In a moment of boredom during Christmas week in Peoria, I got an idea. I will apply to grad school! Perhaps this revelation was inspired by two of my close friends, Jayme and Glenda, who after suffering through months of unemployment in New York City, decided to apply to law school last year. I stood idly by, offering words of encouragement while they took hours of practice LSAT tests, scoured resources on the schools most suitable to their needs, and penned essay after essay during the application process. As impressed as I was by their ambition, I couldn’t help but think, I’m so glad that’s not me.
It was funny, then, that this idea hit me, and even funnier that I decided to act on it. It started with research I conducted from my dad’s computer on Christmas Day and ended eight days later when I sent off my application to an MFA program at a New York University. Only a week had passed, but much had happened. Not only had I managed to compile 30 pages of prose, compose (and re-compose) a personal statement and book review, and gather three letters of recommendation and my college transcripts, but I also finally understood what Jayme and Glenda had been going through over the past several months… hell.
This experience was challenging for a number of reasons. For starters, I didn’t exactly have a lot of time. How was I supposed to know that in order to go to school in September you have to apply by January? I’ve been out of college for nearly eight years and forgot how this works. Which leads me to another reason why this was hellish. I’ve been out of college for eight years. I have no academic references pertinent to what I’m trying to do – not only would my college psychology professors not remember me, but they wouldn’t have a hell of a lot to say about my potential to become a creative writer. While gathering essays for my writing sample wasn’t hard – an extensive cut-and-paste session on this website yielded far more than the required 30 pages – honing it down to material that didn’t mention wanton drug usage, porn, or me making an ass of myself proved to be a difficult task. And that was the material that I had at my disposal – there was still much to write beyond the creative sample. I’ve never written a personal statement, and am humbled to report that my first draft was the schmaltziest piece of writing I’ve penned since I got drunk on peppermint schnapps and wrote my holiday cards. (All two of them.) With the help of friends, I cleaned it up, at least into something I wasn't humiliated to submit.
The clock was constantly ticking, and I was keenly aware of how many days and hours I had until the deadline arrived. I holed myself away in my apartment for the entire weekend, leaving only once Saturday and once Sunday, both times to get food. I may have taken one shower. I was sleep deprived, and was a slug at work Monday and Tuesday. I struggled to dedicate myself to my job while my future as a Woman Of Letters hung in the balance -- plus, I had a book review yet to write and 30 pages of text to edit. At night I conferred with friends, all of whom had a different angle and opinion and didn't hesitate to share it with me. It got to the point that I didn't want to talk about it anymore -- the more I talked about it, the more hopeless I felt.
Still, I got it done, and accomplished in eight days what most people take months to do (and now I know why.) I have many people to thank, in words and free drinks, for their help. I'm sure that the kind souls who wrote my letters of recommendation had plans for their New Years week that didn’t involve getting me get into grad school. Two of my three letters I picked up in a bar – and that’s only because the third person I enlisted to vouch for me forgot to bring her letter to the New Years Eve party. Perhaps the aroma of champagne wafting from the page will intoxicate some unsuspecting faculty member into accepting me into their program.
To be honest, I have no expectations of getting accepted, and even if I do, I’m not even sure that I will go. I know that makes this whole process seem like a waste of time, but it wasn’t. At my age I feel some sort of social obligation to apply for graduate school – it seems like a rite of passage not unlike the thirtieth birthday party or the day you decide to take men home with you only if you really like them. The most important thing that I gained, besides the knowledge that I’d like to start taking writing classes again (although not necessarily two full-time years of them at the staggering price of $7-15K a semester), was the experience itself. In one week I vacillated between a wide range of emotions, from, “Yeah! Graduate school! I will walk among the academics, sipping coffee with fellow creators and pontificating on Things That Matter!”, to, “My writing is shit. It’s so shit, that it’s not good enough to get me into a program that will help me improve my writing. I’m doomed, forever shackled to the advertising industry and the vapidity of Corporate America. Woe is me!” I felt all of these things and more, sometimes within the same minute, which made for an emotionally-charged week.
I have no regrets about this past week, other than the tornado of activity I subjected my friends and loved ones to in order to get through it. I don’t like doing anything half-assed, so the fact that I applied to grad school in only a partially-assed manner makes me feel like I’ve actually accomplished something. I’m not sure what this holds for my future, if anything, but I do know that it was a worthwhile experience. It feels good to think about the future beyond next weekend, to ask yourself what you want out of life and assess what you need to do to get it. It's downright character-building to scoff at the odds stacked against you, roll up your sleeves, and just try. Most importantly, it feels damn good when it's over. Those present at Mickey’s Blue Room last night can certainly attest to that. (I was the deliriously happy girl drinking vodka-ginger ales and singing Eminem lyrics into my pool cue.)
