Application Anxiety

So I'm starting the application process to go to school to get my MFA in Creative Writing. Or rather, not really the application process. Let's say, the preapplication process. I'm sorting through schools, figuring out what I need to do, etc. There are a few really freaky parts to this:

1. I have to take the GRE. Okay, I've taken it before. Standardized tests have never freaked me out. In my past life as a student I excelled at them, not so much for my knowledge, but for a lucky intuition when it comes to multiple choice. But... the last time I took the GRE was ten years ago. Christ. When I took it, it was still a paper test for chrissakes. Back in the age before the computer GRE. And this is what freaks me out. Taking it on the computer will totally fuck my patented test-taking strategies. Not only that, but the analytical part is now essay, which sucks because I really kicked ass at that part. I'm really good at those - there are twelve people at a dinner party. Chris can't sit next to Angie - questions. So, the GRE thing is freaking me out.

2. And here's something else that is freaking me out in a more abstract way. How do I know what schools to apply to? By that I mean, which are within my range, which are hopefuls, and which are safeties? This is something that was pretty easy to determine when I was applying for undergrad. But I have no idea how my writing stacks up with the writing of other applicants. I'm just plunging blind into the applications, and all I can figure to do is pick a wide range, apply to a bunch, and see where I get in. But I don't like that. I don't like it at all. The sucky thing about writing is, you are accepted on the strength of your portfolio. The grad school may care about GREs and recommendations, etc. But the English departments don't really give a shit. All they want is to see your writing. And if they see that indefinable thing in it that makes it compelling to them, you're in. If not, you're not.

Arg! I want to be able to quantify my skill and talent somehow and place it alongside other skill and talent. What if I overestimate myself and don't get in anywhere? What if I underestimate and end up in some program that's not going to further my writing, but leave me treading water and in debt? And no teacher will give me the answers I want, because they're not going to tell me how good they think I am. They never do, and that's fine, it's not their job. But (whine) I wish they would. This is important and I want to do it right, but I feel horribly uninformed, no matter how many websites I read, or research I do.

reading the classics you feel like you've read but have never, in fact, read

Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I read it this week. I got it out of the library on the way to get a pint, because there really is not much nicer than sitting in a bar by oneself in the afternoon with a pint of Guiness and a good book. I headed to the library because I was in the mood for something I didn't have. I wanted Robert Louis Stevenson. Don't ask my why he popped into my head. I think I was just in the mood for an adventure story. A pirate story (Pirates, samurai, I don't know what this says about my swashbuckling state of mind lately, but at least I'm entertained). So I went into the library thinking I would get Kidnapped, not Treasure Island, because I read that one just one to many times as a kid. But I've only read Kidnapped a few times, and probably not since I was about twelve.

So anyway. I'm in the library, I find Kidnapped, and stashed right next to it is Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I guess I knew Stevenson wrote it, but never really put it all together. Standing there looking at it, I realized I've never actually read the book, even though we all know the story. Right then, I was intrigued, and felt like I should remedy this omission. Plus, the book was palm sized, and hardcover. I opened it, and the text was set in one narrow column down the center of each page. At the beginning of each chapter, the first letter of the first word was scrolly, and fancy, and red. And every so often, there was a cool woodcut, with a caption underneath, things like "Dr. Jekyll's hand" and "Mr. Hyde's hand." How could I resist? I felt that somehow this was the perfect book to enjoy sitting at a polished wood bar with my favorite beer in front of me. So I checked it out and headed to said bar.

It was around three o'clock, and the place was empty save for one guy sitting at the bar, talking to the bartender. I settled in with my pint at the other end of the bar, and began reading. I expected a good story, but man, it was good shit. I was immediately engrossed - after all, the story is told through a guy named Mr. Utterance. I was about fifteen pages in when the bartender went outside for a cigarette. And the guy at the end of the bar, well, I could just feel his attention shifting to me. You know those people at the bar that think that everyone is there to be social, and being in the same room is invitation for random chatting? Yeah, like the people on airplanes, the ones that force me to immediately don headphones upon boarding, and to keep them on even when there's no music playing. So I sat, looking totally involved in my book, or at least trying to, when in fact the guy was already distracting me and he hadn't even said anything. But I knew it was coming, it was like the room was holding its breath, waiting for him to speak. Sure enough,

"What're you reading?"

I look up begrudgingly at him, then at the cover of my book, like I'm not sure (I don't know why I do this, but I always do).

"Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," I say, and look back down at it. After a minute he says,

"I've always thought there was a little of both in all of us."

This catches me off guard. I mean, duh. So I say,

"I think that's kind of the point."

