Fakers gonna fake fake fake fake fake...

(First, you're welcome for the earworm!)

I wrapped up my most recent graduate class a few weeks ago with a few pieces under my belt, hopeful chapters to what will eventually become my "thesis," an actual memoir that I want to publish if not while in school, then definitely soon after. I was happy to have taken my first class in my specialization, not just because I'm pretty damn good at it ("How can you bang out a six-page paper in half a day? Without editing?!"), but because I finally found the path I'd like to go down, the part of my life I'd like to write about.

I can't help but feel like a fraud, though. Like I don't know enough about my own life, have enough ownership over my experiences and my reckonings, to write about them with any kind of authority. I've been listening to Down at the Crossroads recently, whittling my one-way, hour-plus commute away with intriguing interviews from various Pagan and witchy authors, and I can't help but think...

How are they so confident with what they write about?

First, go check out that podcast. It's seriously fun, and I've been introduced to so many new authors and music (they play new music every episode!) and ways of seeing witchcraft from just the five or so episodes I've had the time to binge on.

Along with that thought is an accompanied feeling of... dis-ease, I suppose. This part is difficult to put to words, the uncomfortable undercurrent I get when I listen to these authors talk about their books. It's not that I dislike the topics; in fact, I recently bought Jason Miller's Elements of Spellcrafting because I finally found a magickal practitioner who viewed spellwork as I do. And even if I didn't quite connect with the topic -- Deborah Castellano's interview on her book Glamour Magic comes to mind, though I have to admit, I've thought of her work more often since getting a bright red lipstick and actually liking it -- I enjoyed hearing about it and learning a new perspective.

These people were subject matter experts in their particular magickal practice, and eloquent, intelligent, and aware of themselves, to boot.

It occurred to me a few days later what that undercurrent was: I feel like a fraud for writing a memoir on witchcraft. Or anything, really, but what makes me a subject matter expert in witchcraft. Even if it's my journey, my experiences, my practice that I'm sharing, I feel they're not good enough to share with even my closest friends (witchy or not), much less an audience and certainly not in such a permanent fixture as the written word.

Impostor syndrome is a bitch, y'all. I get that writers suffer from it, so in that regard, I'm by no means special or unique. But oh my god, just imagining -- and pardon me for a second while my shit brain runs wild with *probably-not-going-to-happen-but-anxiety-is-an-asshole-like-that* scenarios for a second -- DatC calling me and asking me all these questions like these other authors makes me shake in my fuckin' pointy hat.

I'm also equally terrified of being the center of attention from a widely read book and the book totally bombing, two polar opposites that literally can't happen in conjunction unless that attention is all negative (which feeds back into the previous fear... you know that's exactly what's going to happen if you publish it, right? Nobody likes you, everybody hates you, guess you'll eat... the pages of your book you STARVING ARTIST). Kinda tied to impostor syndrome, but a fear of its own volition, too.

Which is fucking great when you want to be a writer. Like, I want to be published and read and shared around the magickal community, but I don't want to be paraded in front of other people or depended on to shape someone else's craft. That's a fuck-ton of responsibility. A friend of mine put it best:

I don't like the idea that I'll be paraded in front of people for that same knowledge. I hate pedestals. I hate receiving that type of attention for something that I'm good at or have specific knowledge of. I don't need to be celebrated like that. It makes me extremely uncomfortable to be put on display like that.

That is, in a nutshell, exactly how I feel about being the "center of attention."

Think about it, though... in order to have any chance at a successful book, you need to market and promote not only the book, but yourself. You have to pretend you're someone on the outside looking at you and your work, and going, "Hey, I just read this awesome thing by this pretty cool chick; we should add it to our reading list at the book club!" Basically, you're peddling not just your written work, but who you are, what makes up you.

Sometimes, I'm worried I'm not good enough to market like that. Am I really worth that kind of effort, those accolades? Worth even giving a chance?

