Today has been an interesting day. Not necessarily special, just interesting, but only because it didn’t go as routine as it typically does. I was about five minutes late to class because of a coffee malfunction (first, I made it wrong, then as I tested to make sure the lid was screwed on good, it fell off and my coffee went down the drain). I ended up taking the interstate instead of the highway, which is probably the only reason I made it to Shakespeare just five minutes late. Next up was an astronomy lab at the Melton Observatory, which sounds cool and maybe even a little romantic, but I was jammed up on top of the tower with a bunch of (may as well be) adolescent males who stank, and one of them only had the F-word in his vocabulary, so it was much like watching 21 Jump Street, but minus the cop part (and I only know this because a co-worker went to see it with her mother over the weekend and told me that was pretty much the only word they said in the movie).
So, now I’m sitting at Pandini’s again, eating macaroni and cheese pasta with a much beloved styrofoam cup of Diet Coke. Can I just say that I love styrofoam cups? I mean, they don’t sweat, at least not nearly as much as plastic cups.
On a somewhat unrelated note – unrelated to the routine of my day, related to the theme of school – I discovered yesterday that my college career will officially come to a close upon graduation. After inquiring about the state of the MFA applications with someone who works in the program, the actual head of the program at my school sent me an email stating that I would no be receiving an acceptance letter. It was an unofficial notice, of course, but official enough that I know I won’t be returning to USC next year. I think once I get over the initial disappointment of rejection, I’ll be relieved I don’t have to prepare to come back in August. Yet, as I walked from the garage to my first class this morning, I was met with a sense of regret and longing.
You see, I changed my entire application at the last minute. I had the statement of purpose written and had the short story picked out that I wanted to submit as my sample. Then, I decided to re-write my statement and change the sample I was going to use. I don’t know why I did this. It was akin to those moments during standardized tests when you’re stuck between two multiple-choice answers. You pick one, get to the end of the test, go back and change it, only to realize that your first answer was the right one. The change I made could’ve been the difference between my rejection and my acceptance.
I’m trying not to brood over it too much. This clearly wasn’t meant to happen for me, at least not right now. God has something different planned, and besides – you don’t need an MFA program to confirm that you’re a writer. It’s not a license you need to acquire. It’s something born inside of you. And, who knows? Maybe I’ll be a better writer for not matriculating through an MFA program.
