MFA applications, old photography, and a haiku about a willow tree

A good old-fashioned blog from a mid-February slump

Feb 14, 2025

Howdy folks.

This week I’ll keep things simple. I had hoped to publish an article about Iran (I know everyone is eager for a dense Iranian history lesson), but that will have to wait. A seasonal cold got the better of me, and other goings-on distracted me from writing. Still, I’m committed to getting a blog out regularly on ALOT.

Let’s get going.

Applying to be a writer

The most pressing thing in my life right now is the future.

Last year, I applied to a handful of Master of Fine Arts (MFA) programs in creative nonfiction writing. I cannot speak to other disciplines, but within the literary world, an MFA in writing is a generally coveted position, offering the unique opportunity to write, read, and teach at the collegiate level. Fully-funded programs (not all MFAs are) provide students with two or three years to dedicate themselves to their writing in a manner difficult to find elsewhere. They offer near-complete artistic freedom with a monthly salary and unparalleled access to scholastic and literary resources. Chances like that are rare for any creative.

As you might expect, MFAs are highly competitive. One school I applied to annually receives three to four hundred applications for roughly ten admissions slots. Divided by genre (fiction, poetry, nonfiction, etc.), the odds narrow even further. Each university might have only two or three seats available for any given applicant. Those are not great odds for anyone. And unlike other graduate programs, creative writing MFAs largely admit based on a portfolio of only fifteen to twenty pages. A strong candidate cannot rely on their resume as a student or professional to impress admissions committees. Their written text must stand on its own and signal to the committee that the applicant has the ‘juice’ to write at their school. As the evergreen mantra goes, applicants must show, not tell that they are worthy writers. Such intense pressure imbues the entire process with heightened drama. A rejection rests squarely on the strength of the writer.

For most of this application process, I’ve managed to keep my cool. My submissions were professional and uniquely mine. There’s little I would have done differently. And frankly, this isn’t my first rodeo. I have applied to grad school twice already! If I fail to get a spot, it will be okay. I’ve made peace with that rejection. If I fail, another door will eventually open, and then I’ll explore that one until it closes — there will always be something else to try. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t invested in these applications. They present such a clear path forward, both as a writer and a person. “Go here. Do this,” they command, “Understand yourself within our framework.” It’s a silly thing to desire, that guidance, but ever since my grand ambitions to travel and write a book spectacularly imploded in the fall of 2023, I’ve missed having a sense of clarity. How nice it would be to feel directionality again! Progress, forward unto somewhere.

In retrospect, these MFA applications have provided guidance over the past six months. I felt impassioned to complete them and to imagine the future they might bring. That purposefulness has been invaluable through an otherwise uneventful winter. Now that the decision-making has been taken out of my hands, however, I worry about drifting. Or at least getting too comfortable in a state of drift. I worry I will avoid responsibility and that I cannot hold myself accountable to live a diverse, fulfilling life. A little bit of structure would help me on my way. A nudge to keep me from drifting. That’s what I’ve invested into these applications at least.

Admissions results are expected any time in the next few weeks. I’ve applied to three schools out west and one here, in the mid-Atlantic. Once I hear back, I can sketch out the next couple of years of my life. Maybe that’ll take me out west — to give writing the “ ‘ol’ college try” as a graduate student. Maybe it won’t. Accepting that uncertainty is the hardest part. That’s always been the hardest part — the uncertainty. One of these days, I’ll learn to live with it. I’ll float in it like a warm bath, letting the fluidity allay the tension of existence. I might be a shriveled old man, but gosh darn, one day I’ll sit calmly in the uncertainty.

Some photos from 2024

I’m still lugging around my camera most places I go, though usually only taking a shot or two (film development is expensive these days!). Here are eighteen of my favorites from last year.

Note: It’s easier to view the photos if you open the post online, rather than in your email.