What a bitch! I didn't mean to sound snotty, but come on. I felt bad about it, but not bad enough to keep talking to him, so I turned back to my book. It did shut him up pretty effectively, and allowed me to down two pints in silence, and get about fifty pages into the book. Man, I wish I could be a bitch on purpose - it would be so handy! Usually it's like this occasion, accidental bitchiness, which gets the job done, but can't be counted on to just appear when needed.

Samurai Sunday and Sidebar Glory

I love the fall. I love the colors, the crisp air, pulling out sweaters and jeans... all that stuff. But here's another reason I love fall: rainy chilly Sundays. The kind of day that allows you to stay inside curled up on the couch with slipper socks and tea and movies, with no guilt involved (did I mention I'm a recovering Catholic? So, I'm guilty when I'm outside - not working - and guilty when I'm inside - not taking advantage of beautiful weather. Guilt is omnipresent, and rainy days are like a short respite). This whole weekend has been rainy and 50's and windy and gray. Puuuurrrrfect (that is my curled-up-on-the-couch purr).

So it was a slow day. I've been on a samurai movie kick lately, and revelled in the pleasure with both Rashomon and Sanjuro. Delightfully, I've found that the Bemidji Public Library has a small, but really excellent selection of DVDs, lots of foreign stuff, and lots of Japanese stuff, some of my favorite film.

Oh yes, and as Seredne pointed out (thanks for noticing!) I figured out the sidebar thing, with a little help. And thanks Vinny, for your comment, which provided the illuminating clue I needed to untangle the problem. So that was another thing that pleasantly occupied my time yesterday (pleasantly, that is, after I'd finished banging my head against the monitor in frustration).

But back to samurai! Next week I head back up to Bemidji, where, at the BSU Library, I get to pick up my requested movies, the second and third parts of the Samurai trilogy directed by Hiroshi Inagaki. I rented Samurai I: Musashi Miyamoto on a whim a couple of weeks ago, and that's what started me on my current trend. Can't wait to watch the next two, cleverly titled Samurai II: Duel at Ichijoji Temple, and Samurai III: Duel at Ganryu Island. If they're anything like the first one - a misunderstood exiled hero, the woman he's forced to leave behind, and a clever priest who orchestrates his training - I'll be happy.

Deadlines, please

In order to get anything done, I need deadlines. This has been the case since I was in second grade and I waited midnight the night before my project on volcanoes was due to wake up my mom and announce it. Being the good mommy that she was, she got up with me, made hot chocolate, and we put the project together. But, that night, we set a dangerous precedent. Ever since then, I've been hooked on deadlines.

Thing is, I'm not sure this is a good thing for a writer. Sure, a journalist. Definitely, a grantwriter, the career that I believe honed my penchant for deadlines into a dependency. Because I don't seem to be able to finish anything without them. Is it possible that I cannot be self-motivated?

So, the reason this comes up is that I was literally unable to finish this one story until the very postmark deadline day for the contest I wanted to send it to. I can't help it. I love that rush, the way everything becomes crystal clear when you're down to hours, even minutes. The ruthless prioritization that must accompany this last-minute dash, because you just know you can't dither over things. I am able to focus in a way that is just not possible most of the time.

This is probably unhealthy. I will spend the rest of my life setting up fake deadlines for myself to force me to finish stories. There must be a prescription for this kind of thing.

Stupidhead

Blargh! I'm trying to add some stuff to my sidebar, and it is becoming apparent to me that I am just far too dense for this web crap. Once upon a time, I could do it. But that was probably five years ago, and now I am utterly outdated. And, I think, dumber. I even tried to check my code by looking at Vinny's code, but to no avail (however, I do love to use the word "avail," and that gives me joy, even in the midst of my cursing and head-pounding). To me, mine looks just like his (well, pretty much, just not as fancy). But his is functional, and mine is dysfunctional, or non-functional. All I get are those stupid broken pictures which mean "you did something wrong, but you'll never figure out what." How hard can this be?

Don't answer that.

Poet Schmoet

Today, for the first time, I workshopped a piece of poetry. I mean, my own poetry. It was a new and startling experience for me, but no less startling than actually writing poetry. It has always seemed to me that poetry is one of those things that you are born with, or you are not. And poets, well, they are some sort of otherworldly breed that can channel emotion and move words around like three card monty. Of course, you'd think I'd know better, as, up until recently, I thought the same of writers. That it was a club that I'd never belong to. I was known to say such asinine things as, "I'm a reader, not a writer." Cripes.

Of course, looking back I can say that this was some major avoidance on my part. Because, by defining myself as such, I never even had to try, did I? Someone said to me today that being a cynic is safe. I had never thought about it in those terms, but it struck me. That is why I do it. If you're not open to possibility, you don't have to explore and possibly fail. That is one thing that I've avoided most of my life: failure. Not healthy, I know, but fact is, that's sort of what I was taught. And it works. But it is sort of boring. So is being a cynic. In fact, that is one of the qualities of cynicism, of being jaded. You have to be bored. Nothing is new, nothing is exciting, and nothing is waiting to be discovered.

