Saturday morning yoga meets MFA

Saturday morning yoga has become my new favorite part of the week. I have to drive a bit--about twenty miles--but it's totally worth it. Teacher Rita is absolutely awesome and I feel like I learn as much from her as I did from Molly when I was first starting out. She compliments me right in the middle of class in front of everybody (the first time I almost turned around and said "Thanks!" until I remembered where I was...yikes) and gives great adjustments that really help me push to the next level of my practice.

I've discovered that I don't push myself as much as I can. For whatever reason--self-preservation, laziness, etc--I'll go to where I think is my max. Then Rita (or Nielle...she's awesome too) will come over and touch my back, leg, whatever, or give a verbal cue, and suddenly I'm bent forward another inch, or twisted another quarter inch. It's kind of weird, but I think indicative of how I am as a person--I can only go so far by myself and I am definitely dependent on other people I trust to help me get where I need to go.

I spend between 5-8 hours a week practicing yoga. My writing has been suffering lately something fierce, and I wonder if I spent an hour a day writing with a "yoga writing teacher" how much better I would be. I write every day. BUT, I know that if I did an hour of yoga a day on my own rather than with a teacher I wouldn't be nearly where I am with my yoga practice. So, maybe I do belong in an MFA program. Maybe I do need writing teachers...not to teach me the elements, or to teach me how to workshop, but to be a guide in my writing practice just as Rita and Nielle are in my yoga practice.

All I know is I'm so much better at yoga than at anything else I do, and it's because I practice it an hour a day. There are only a certain number of hours in the day, and I'm sort of fascinated that I picked yoga over writing. There's something in that, I think...I just don't totally have a grasp on it yet.

"Competition was intense."

Well, the U of M does not desire my presence in their creative writing program for the fall of 2007. The letter arrived today. They spelled my name wrong. For some reason, this bothers me more than the actual rejection.

Tonight I'm going to a reading with Heather and Paul. Greg was supposed to attend but apparently cancelled. I'm excited for what has turned into the highlight of my day of total rejection. The readings are always fantastic and Heather says that the people reading tonight are especially good. We're going out for drinks afterward, which will allow me to drown my sorrows in writerly Grumpy's fashion.

The MFA Vigil continues

No word today to confirm or deny by post, phone, or e-mail.


The wait goes on...

The unofficial verdict is in

Rumor has it that acceptance letters went out from the U of M on Feb. 28.

I did not get one.

Oh well.

Exchanging my running pants for a pair of crabby pants

I was in an absolutely foul mood today for no good reason. Poor Joe bore the brunt of it when he witnessed me nearly attacking the treadmill after it stopped in the middle of my run not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES. I wanted to run 3 miles and I knew immediately as soon as I started that it was going to be a hard go. My body is absolutely exhausted, and it didn't want to run. It was totally mind over matter, and believe me I did try. It's hard to get into stride, though, when the fucking treadmill keeps shutting off before I reach a full mile. Joe witnessed a mini-tantrum and then I went to lift weights. I lifted, pulled myself together, then came back to give it another go. I almost made it.

Today was the first day I doubted my ability to run the half in May. I've never questioned it since the day I agreed to do it, but today the voice of self-doubt crept in and said 'Who are you kidding? You're not a runner. You've never been a runner, and you keep trying to make yourself one, but you might as well be trying to make yourself into a heart surgeon.' I argued with the voice, told it to shut up, but more and more my legs just wouldn't cooperate.

I know that I need to cut myself some slack. Not a lot, but some. This is the most stressful week of the year. For some reason, winter trimester finals are always harder than the fall or the spring. This combined with the possibility that we may need to extend the trimester into next week if school is cancelled tomorrow or Friday adds just that extra bit. (Mind you, I will so not complain about a snow day. Not one word. Please, please, PLEASE bring a snow day!!!!!)

And, of course, I've been downplaying the fact that I have no idea what I'll be doing seven months from now. Will I be teaching? Will I be in school? I'm standing at a crossroads with a stoplight that isn't turning green. I'd be treating myself very unfairly if I didn't acknowledge that the grad school wait is taking a toll on me mentally and emotionally.

Mind over matter. I need to be mentally strong and I'll get through all of the stress. But in the mean time, crabby pants is my new nickname. At least until Friday.

Wind: Blowing. Snow: Falling. Hopes: Dwindling.

I'm assuming at this point that I did not get into the U of M for the MFA program. I had pinned all of my hopes on the fact that I wasn't rejected right away, which had to mean that I was being strongly considered, probably passed around so that everyone on the faculty could wonder at my genius. Rob and I joked the other week that I was surely worth more than a letter; obviously the program director and Charles Baxter himself should be showing up at my door to extend me a personal, face to face invitation.