Before writing this, I Googled "impostor syndrome when writing a book" (as I'm wont to do) and came across this post from Neil Gaiman. Yes, that Neil Gaiman. I've always been impressed by his ability to weave mythology into compelling tales appropriate for this century, and I instantly became a fan after reading American Gods. (Who didn't, though.) Anyway, I was surprised to come across this post, in which he answers a question from a reader about impostor syndrome and asking about his experience with it. You can read the post in full here, but in pertinent part:

Some years ago, I was lucky enough invited to a gathering of great and good people: artists and scientists, writers and discoverers of things. And I felt that at any moment they would realise that I didn’t qualify to be there, among these people who had really done things.

On my second or third night there, I was standing at the back of the hall, while a musical entertainment happened, and I started talking to a very nice, polite, elderly gentleman about several things, including our shared first name. And then he pointed to the hall of people, and said words to the effect of, “I just look at all these people, and I think, what the heck am I doing here? They’ve made amazing things. I just went where I was sent.” 

And I said, “Yes. But you were the first man on the moon. I think that counts for something.” 

And I felt a bit better. Because if Neil Armstrong felt like an imposter, maybe everyone did. Maybe there weren’t any grown-ups, only people who had worked hard and also got lucky and were slightly out of their depth, all of us doing the best job we could, which is all we can really hope for.

And he's right. What more could we really ask for but just the chance? To do our best and to be recognized for that hard work and effort, no matter what came with it?

So, with that, I'm still going to give it the ol' college try (ha, funny, since I'm in grad school... *faint "boos" in the distance*) and work on this memoir. I need to suck it up, write this damn thing, get it edited, and work on publication. It's not a guarantee that DatC or anywhere else will ever reach out after it hits bookshelves or Amazon, and it's not a guarantee that anyone will even buy the damn thing or think it's worth its while...

... but I have to try. Because who knows, I just might get lucky.

Me, Too: Breaking the silence

This post is full of triggers. Please read at your own discretion.

TIME Magazine just came out with its Person of the Year 2017, and I have to say, y'all... I'm speechless.

The Silence Breakers

But now, I'm speechless for the right reasons. Finally, after all this time, we are finding our voices and speaking out against boundaries crossed, opportunities lost, lives shattered. We're telling our stories, not meekly behind computer screens or stealthily to our dearest friends, but with gigantic fucking megaphones.

And finally, there are repercussions.

Sure, we still have a long way to go; after all, Bill Cosby still admitted to his crimes and walked away, Brock Allen Turner still only served a paltry sentence for rape (and is now fighting that ruling because of course he is), and we have a shameless sexual predator occupying the highest office in the land.

Still, there's a palpable shift going on, and TIME recognized it. Sought it. And if #MeToo brought these truths to the world stage, TIME just flicked on the floodlights.

And begrudgingly, it's my turn to step into the spotlight. This is the first time I've ever told my entire story, and while it's one of many I could tell, it's the one that stands out most clearly, was the most egregious of them all.

I was eighteen when I was raped.

He has a name, but he's not famous. He could be anyone; in fact, he's been everyone since.

I barely knew him. He worked stock, I was in the photo lab, so we didn't interact very often. He was twice my age, too, so when there was opportunity to talk, there weren't a lot of common interests. But it's not like he was a stranger.

It started at a Fort Lauderdale nightclub. I was invited by a friend of his, another coworker who had about seven years on me and who thought it was a great idea to doll me up to go out (she told me later, because this guy had a thing for me). Not only was I grossly uncomfortable in the short skirt and the makeup, but the attention at the club was disconcerting, too: Men of all shapes and sizes and colors and ages grinding up against you, touching you wherever your skin was exposed, and in some places where it was not. I left the dance floor a number of times, only to be dragged out again and again, finally by him.

I guess he thought I was "his." One hand on my lower back, pulling me closer, the other steadily pushing other men away. I didn't know you could feel simultaneously thankful (only one guy was grabbing my ass now) and disgusted (someone still has my ass in his hand). He forced a few kisses, too, on my neck and my face and my lips, even as I turned away and tried leaving the floor again.

