It's been about a month and a half since I entered the MFA program. I'm still a little dissatisfied with my writing but it is good to be back in an environment that cares about words. Slowly, I think I'm returning to the fold, getting my bearings again, although I still catch myself falling into template writing for an imagined audience instead of for myself sometimes.
For several years, I vacillated on pursuing an MFA. Although in the back of my mind, I knew that I would eventually follow this trail (wherever it may lead) I kept its reality at a distance and instead explored different routes. I think I was afraid. It seemed dangerous to pursue it at the first instance. What if I learned that I had no business trying to string together words or that I had nothing original or interesting to say? Where would I go from there?
Instead, I stayed in the realm of safe writing where I could still be among words. But dead words that couldn't talk back and were cold to the touch. Like components of a machine. No wonder I balked at calling myself a writer. I think I was more of mechanic; a technician who knew where each part belonged.
But I think that a writer's task is more like a lion tamer's. It requires mastery, courage and a healthy dose of insanity because you know that you are dealing with living things infinitely more powerful than yourself, things that can eat you alive. If you succeed in directing its movements, it's not because you've imposed your will on it but more through a rare moment of harmony. I imagine that lion tamers and real writers both end their feats incredulous that they've escaped with their lives.
I'm still a little afraid, but at least I'm in the lion's den.
For several years, I vacillated on pursuing an MFA. Although in the back of my mind, I knew that I would eventually follow this trail (wherever it may lead) I kept its reality at a distance and instead explored different routes. I think I was afraid. It seemed dangerous to pursue it at the first instance. What if I learned that I had no business trying to string together words or that I had nothing original or interesting to say? Where would I go from there?
Instead, I stayed in the realm of safe writing where I could still be among words. But dead words that couldn't talk back and were cold to the touch. Like components of a machine. No wonder I balked at calling myself a writer. I think I was more of mechanic; a technician who knew where each part belonged.
But I think that a writer's task is more like a lion tamer's. It requires mastery, courage and a healthy dose of insanity because you know that you are dealing with living things infinitely more powerful than yourself, things that can eat you alive. If you succeed in directing its movements, it's not because you've imposed your will on it but more through a rare moment of harmony. I imagine that lion tamers and real writers both end their feats incredulous that they've escaped with their lives.
I'm still a little afraid, but at least I'm in the lion's den.
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