A friend back in New York City is enrolled in a M.F.A. program in creative writing. I haven't spoken to him much about it, but he just recently started the program. He's about my age. Good guy - poet, performer, and activist. We met attending the same college back in the day, specifically working the school's summer new student orientation program together. I don't remember if he graduated with my class back then. Maybe a few years later. At any rate, to pursue higher education after being out of the game for so long is no small feat. More power to him.
His pursuit of the M.F.A. got me thinking about my past futile attempts at such. Most of my wild dreams about the degree occurred well over a decade ago. For reference about those days, I recently took a gander at some past Livejournal entires that date back to around 2004. Most of my friends on that site hailed from the school in Louisiana I worked at. Prior to leaving this position, I had created a somewhat satirical newsletter called The Banter. It ran about three pages, printed out and stapled together. I put the newsletter out every Monday, mostly in the morning, or whenever my often hungover self got around to delivering them to the check-in desks of both residence halls. The Banter achieved a little cult following, something more than I ever imagined it would become. The students could have mocked me for it - and maybe they did, just never to my face. The Banter was an audacious effort on my part not only to connect with students during their stressful grind at this competitive school - but also a chance to get my writing more out there into hands and eyes of others. I wound up including some copies of The Banter with my writing portfolio, which I submitted to a couple of M.F.A. programs around the country.
The rest of my M.F.A. portfolio was a collection of short stories that probably sucked. Or at least I thought they did. I don't even remember which stories I submitted anymore. It's possible I have them on some jump drives somewhere. There might have been some lame love poems shoved in there as well. Probably embarrassing. Some of these stories and/or poems were sent to a few colleagues in order to get their recommendations. I never read their recommendations, but I can only hope they were slightly encouraging. They must have been, because I certainly wasn't very confident in my work. Not that I am now, either. I submitted my portfolio to three schools. I got into one.
And I never went.
Well, I suppose that's not true. I did wind up going there - to the small eastern Long Island town it's located. Just to visit. Scope out the area and all. On campus, it was pretty barren. Who really wants to be at school when you're just blocks from salt life? I guess that was my plan, however. I wanted to go to school there, but I just couldn't. I take complete responsibility for that gaffe. I didn't plan for it financially well enough. There was no real course of action - just hike on out there and expect things to get taken care of naturally. I think my portfolio offered me about a one-thousand dollar scholarship. Great! Maybe that'll pay for a month and a half of rent somewhere off campus. I was in over my head with this, so instead of pushing and trying out all avenues to make it work, I simply walked away. Back home, to my parents and my old bedroom to figure out the next avenue to take.
Those next few years after Louisiana became a brooding ground of material for more stories, poems, and essays. Thanks in part to some deep depression I put myself through then, I wrote more than I had at any time up to that point. Sure, most of my work kept getting rejected, but I felt I was getting better at what I was slapping up onto Word docs. And while I don't recall what my original portfolio entailed outside The Banter, I know the work I churned out in the few years after put anything my lousy younger self could have imagined.
Writing has been a challenge for me lately, as if the sporadic entries here aren't any sort of indication. I'm lacking inspiration. I'm fully aware my work has gotten me nowhere, save an acceptance letter and many more rejections. That comes with the territory, or lack thereof maybe in this case. I often think back to that whole M.F.A. process and realize just how massively unprepared I was for it. I was just some late twentysomething kid, with no real clear-cut organization to the process. Applying for a graduate degree isn't just something one casually does by hoping everything magically falls into place. I type this living some ten minutes away from the campus of a prestigious low-residency M.F.A. program. I jokingly tell myself I'm going to apply for a job at this school so maybe I could get into their M.F.A. program for free, or at least a reduced rate. But, I know I am not going to do that. I'm no longer interested in pursuing this degree. I feel like my approach and preparation for writing is not suited for that type of academic structure. It would be a waste of time and money for me, or whatever loans I'll pile up getting professors to tell me this poem or that paragraph sucks. If I wish for that sort of constructive feedback, I'll join some writer's group around here instead. Or, I'll just convince myself what I wrote plain fucking sucks. No bank loans necessary for that kind of advice.