Blissfully, 2am came and the club closed for the night. Since my female colleague had already left -- no doubt because she was hoping something would happen for his friend, if you know what I mean -- he offered to drive me home. I was already past my curfew, so calling my parents was a no-go... so I accepted.

I don't remember the drive home, only when he dropped me off and how his hand felt on my thigh and the alcohol on his breath as he tried to kiss me again. I got in quite a bit of trouble last night, but I should have known my parents were the least of my concerns.

I avoided him pretty well after that night, only going to the stock room, where the printer paper and ink and all other supplies I needed to do my job were stored, when absolutely necessary and always when I saw him on the floor. Of course, him being occupied by something else didn't stop him from dropping whatever he was doing and pressing me between his body and boxes of merchandise. Cardboard still give me anxiety for the way it feels against my bare hands.

I couldn't say anything, though. He had been working there for several years and I was only a teenager -- an adult in the eyes of the law, yes, but a child in every other aspect. I was terrified that saying anything would cast doubt, get me fired, or worse. So I kept quiet and away as much as possible.

Where it went from "what a gross guy" to "what have I done" was summer of 2003. My workplace was less than a mile from my parents' house, so I often walked to work. One hot July afternoon, as I made my way to work, a car pulled up beside me and he called out, "Do you need a ride?"

It was hot. I had on layers (regular clothes plus my work smock). Things had been relatively calm for the preceding month, so maybe he had changed. Whatever excuse I had, I took him up on the offer and climbed in.

"Oh, I just need to grab something from my apartment." Sure... oh, your apartment is a ways away...

"This might take a second, do you want to come up?" Um... yeah, you have a balcony, I'll just stand there and out of the hot sun.

"Do you want some water?" No, thanks... hey, why are you grabbing my hand...

I remember the layout of his apartment. Not really much inside it, just that a tiny kitchen was immediately to my left, a dining area as you step inside, a living room just beyond that, and a bedroom and attached bath the next left, just past the kitchen.

I remember thinking it weird that he had such a huge mirror over his bed. I still can't look at myself naked in a full-length mirror.

I remember his eyes looking around my entire body as he took away the fun of undressing. Looking up as he took away the fun of oral sex. Looking down to my chest as he took away the fun of penetrative sex. Looking away, not with shame but a grin, after he came and pointed me to the bathroom.

I remember the shower stall was like a black hole. There was a pattern on the tile, but I couldn't make it out past the blurriness welling up in my eyes. I hated that I had to use his soap, had to smell like him the rest of the day. Bar soap. Like he was rubbing himself against me again.

I don't remember much else, a small blessing. I did go to work that day, a hazy, lazy Sunday. The walk home after closing up felt like an eternity as he followed me slowly in his car, his voice echoing my name. I don't remember responding. Or sleeping, or any of the days that followed.

I eventually left that job and that city to attend college almost 500 miles away. I had new friends, went to class, started dating. It was a warm fall evening and I was walking with my boyfriend to the cafeteria for dinner when I heard it: A wolf whistle.

And there he was, down the street, walking towards me with purpose. I guess he thought I was "his."

He had followed me across the length of the state of Florida to find me. There was no social media at the time, no digital means of tracking my movement, but on a campus of almost 25,000 students, he managed to find me.

I don't remember what I said then, either, but my words were harsh, biting. He asked for privacy; I told him no. He asked for another kiss; I told him no. He asked me to take a ride with him; I told him no. He asked me to keep this between us;

I told him no.

Within an hour, campus police knew of his whereabouts and had him escorted off the premises. Still, I locked myself in my dorm for the rest of the evening, told the front desk not to let anyone in without their student ID, and stayed inside, almost cowering, for the rest of the week.

I sought no legal recourse; after all, though they did their job and found him, their reaction when I told them I was being stalked and harassed was far from encouraging. Why would city police believe me.