But, I discovered a forum through Poets and Writers the other day and it seems as though all of the above thoughts were equally dillusional. First of all, people are getting accepted left and right to a shitload of schools, Iowa, UMass, the U of M (Michigan)...the list goes on and on. I've been stunned by the number of schools people apply to (11-20, usually) and how many times people have applied...two, three, four years with nothing.

The thought struck me today: Duh. Schools that really want you ask you early so that you don't accept another offer. It is not a good thing that I haven't heard.

That totally sucks.

Any day now...

Well, the University of Minnesota told me to be ready to hear about my application as early as February 1, which is today. I don't think I'll hear today (and if I do it's probably bad news, as in: holy cow, this girl sucks so bad we don't need to consider her anymore!), but I could.

December 15, when the application was due, seems like it was just yesterday, but I know that I wondered then how I would ever be able to make it until today.

So, start those positive vibes shooting my way!

Ahh, the break of Christ's mass

Christmas break began officially today at 2:10pm, although the whole day was pretty much seat time. I gave my seniors a test, the juniors were on a field trip, and my afternoon classes handed in a paper then watched the rest of Finding Forrester.

After school Erica and I went out for a well deserved happy hour beverage and exchanged gifts. She gave me a journal, a gift certificate to Barnes and Noble, the seventh season of Seinfeld on dvd and she gave Gatsby a new toy. We gorged on Chipotle and now I'm home reading Rash by Pete Hautman. One hell of a way to start break.

Tomorrow is Christmas #1 in Alexandria. Sunday is Christmas #2 in Minnetonka. Monday is Christmas #3 in St. Cloud. By Monday night I should be Christmased out and ready to relax, which I will be doing for the rest of the week.... as soon as I clean the squalor I call a house.

The housekeeping has been slightly lacking with the impending due date of the application, shopping for presents and trying to stay on top of grading, not to mention trying to salvage the dregs of my social life that has been in a steady decline since September. So, the first order of business on Tuesday morning is to clean clean clean.

Later in the week I'm heading down to Winona to hang with Jessie and baby Patrick (who will be outfitted in one of the hundred outfits I bought him for Christmas) for a few days at Jessie's new place. She has this guy she wants to set me up with, so we'll see how it goes. He's a prof, so he's smart, and his picture suggests that he's quite yummy. God willing, I will get laid once more at least during 2006.

Well, now I've got time to think, and that's just no good

The MFA application is in the mail. I should hear early to mid-March whether I am accepted or not. Whatever the outcome, I'm really proud of myself. I've never worked as hard on anything in my life as I did on that application, and I know that if I don't get in then it was because of one of the million billion things that happen to writers that will be out of my control.

Of course now I don't have the application to worry about, so I'm left to think. I've been thinking about friends, and how in my lifetime I've only "lost" two friends. I'm very selective about who I bring into my circle because I depend on my friends like siblings. As I've grown up friends have drifted in and out of my life. Through school, college, jobs, and other experiences I've had a lot of friends who are there for awhile and then we drift apart. I look back on these friendships fondly and with joy. Some I exchange Christmas cards with, others I just look at pictures and remember all the times we laughed ourselves crazy, drank together, cried together, shared secrets we swore we'd never tell anyone else, never saying goodbye.

It's the two losses that I mourn. One I lost to a fight, a stupid situation that didn't involve either one of us specifically, but we argued over miscommunication and our friendship ended. She and I would go months without talking, then call each other on the same day and joke about how we were connected on a subconscious level. This fight happened when we were young, twenty-five, and more concerned with being right and being in control than having a lasting friendship. She and I will never talk again--I don't even know where she is--but I imagine that during the times I think of her we are still connected enough that she thinks of me as well.

The other is recent, and a substantially more painful loss. A man came into my life and became a true friend quickly. We shared interests, laughed together, teased each other, talked about books and literature, writing, movies, music, and I felt blessed that our paths had crossed. It was chance that we met, a mutual desire for friendship that we continued to grow closer together. Our frienship ended and I still don't quite know why. He changed, I probably did too, and though it seemed we'd be able to keep our friendship going through a tumultous time, that seemed to change overnight. Suddenly he was thoughtless, hurtful, and I became someone I'm not; I said hurtful things. My pride keeps me from contacting him; I don't know what keeps him from contacting me except that I must not have been the friend he thought I was.

Friendships to an only child are everything. They're all we have. I can accept growing apart, a lessing of the bonds that tie us together. What I can't accept is a willful ending of friendships. It seems unnatural to me to wake up one morning and suddenly not care.

