Here I go again (oh shit, Whitesnake!)

This marks the inception of my fourth blog, the difference this time being that I now fully anticipate maintaining it fervently for 2 weeks before suddenly forgetting it exists. Assuming that lowered expectations are the stepping stones of the slack, admitting this upfront is my attempt to ward off the paroxysm-inducing pressure to produce that is the hallmark of the cutthroat world of blogging.

Plus, this time I have a topic.

Last year, it occurred to me that it was time for me to pursue my MFA in the lucrative world of poetry. I arbitrarily selected three fine arts institutions and was filling out the applications when, lo, the Angel of Reason appeared and observed unto me that the deadlines had passed and I had no portfolio. That being the case, I decided to put it off for another year and do it the smart way (the smart way being researching programs, saving money, figuring out where I'd like to go, taking the GRE and polishing a portfolio above and beyond the haphazard sheaf of poems I had intended to submit). So here I am today, a year's worth of research, study, savings, writing, workshopping and volunteering behind me, all shiny and ready to go.

And I'm scared shitless.

There's something hilarious about submitting an application to a program that accepts, oh, 1 out of every 500 applicants. Some sort of wild egomania or belief in good luck that makes you think, Hey, maybe I'm that one!, and drives you to actually spend several hours and somewhere in the vicinity of $60 to join the sweepstakes. Now, I know that if your writing sucks, you're not going to make it. But even if your writing has merit, how likely is it that you're going to be that one? This is what has been keeping me awake at night.

So this is my outlet for the anxiety and kneecap-shattering self-doubt that are the emblems of the MFA application process. If anyone else is going through this, I'd love to hear from/commiserate with you so that next April, while we await our multiple rejection and hopefully a few acceptance letters, you can metaphorically hold my hair back while I spew bile and I can hold a cotton ball to your aneurysm.

After all, it'll be worthwhile even if it takes 3 years to get accepted anywhere; I can't imagine many things better than having several years to focus on reading and writing poetry. In the words of Dan Quayle, "It's time humankind entered the solar system."

I take comfort in that.