking, self-discovery, and transformation, all while finding inspiration for my own creative work. I write poems, and sometimes I am fortunate enough to share them with readers who tell me that my work mattered to them. I work in some of the last spaces where idealism thrives. I love this.

More importantly, I could not continue in any aspect of my career without that love. All jobs have paperwork, and meetings, and other small tortures. Like every writer, I face more rejections than acceptances when it comes to submitting my work for publication. And on vulnerable days, a polite form of rejection can feel like a personal attack. When I am exhausted by what I call “the work parts of work,” all that remains to motivate me is love.

In the classroom, I am given free rein to advise young writers. Typically, writers rush to give advice because it gives us the illusion that we have figured out what we’re doing. But the fact is, the craft of writing is as diverse as writers themselves. Some work daily, some sporadically; some writers need to be in a particular space, others write anywhere. Some have specific rituals. Some will tell you you’re not a writer if you don’t _______.  Some writers focus a lot on publishing; others don’t pursue it much at all, or they publish only on social media. Every “rule” about writing is good for someone; none works for everyone. All I can do is tell them that I love it, over and over again.

So in my classrooms, I advise students to try all kinds of things, but not to let go of love. The love of writing is all that can carry writers through its many, many challenges. Writers will spend hours on something, sometimes months or years, only to realize it has to be scrapped. Someone will tell every aspiring writer that their ambition is ridiculous/pointless/impossible. Each writer will at some point offer up something they believe to be wonderful and receive criticisms. Most will be able to wallpaper their rooms with printed rejection emails. Almost all writers will be overlooked. Almost all writers will write for no money at all.

But for those who do love it, to those people, I advise you to love it loudly. Then you will find others who do, too and build a writing community, that marvel of marvels, full of people who genuinely wish each other well and support one another’s work. You will rejoice at others’ success, knowing a rising tide lifts all boats.

If you’re especially lucky, you will be able to teach, or run a local writing workshop, or set up online retreats. You will find or make a way to share your love with people just beginning. You will see their first drafts and revisions and final drafts as they coax genuine art into the world. You will see them fall in love with writing; you will be able to encourage them to guard and grow their love. If you’re as fortunate as I am, you will be surrounded by other writers, brand-new and long-established, and every word they write will act as an antidote to one miserably bad piece of advice.

Jessica L. Walsh is the author of How to Break My Neck and The List of Last Tries as well as two chapbooks of poetry. Her work has appeared in RHINO, Tinderbox, Rogue Agent, and more journals. She received a PhD in English from the University of Iowa and is a professor of English at Harper College. Find more at www.jessicalwalsh.com.