His pursuit of the M.F.A. got me thinking about my past futile attempts at such. Most of my wild dreams about the degree occurred well over a decade ago. For reference about those days, I recently took a gander at some past Livejournal entires that date back to around 2004. Most of my friends on that site hailed from the school in Louisiana I worked at. Prior to leaving this position, I had created a somewhat satirical newsletter called The Banter. It ran about three pages, printed out and stapled together. I put the newsletter out every Monday, mostly in the morning, or whenever my often hungover self got around to delivering them to the check-in desks of both residence halls. The Banter achieved a little cult following, something more than I ever imagined it would become. The students could have mocked me for it - and maybe they did, just never to my face. The Banter was an audacious effort on my part not only to connect with students during their stressful grind at this competitive school - but also a chance to get my writing more out there into hands and eyes of others. I wound up including some copies of The Banter with my writing portfolio, which I submitted to a couple of M.F.A. programs around the country.
The rest of my M.F.A. portfolio was a collection of short stories that probably sucked. Or at least I thought they did. I don't even remember which stories I submitted anymore. It's possible I have them on some jump drives somewhere. There might have been some lame love poems shoved in there as well. Probably embarrassing. Some of these stories and/or poems were sent to a few colleagues in order to get their recommendations. I never read their recommendations, but I can only hope they were slightly encouraging. They must have been, because I certainly wasn't very confident in my work. Not that I am now, either. I submitted my portfolio to three schools. I got into one.
And I never went.
Well, I suppose that's not true. I did wind up going there - to the small eastern Long Island town it's located. Just to visit. Scope out the area and all. On campus, it was pretty barren. Who really wants to be at school when you're just blocks from salt life? I guess that was my plan, however. I wanted to go to school there, but I just couldn't. I take complete responsibility for that gaffe. I didn't plan for it financially well enough. There was no real course of action - just hike on out there and expect things to get taken care of naturally. I think my portfolio offered me about a one-thousand dollar scholarship. Great! Maybe that'll pay for a month and a half of rent somewhere off campus. I was in over my head with this, so instead of pushing and trying out all avenues to make it work, I simply walked away. Back home, to my parents and my old bedroom to figure out the next avenue to take.
Those next few years after Louisiana became a brooding ground of material for more stories, poems, and essays. Thanks in part to some deep depression I put myself through then, I wrote more than I had at any time up to that point. Sure, most of my work kept getting rejected, but I felt I was getting better at what I was slapping up onto Word docs. And while I don't recall what my original portfolio entailed outside The Banter, I know the work I churned out in the few years after put anything my lousy younger self could have imagined.
Writing has been a challenge for me lately, as if the sporadic entries here aren't any sort of indication. I'm lacking inspiration. I'm fully aware my work has gotten me nowhere, save an acceptance letter and many more rejections. That comes with the territory, or lack thereof maybe in this case. I often think back to that whole M.F.A. process and realize just how massively unprepared I was for it. I was just some late twentysomething kid, with no real clear-cut organization to the process. Applying for a graduate degree isn't just something one casually does by hoping everything magically falls into place. I type this living some ten minutes away from the campus of a prestigious low-residency M.F.A. program. I jokingly tell myself I'm going to apply for a job at this school so maybe I could get into their M.F.A. program for free, or at least a reduced rate. But, I know I am not going to do that. I'm no longer interested in pursuing this degree. I feel like my approach and preparation for writing is not suited for that type of academic structure. It would be a waste of time and money for me, or whatever loans I'll pile up getting professors to tell me this poem or that paragraph sucks. If I wish for that sort of constructive feedback, I'll join some writer's group around here instead. Or, I'll just convince myself what I wrote plain fucking sucks. No bank loans necessary for that kind of advice.