Well, I discovered something today. Poetry gives me something that none of my other writing does. There is a latitude within it that I do not allow myself with my fiction and creative non-fiction. I'm allowed to rest in a moment, to toy with it, to please myself by exploring it. I'm not required to hold together the forms required by narrative, and I can make leaps that I just can't do in fiction.

Anyway, it was cool. And I'm still pretty jazzed. And further jazzed because I managed to overcome the anxiety I experience when reading my work aloud. I remembered to breathe (big plus), and so read without a crack or a quiver. That was a breakthrough. And now I'm tucked up in my dorm room for the week, which smells like new carpet (ick). But I have a bowl of homemade alphabet soup for dinner, and some pita bread. So I got no complaints

Ah, Lime-a-licious

I love lime green. And my blog definitely needed a change. Navy blue is just so... Navy Blue. I needed something clear and bright (edelweiss, edelweiss). Hopefully the new face of my blog will somehow reflect its clarity onto the rest of my life. Or at least, my desk. So, yes, the white was what I was aiming for. But the lime, ah, that was just a bonus for me. Still, I think a little tweaking is in order, especially that silly banner along the top, and maybe my profile picture - somehow doesn't seem to suit the new look.

Being Wrong

An old boyfriend of mine used to quote the movie “Love Story” whenever he fucked up: “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” That infamous quote has surely plagued more relationships than it has helped (yeah, thanks a lot, Ali McGraw, for giving us women that character to live up to). I thought it was a load of tripe, and told him so, and then refused to say I’m sorry, on the grounds that, according to him, I shouldn’t have to. So there!

Yeah, okay, I’m childish, but at least I don’t go looking to movies for relationship advice. We had our problems. He was an unrealistic romantic, someone who thinks that love conquers all and all that crap. I was a pragmatist with a deep seated secret romantic side – I wanted to believe all the things he thought were true, but couldn’t quite make that leap, for the same reason that I can’t believe in God or the afterlife. It just doesn’t have the ring of truth about it for me.

Here’s my slight modification to the quote: “Love means being very good at saying you’re sorry.” Anyone who has been in a long-term relationship will understand that the ability to say I’m sorry when you fuck up is crucial to the success of said relationship. For a very, very long time (and still sometimes) I felt like saying 'I'm sorry' was the same as saying I was wrong, which is something almost impossible for me to do (say I'm wrong, not be wrong - that is all too possible, very often probable). I have this notion, planted deep within me during childhood, that to admit I was wrong is a weakness, a chink in my armor that will allow people to get to me. It gets easier, the older I get, the more I do it, but I still have that gut reaction when I realize, in an argument, or a discussion, that I am in fact, wrong. The instinct to hide that fact with some bravado and some accusations, turn the tables, change the subject, and if worse comes to worse, use my sarcasm to hurt, hurt, hurt. After all, if someone is hurting, they'll probably forget that I am wrong, and in fact, will probably be too hurt to hurt me.

Yikes. This is getting way too deep for Sunday morning. I'm still on my first cup of tea. Yeah, that's it, I'll blame my brooding state on a lack of caffeination. After all, I couldn't just be wrong.

Hello again blogland, gee I missed you. I'm back in school, second week now, and thankfully, things are beginning to feel routine. Two nights a week I stay in Bemidji, in the dorms, which is sort of nostalgic, and at the same time, one of those 'thank god I don't have to do this all the time' things. Plus, they are laying carpet in all the rooms surrounding those they rent out to commuting students like me, so the banging and the classic rock starts around 8 am. This is okay, for it gets my ass out of bed, and in a wierd way reminds me of living in the city, where it seems you are perpetually awoken by some kind of construction all summer long.

Also, cute perk: the rooms are above the day care playground, and the high little voices drift up to me as I lay on the bed and read - the Power Rangers theme song (which, as far as I can tell, goes something like this: Power Rangers, da da da, Power Rangers, da da da), shouts and songs, and inevitably, tears. It's nice, after the isolation of Toad Lake, to live in a populated zone, to hear the cars rumble and bump by at night, catch snatches of conversation from people walking below.

Yeah, I think I'm ready to live in a city again. When we moved out of Chicago when I was a kid, I couldn't sleep for weeks in the cricket chirping silence of the way north 'burbs. Where were the sirens, the voices, the cars, the purplish streetlight drifting through the curtains? Even though we left when I was twelve, whenever I get back into a city, lying in the bed at night with the window open, sound drifting through, it still feels like home.