Admit one

“These columns are smart, funny, engaging, and touching. We hope this writer will want to deepen the kinds of explorations that these columns address, in literary work that prizes nuance, experiment, and original language. This work has narrative intimacy and a wide range of interests, as well as a polished style. A definite admit.”
— Admissions committee, Master of Fine Arts program, Queens University

As we know, I’m a writer. An insecure, unpolished, prolific writer.

My parents realized it in the second grade, when I wrote an essay on what it felt like to be an ice cream cone that they now tell people “made both of us shiver.”

I’ve kept a journal since fifth grade. I wrote for and edited my high school newspaper, my college newspaper and my college magazine.

My first job was as a magazine writer. My second was as a newspaper reporter.

My dream job came along after a whole bunch of steps in between, when they finally promoted me to Editor, capital E, no modifiers. That’s when I got to add “column writing” to my job description.

Here’s the thing about column writing: In the newspaper business, no one teaches you how to do it. You just start and pray you don’t suck.

My first columns were bad. Seriously, awfully bad. Fortunately, my readers were both starved for commentary and terribly kind. As they responded to my work, my confidence grew and I got better. Over the years, I wrote column after column. Each of them filled space in my newspaper and fed my soul.

Along the way, I won tons of awards — Best in Show once, for an editorial about bogeymen after Sept. 11. These days blogging is both a creative outlet and catharsis.

Even so, I’ve never had a minute of training on how to write what I write. I know my readers like it, but I have no idea whether it’s any good.

For years, I’ve toyed with going to graduate school. I even started a master’s in forensic psychology once. I’ve always wanted to study writing, but have never been able to make it work.

Besides, asking someone to help polish your writing style is tantamount to stripping in front of them and asking them to survey your body, inch by inch, and tell you how it looks — the fat, the scars, the blotches, the wrinkles. All of it laid bare for someone to rip to shreds in the name of making you better.

Who wouldn’t sign up for that?

Anyway, these thoughts have been loud in the past several months. Finally, to quiet them, I “looked into” going back to school — mostly to show myself that it couldn't be done.

Silly me.

Two weeks ago, after a whole bunch of research and study, I applied to a low-residency master of fine arts program in creative non-fiction writing. I studied all of the low-res programs in the country (low res = one week per semester on campus in workshops and other classes, the rest of the work done through a distance learning program online). Turns out that the program that fits me best is close to home.

How’s that for a sign from the universe?

Two nights ago, at 11 p.m., I got the call. I’m in, dear reader. I. Am. In. And that quote above? That’s what the admissions committee thought of my writing, before I’ve removed a single stitch of clothing.

I wish I could describe how it feels, once and for all, to know that I am good at my life’s passion. Perhaps two years from now, after I’m done with the program, the words will no longer fail me.