Through most of Jr. High and part of High School, I kept a diary to do this sort of thing, but writing in one of those little locked books has lost its appeal to me. For one, my handwriting is awful, growing worse the longer I have to endure it, which always ensures that I write sloppily 95% of the time. Plus, my handwriting takes way longer to finish a thought than typing does. And, being 2011, blogging is the thing, right? Not that I'm sure if I'm ever going to share this blog with anyone I know, but I wanted it here to ride through my stint in the MFA program with me.
Now we've reached the entire point of this blog. After much heartache and doubt, I was accepted into an MFA program. Masters of Fine Arts. Focus: Poetry. Which still seems bizarre to me, because I've read some awesome poetry, and I always thought that mine fell somewhere into the mediocre category in comparison. But I took the advice of a professor and applied in poetry rather than fiction (as I had last year), and tada! Miracles happen.
What makes this experience even more unbelievable is that I got in a semester earlier than I'd intended. When I finally got to the point where I thought my application was ready, I'd missed the first deadline of my chosen college by about a week and a half. So I submitted early for the next round and was contacted the next day by a very nice woman wanting to know if I'd rather shoot for the January residency. The staff was willing to go ahead and consider me. I took the shot, and about a week later, I was informed of my acceptance.
My acceptance. Me, in poetry. Yeah, that's incredible. The first thing I wanted to do was tell everyone, including a former professor (one well-accomplished in poetry), who had terrified me the first day of classes wondering if I really had the stuffing to get into an MFA program when I have next to no experience under my belt. I, as of yet, have not told this professor, as I am afraid that I will contact her only to hear, "Whittney? Whittney who?" So for now I'll let my newly inflated ego ride along untarnished.
Though I'm dying to know how exactly I've managed this feat. I want to give credit to my grandmother and to my husband. Both of them inspired my best work over the last two years, and without the subject matter they supplied, I don't think I would have made it. I almost cried when I learned that I was accepted, and I wished, more than anything, that my grandmother was still alive to hear the news. I always wanted to be a writer, but, for the longest time, I entertained the notion of being a Vet, which was the only thing my family thought I could make a living off of. I'll never forget the day I told my grandma that I wanted to be a writer instead, and she said, "But then who will take care of my dog when I'm gone?" Which always seemed to me a subtle implication of her disbelief that this new career choice would be fruitful.
I also remember promising her that I would write about her. My goal in the MFA program is obviously to become an accomplished writer and ensure a future career, but in respect to my late grandmother, I've pledged in silent (and now here) to publish one of the two poems that I think must have sealed the deal for my grad school: Whistle Pretty Bird. Some day, soon, I hope, this poem will be inked in a book, and I can finally feel that I've upheld my promise.
I've decided to start this blog to house my accompanying thoughts on Grad School, so this may very well be one of the few posts I make before January, if not the only one, but I wanted to set the foundation.
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