It's been 15 years since, and while writing this out still spikes my anxiety, I feel these stories need to be told. #MeToo isn't just a social movement, it's personal empowerment, and not only for those who share their personal experiences.

I've shared aspects of my story several times in the last 10 years, after I bucked up the courage to say, "Yes, I've been sexually assaulted." Of course, the story just gets new layers year after year, since some men never learn and insist women are objects and treat them accordingly. My story isn't the only one adding layers, either. But by sharing my experience, I've had several friends and family share theirs with me, too, either publicly or privately.

TIME recently revealed that their photo features an elbow. At first glance, it appears surreptitiously cropped from the rest of the photo, like someone just didn't make the cut, or perhaps a result of sloppy editing. Instead, they reveal it was "an anonymous woman who is a hospital worker who was experiencing harassment and didn't feel that she could come forward."

These are the women helped when we reveal our stories. Who truly benefit from the #MeToo campaign. If those in power (or who, like me, feel confident enough to) share their experiences, we may see the true "trickle down" effect and dole out consequences to other men and justice to those who have suffered at their hands.

Including my rapist. He with a name, he who could be anyone... and he who always has been everyone.

Reach for the stars... you're guaranteed to hit something good along the way.

You guys. YOU GUYS!! I can't believe I haven't written about this sooner, but the overwhelming joy swept me off my feet with such gusto, I didn't even think to say anything here.

I got into grad school!!

OMG OMG OMG!!!!

Okay, so! After graduating from Florida State in 2007 with my BA in Creative Writing and Music, I applied to a Creative Writing master's program through the University of Central Florida, where I was promptly denied. Too little life experience, they said, and I agreed, tucking my tail between  my legs. My spirit was crushed; all I ever wanted to do was become a writer and flourish in a community of like-minded creative souls, and receiving that rejection letter drove a stake through my heart.

The next several years were spent getting a degree in Legal Studies and doing paralegal work across Orlando and, after moving, around Maryland. The job was great and I learned a whole hell of a lot, but I wasn't fulfilled; it wasn't until one of my best friends, Sam, referred me to a legitimate writer/editor job that I got my "big break" into the professional writing world.

Getting into grad school remained in the back of my mind, though, and after some encouragement and a Graduate Open House that had me literally writhing with excitement, I finally bucked up the courage and applied. Many, if not all, of my writing samples came from this blog, and my Personal Statement (or Statement of Purpose) shirked convention by talking not about how I've "always wanted to be a writer since developing my first short story at the tender age of seven," but about already being a writer and what the grad program, its instructors, and my fellow classroom colleagues could learn from one another.

Two long, agonizing months passed with no word. Once they received my final letter of recommendation and the status on my account changed from "incomplete" to "awaiting decision," I checked nearly every other hour for something, anything. At that point, while my heart would have withstood damage beyond belief, even getting a rejection was better than the waiting game.

And finally, after going three whole days without obsessively checking my account, I received this email:

(Can I say, thank GOD they include "Congratulations!" in the very first line?! Even before opening the email, I was running around the office!)

I am OVER THE MOON!! There are literally no words adequate to describe this level of exuberance and the want to jump out of my own skin. I start this coming semester with a Poetry Workshop, which is awesome on so many levels: (1) I've never done a poetry workshop, and just thinking how it will enhance my writing is daunting and exhilarating all at once; (2) I consider my writing poetic already, so studying actual poetry will only expand those horizons; and (3) my academic advisor and the department head opened up a new section just so I could be in her class. She personally re-reviewed my application and said she thought a poetry workshop would be fantastic for my writing, so she ensured I had a spot so I can study with her.

AMAZING. Amazing!!!

So, in celebration, and considering I'm sure several others are looking for MFA Personal Statement inspiration (because I legit googled the SHIT out of them before drafting my own), here's my submission. May it serve as fodder for your own graduate application packages. :)

Love love LOVE to y'all!!

Personal Statement

Stephanie Fox, prospective graduate student

UBalt MFA: Creative Writing and Publishing Arts

Concentration in Non-Fiction

I’m a veritable unicorn of the literary world, a writer lucky enough to actually do what she loves for a living.

