All of my MFA applications are in the mail. The rejections should start arriving in a month or two (applaud my optimism). When I applied to Tulane, I knew I’d get in. It was my reach and my safety. Hell, it was the only school I applied to. It was where I had always wanted to go, I had higher SAT scores, higher grades, and more legacies than their average. But about this? I have no fucking clue. 275 applications. 15 spots. I am really hoping that a lot of really awful people are applying to grad school in poetry. I hope the application pool is full of morons who think they’re professionals because they were “semifinalists” at poetry.com. I hope all of their portfolios are filled with lines about their tears, their pain, their blood and whatever else teen angsters are writing about these days.
And I hope that the people who read the portfolios don’t mind reading about car accidents. Bloody ones. With tampons.
What I’m afraid of is everyone who applies has been published. I’m afraid that people don’t apply to MFA programs unless they’ve been assured by their college creative writing professors that they’re guaranteed acceptance. I’m afraid that my best isn’t good enough. Or worse, that it’s just not good.
Originally this entry was being categorized under ‘Writing’ but now I think it unfortunately deserves a cross reference under Angst. Didn’t mean to do that. Oh well.
In happier news, my cat has not left my lap or stopped purring since I got home. I left him alone almost all weekend and I suppose he’s in withdrawl. The good thing is he’s warm and it’s cold. The bad thing is he occasionally slips and digs into my thigh with his claws. Not fun.