I don't know. Like I said, I've got too much time to think.

Hitting the wall like a crash test dummy

Today I hit the wall with my MFA application. I worked my tail off on it yesterday, morning until night, and made a few changes this morning before a meeting. Today when I got home from school I wrote out my teaching background for the assistantship, and then the wall rose up in front of me and I ran into it full force.

I'm mentally and physically exhausted from the work I've been putting in on this application. I'm happy about it, though, because at this point, a week before the app is due, I'm in a position where I can say if I don't get in it isn't because of anything I didn't do. I've never worked so hard for anything

Under pressure like Queen and David Bowie

When I was learning the ropes of being a theater director, the most important piece of advice a fellow director gave me was that a show can be cast in more than one way. It won't be the same show, but there is no "perfect cast." Another way of saying there are lots of means to an end, I guess.

The last few days I've been struggling with my writing sample for my mfa submission and the fact that I'm overwhelmed with the possibilities of where the story could go. It's like having six different options for a leading man, all of whom would work, but not knowing which to ultimately choose as "the best." I need to let go of some of my obsessiveness with this story. If I hadn't touched it at all this week it would still be a strong submission. But now I'm trapped in trying to make it perfect, which is a really dangerous place for me to dwell. When I try to make things "perfect," I ruin them. I do not have the option to ruin this story.

The other problem is when I pressure myself like this I begin to react physically. I've been feeling strain and exhaustion more and more this week, and I know that a large part of it is the stress I'm putting on myself to be successful. When I get into situations where I have the potential to do great things, my tendency is always (and has always been) to sabotage myself. It's like I can't believe I would actually have a chance, so I make sure that I don't. And then I can say "well, it wasn't that I didn't get in. It wasn't that I wasn't good enough. If I had worked harder on my story I would have gotten in." I know this about myself and I'm trying to fight it, trying to push myself forward because I really want this...but the fight is wearing me out.

I want my mama!!

When I was writing my essays in high school, my college application essay, and most of my essays in college classes (the ones I did well on), there was one other person who was integral in their success: my mom.

She didn't write them for me, certainly, but she proofread them for me, or listened to them on the phone when I was at college, and helped me talk through my ideas out loud. Even now that I've switched to short stories my mom (and Dad has joined in) still dialogue with me about the characters, the plot, and where the story could go.

This weekend I was supposed to dedicate my days and nights to working on my MFA application materials and I couldn't get into the zone. Tonight, as I sent a copy to Jodi, I figured out why. One half of my "writing team" is missing. My parents are on a cruise and Mom is unavailable. I'm sitting here without the person who knows me best trying to write the most important essays I've ever written.

To put it simply: I need my mom. Still. Age 30 (and a half, practically) and I have no shame. I'm tempted to call her in Peru because this stuff won't get sent in until she looks at it. Gee...time to cut the cord, ya think??

State your purpose

Part of my MFA application is to write a "statement of purpose," a common essay for graduate school applications. So, I've dedicated this fine Saturday night (having procrastinated all the way through Wednesday evening, all day Thursday and all day yesteday) to discovering my purpose.

Besides the knowledge that I always try to write purpose "porpose" I have come to the startling realization that I have no purpose. I'm sure it's there, like it exists, but it's kind of a tall order to expect me to state my porpose (see, there I go again) in an organized essay that I'll be judged on, compared to God knows how many other people, where a committee will say "Gee, does this girl have the right purpose? Hmm. Does she have purpose?"

Purpose is one of those words, incidentally, that looks funnier every time you write it until it no longer resembles a word. Just FYI.

I baked cookies late last night and today in a final attempt to avoid my purpose. Now I'm sitting at my dining room table with a bottle of captain morgan and a can of diet coke (I don't remember the last time I sat with a bottle actually within arm's reach) trying to discover my purpose. As I said to a friend tonight, every successful writer I've ever known has tried to find his/her purpose in the bottom of a bottle at some point, thus shall I.

31 days

My MFA application is due in 31 days.

I have a letter of recommendation sitting in a sealed envelope from George Saunders sitting on my dining room table.

I have a 25 page story that I'm trying to make some sense of.

I have thoughts of a statement of purpose.

But the biggest thing I have is memories, because where all of this started, the true quest for an MFA and the trip to Belize where I met George and Charlie, was with my grandma's death.

My grandparents had a lot of money because they lived simply. They travelled, they volunteered, they went to ceramics classes.

