Good morning.
Welcome to Self-Preservation for English Majors. I hope you all had a lovely summer.
Please stop flirting, you two. You can disappoint each other on your own time. Thank you.
As you know, this is a required sophomore-level course for all English majors. At one time, this class was offered exclusively to seniors and first-year MFA candidates; however, it has become abundantly clear this information is crucial much sooner. You need to know what you’re choosing now.
You are all in good hands, however. There is a reason I am the professor of this course. I have my Ph.D. in Middle-Earth Literature. I have a tenured teaching position at this elite university. People who know me will tell you I’m quite famous.
I don’t see why any of that is funny.
I’ve published four critically acclaimed novels and countless short stories—twenty-six, to be exact. I’ve been awarded dozens of sabbaticals over my illustrious career and some that seemed more punishment than reward, because who wants to go to Minnesota in February? But truth be told, I don’t have anything to complain about.
But you do. Not everyone can achieve what I have, and not all of you should try. If, at the end of the semester, this room is empty, and you have all changed your majors to something more attainable, I’ll have succeeded.
Wait.
Mr. Haircut, in the back?
Yes, you.
Are you live-tweeting this? You think because I’m older than you I don’t know that smirk when I see it? Put the phone away.
If you refer to your syllabus, you’ll first notice that my assistant misspelled the word “aspire.” She wrote “expire.” When I kindly pointed out that, while some artists are loved after death and therefore “expire” to greatness, she certainly would not be one of them, she cried and quit. My response was quite witty and hilarious, but all the best to her, I suppose. A sense of humor is essential to survive an artist’s life.
Anyway, we’ll start with an introduction to the major literary markets. We’ll talk about literary magazines, agents, the Big Five publishing houses, and prestigious awards you are free to “aspire” to. Here’s a spoiler for you. A taste of the fun to come. Do you know the short story acceptance rate to the New Yorker? It’s .0000416 percent. Your undergraduate creative writing story? Not going to cut it. Nothing you write in these four beer-soaked years will ever be published. Let’s just get that out in the open.
Do you know the acceptance rate for Harvard University School of Medicine? 3.5 percent. Are you any good at science? Can you make a fairly straight cut with a knife? Can you listen to someone cough and tell them they have a cold? For God’s sake, do that instead. And they’ll pay you for it! Good money! You’ll be lucky to afford rice cakes and ramen on writers’ pay. Here’s a little tip: Only use half the seasoning packet on your ramen and save the rest for when you run out of tea. Lukewarm sriracha chicken broth is almost as good. Expect a mid-term essay in which you compare and contrast the various possible salaries in the majors available to you at this university. This is not subjective. There are right and wrong answers.
After that, we’ll talk about the emotional trauma of the writer’s life. How do you stave off the soul-crushing weight of student loans you’ll never be able to repay? Let alone the collections agencies’ uncanny ability to call the second you find twenty bucks just lying around in the break room? How do you deal with relatives asking you, “What do you even do all day?” and “Are you still writing your little stories, dear?” every time you see them at Thanksgiving. And I’ll provide you with an extensive list of the least-harmful low-fat comfort food options when you get rejected for the 200th time after spending six years of your life on a ground-breaking young adult novel in which the girl is short, sassy, and unnaturally good with weapons. My favorites include Halo Top ice cream, Triscuits, and whiskey. The whiskey isn’t healthy, of course, but at least you’ll forget about all the rest of it.
Our last three weeks of the semester will be devoted to those of you who are too delusional to switch majors, because there is always a great rabble of you who think you’re the exception to the rule. We’ll discuss your practical options for survival in the real world. You can’t pay for groceries with poems, children. Starbucks is a classic option. Barista-slash-writer. Don’t knock it. It’s as time-honored as waitress-slash-actress. We’ll talk about why New York City is a terrible place to live, why Los Angeles is practically built on top of unfinished screenplays that are buried in the sand, and why neither of these cities will get you what you want if you’re not any good to begin with. Which you aren’t. I read your personal essays. Please, leave now, and save us all some time.
Okay. Okay. I see a few of you can take a hint.
But I don’t appreciate the hand gesture, ma’am. That’s not very lady-like.
All the same, good luck with your lives. I truly mean that. Please remember, though, that your class fee is non-refundable. The fees have already been spent. I used some of them to fund our upcoming field trip to the now-bankrupt Borders store across town. These days it’s a Dick’s Sporting Goods, but if you look hard enough, you can see where the Borders logo used to be. They couldn’t even use the right paint color to cover it up. I call this field trip “Existential Crisis Day.”
For our culminating class project, at the end of the semester, we will arrange an elaborate group date with the good-looking (and more importantly, the practically-minded) individuals in the Engineering program. Wear makeup, ladies. Gentlemen, iron a shirt. This is really your last chance.
I think that’s enough for today. Please, as you leave, turn off the lights. We’re running a deficit here at Northwest Nebraska Community Trade School University for Profit in order to keep your tuition manageable. You’re welcome.
In unrelated news, feel free to contribute to the tip jar here at the front. I like to buy vegetables occasionally. That’s a joke, of course. The tip jar is real, though. And lastly, pick up a copy of my complete collection of self-published masterpieces in the back—it includes all four of my novels and my mother’s unbiased reviews of them, and twenty-six of my best short stories, which the magazines in this country couldn’t seem to recognize for their greatness. Once I die, I’m sure my genius will become clear to them. It is a required text, yes, so please deposit your $135 dollars into the lockbox on the right.
Oh, and let’s make this a good class, shall we? The school has politely offered me yet another coveted sabbatical at the end of this semester. They’ve urged me to take all the time I need, and if the wind should blow me and my many opinions elsewhere, to let it.
Thank you, everyone. May you aspire—or expire—to your fullest potential.
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