… well, okay, the work isn’t exactly what I want to do, but I get a steady (and livable) paycheck every two weeks to write and edit a plethora of different materials every single day. The rub? I’m a government contractor, so what I end up writing is limited to technical documents, the security workforce, professional certifications, and the Department of Defense. Not quite what I’d call riveting, though I try to write in a way that’s not drier than a well-done filet. You know, something palatable.

My work is certainly challenging, though; not a day goes by when I’m not genuinely thankful to pursue my passion, push the boundaries to write creatively and develop intriguing imagery for an otherwise mild industry and audience, and—let’s face it—put the exorbitant amount of money I already put into my undergraduate education to good use. However, between this career and the preceding six years as a paralegal (since, as implied, actually getting a job related to your undergraduate degree is easier said than done), I’ve noticed my own personal writing pursuits trending towards a distinct flatness and, eventually, a rather boring voice.

I had an incredible undergraduate experience. My first two years were spent as a Music Performance major, an up-and-coming professional violinist playing in full orchestras, smaller chamber ensembles, and solo works. The equally (or exceedingly) creative people around me were nothing short of inspiring, and I drew on a lot of that creativity and talent as I progressed through my degree.

Halfway through my junior year, I decided to double major in Creative Writing and instantly found an equally (or exceedingly!) creative group of aspiring novelists and essayists, all working together to hone their individual talents and foster a community that encouraged others to pave their own destiny paths. For the remaining year and a half of my college experience, my writing improved dramatically, my portfolio increased exponentially, and my voice sang from the rooftops (on key, of course, considering my musical training). I loved reading my classmates’ work and getting their comments back on mine, critically examining every line for intent and purpose while appreciating the work as a whole and how each line played its part. I ultimately discovered a fondness for creative non-fiction, learning to see my life as a narrative and turning ordinary life and any little experience within it into an introspective work of art.

Nowadays, I’m paid to write and edit for a major government organization under the DoD umbrella. The love for critical examination cultivated during my undergraduate career and its writing community gave way to becoming a subject matter expert in my field, offering editorial expertise and constructive criticism when nitpicking my colleagues’ writing. But it’s a lonely life, being the only writer and editor in my division and one of two in my entire directorate, with no ability to have others review my work with the same fervent desire to find meaning as I did in the writing community from years ago.

I recently attended a Graduate Open House for the University of Baltimore’s Creative Writing and Publishing Arts MFA Program, where I had the pleasure of meeting potential future classmates guided by a similar passion and love for the written word. Simply listening to them discuss their experiences, desires, and dreams was inspirational; I heard the hunger in their voices, the craving for experiencing and influencing others’ writing while developing their own voices as those around them experience and influence them.

I practically wriggled in my seat when Dr. Kendra Kopelke, with her devotion not only for poetry but for helping her students “plork” (or finding play in your work, if any of my colleagues—stuffed to the gills with overcooked, unseasoned meat—could ever imagine such a thing!), danced and gesticulated and took my imagination to new heights as she described the program and her students’ accomplishments. In her own right, and if she is any indication of how other professors in the MFA Program approach the written word, Dr. Kopelke was the one who truly inspired me to file my graduate studies application with UBalt.

I’ve obviously overcome one major hurdle in every aspiring writer’s narrative: “I want to be a writer when I grow up,” and I’ve managed to do just that by firmly establishing a career where I write every day for a modest living. No mean feat, but this achievement comes almost at the cost of my personal expression. In researching MFA programs around Maryland, I discovered one that pushed creative limits and nurtured each student’s individual energy and spirit while offering that work-life balance. More than anything, being an MFA student at UBalt would provide the opportunity to commune with other fervent and talented writers, foster a new creative community where I could both develop myself and help develop others, grow as a writer while finding balance between my professional work and personal “plork,” and bring that passion back into my voice.

Then, once again, I will sing on-key from the rooftops.