Applying for an M.F.A. fucking sucks. There's the initial suckiness of obsessing over your portfolio and statements of purpose and deadlines and what all, and then there's the even shittier corollary suckiness of waiting for acceptances, coping with rejections, and not knowing where you're going to be in half a year.
I'm not saying don't do it. Just, you know. Be prepared.
I just got off the phone with Judith Kroll from UT-Austin. She complimented my portfolio and was generally very kind. She said they couldn't admit me to the Michener Center, but they'd like to put me on the waiting list for the UT M.A. program in poetry writing. That's cool enough: the M.A. gives plenty of financial assistance, I'd be taking the same courses as the Michener students. It's a two-year program instead of three, though, and I'd have to do some T.A.-ing.
I'm happy I'm not getting, like, machine-gun rejected or anything, but here are the responses so far:
Houston, Colorado State, Arkansas: still waiting
You can see my frustration, no? Like, three wait-lists? Is that normal? I figured a wait-list would be so small that my odds would be better to be accepted (or rejected) outright than to be wait-listed three fucking times. How should I interpret this? What's keeping me from breaking through to the immediate acceptances?
The questions! It's kind of fun, all this uncertainty, but it's keeping me from functioning normally and from viewing life through any reasonable sort of perspective. I hope if/when you decide to apply to grad school, you handle yourselves with more dignity than I.
Anyway, pardon my bitching. To keep this blog from devolving into a self-involved gripe forum, I'll include a poem:
The photo shows black men
in white daylight: bleached bones
under dark leather.
Time, great file,
had gnawed at the gutters,
knocked in the fence's black teeth.
It's an uneven match.
Even our stubborn square of earth,
thick dirt and gated windows, bends
from these cunning winds.
Out of the compact soil,
the stunted redbud lifts
a crooked arm
up through the bars
of sunlight, shakes off
a few pink nubs while
a bird lifts off for elsewhere.