They also shelled out thousands of dollars to my aunt and cousins who approached them at least once a year with greedy hands outstretched, begging for money. When they asked, my grandparents gave. $5,000, $10,000, at a pop. My mom told my grandma once on the phone that it wasn't really fair, that if she was giving money to one she should give to all. That just because I was living my life responsibly and within my means didn't mean that I should get "shorted." My grandma said "All she needs to do is ask." My mom told her, correctly, "Kelly will never ask you for a cent."

And I didn't. I got into massive trouble with my credit cards in college, big time debt, and I asked my parents for help, but never Grandma and Grandpa. They gave me so much when I was growing up. They took me on trips every summer and bought me anything I wanted. They gave me pictures, memories, card games to play with my own kids and grandkids someday, and time alone when I needed it.

When my grandma died, my grandpa settled their estate and gave everything to my mom, my aunt, my cousins and me. Without that money, I would not have gone to Belize. I won't be able to afford to go again. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me, which is why I went balls-to-the-wall and saturated myself with every possible experience. I felt like my grandma was paying by the minute for me to have this time there.

Knowing now that while I was there I was building relationships that will help me now with my dream, to get my MFA and move out of teaching high school and into the next stage of life, means that I used Grandma's money for the exact right purpose, as an investment in my future. She would be so proud of me. She wouldn't understand it exactly, it's hard to explain writing and MFA programs to non-writers, but she would trust me and she would say that if it made me happy that I spent the money exactly like she wanted me to.

46 Days: The power of a good outline

I have procrastinated to the end...I need to mail my story out to Charlie and George on Tuesday morning, which leaves me tonight to write and tomorrow night to proofread and make sure I didn't fuck it up.

I spent the day working on Nanowrimo, reading The Shining, watching football and paying attention to Gatsby. I finally decided, at 6:30, that I needed an outline.

I outlined my story as it is, while throwing in the scenes that have been floating aimlessly around in my mind for the past two weeks. I trusted myself to remember the major problems people had raised and worked to address them in the outline.

After the Simpsons halloween special I will commense with the revision.

Here I go.......

50 Days

Today I sent out my third and final email requesting a letter of recommendation.

I did an exercise last night where I wrote 100 sentences on my main character in "Advanced Woods." It was fruitful...I looked beyond just his character into some new plot events and even an additional character to add some texture to his life.

I also worked out a schedule for getting my revisions done and sent to the people who have agreed to do a read for me, as well as getting them sent to the authors recommending me. This was important to get done, as time tends to fly for me and I sit back and say "fuck, where did the last three weeks go??" If I have a list of things to do I can focus.

My biggest question now is whether or not to submit one story or two with my application. "Advanced Woods" is by far my strongest story, but it's only 12 pages. I don't know that I could make it 25 pages (the limit) without ruining it. My other option is to include "The Order of Things," another 12 page story. That one needs a lot of work.

The more I think about it, there's no way to include both of those stories. This causes an even bigger quandry, then, because assuming I can push "Advanced Woods" to about 20 pages, which I think I can, do I let it stand alone or do I try to push out a short short? I believe in "Advanced Woods." I think it can stand alone. BUT, will they want more variety? The advantage to two stories is that they can see how I handle two different stories...can see more consistency in my style.

I guess I'll revise AW and see how it goes. I need to get started somewhere.

51 Days

Today is 51 days before my MFA application needs to be turned in to the University of Minnesota. I've missed their deadline twice before, due to procrastination and general headinthesandness.

I have recruited two people to write my letters of recommendation and I need to email and ask the third. The two I have asked are well known authors and I'm thrilled that they consider me worthy of their recommendation. Both said they were happy I was applying.

Tonight I started really focusing on revision of "Advanced Woods." I did a writing exercise from The 3am Epiphany that was designed to loosen the writer's brain enough to overcome writer's block. I am not blocked so much as panicked. Every time I think about "Advanced Woods" and revising it, I am overcome by thoughts of the judgements of the two authors who are recommending me, as well as the profound thought that this story and whichever other I submit will decide my fate next year. It will decide if I am a high school teacher or an MFA candidate. It will, ultimately, decide if I advance to a life goal or if I stay stuck in the same muddle (sorry, directing Hard Times) for another year.

That's a lot of pressure to put on a story. Even two stories.

But, I have a good chance of getting in. I got into Belize, I got ink from Hunger Mountain. The only person who doubts my success is me. It always has been. The number one thing that will prevent me from getting in to the U of M is my own self-sabatoge. Procrastination, self-doubt, nervousness, all of these things will hurt me in the end, so I need to manage them and get my stuff done.

So, for the next 50 days my blog will focus on my journey to get into grad school. Other things too, of course, but you'll get updates pretty regularly. After all, if I wasn't blogging I'd actually have to be writing.