A Contestant of Sorts
Posted on January 15, 2008
Filed Under Anxiety, Blogroll, career, education, milestones, resolutions, writings | 7 Comments
I begged for challenges and only one obliged. Ron over at R World has tempted me to reapply to that damn writing program that wrestled my heart from my chest and hurled it in a dumpster last Spring. And so it begins, my e-mails and phone calls to the same administrative assistant that put up with my queries and nervous bad jokes last time around.
As it turns out, I don’t need to submit an entirely new application. He said, “Just give us a new personal statement, some new writing samples, that’s all.
JUST? THAT’S ALL? Interesting word choice.
I’m not sure how he manages blase and flippant when talking about drafting ANOTHER brilliant and concise short essay that best represents me, a better one than the first time around (the flippancy and the need for better are implied. But I figure if I can’t do better than last time why bother? Apparently, my last attempt wasn’t good enough). And then there’s the task of twirling off three new short stories before the March deadline. It’s not that I haven’t been writing since last Spring, it’s just that I’ve been working on a novel and the fair admissions staff at this particular university discourage applicants from submitting long fiction. A fact I probably should have considered long before mid-January.
And with American Idol starting up again this week, I feel quite like one of the hopeful contestants that follows Randy and Simon and Paula from audition stop to audition stop though she is ridiculed and rejected at every location. She enters the room with her number pinned to her chest, sure that the audition in Seattle will be different from the one in Tampa, convinced that this time her talent will be heard and appreciated. She can see their name in lights. So alluring is the notion of someone important finally taking her seriously, that she is blind to one important fact – she is only marginally talented. In the pursuit of her dream she has become an earnest but laughable fool who has presented herself, once again, as a glutton for punishment.
The whole nation groans along with the three judges each and every time she throws her name in the ring. It’s just too painful to watch. The audience covers their eyes and holds their breath just waiting for the audition to be over, for her to finish her pitchy tune and be booted from the room; resolved to return to next year’s auditions with a new hair do and some kick-ass cowboy boots because she has convinced herself that it must have been the outfit.
I figure if I am resigned to the ridicule, if I fully expect rejection and just plain forget to go to the mailbox for all of April and May, then I just might survive the painful period of waiting. Unlike American Idol, the process of rejection from this esteemed Master’s program is a long one. Just long enough to allow all hopeful applicants to fully fashion the image of their acceptance, to imagine themselves attending titillating writing classes with accomplished professors before lowering the boom of denial.
As an adult, who is expected to have plans and goals and something always on the horizon, it’s so incredibly hard – the not knowing. So I’ll pretend I know already and just do it, fashion a personal essay that is passable and professional and maybe just the thing that moves them this time around. I’ll slip a few chapters of Habeas Corpus in the mail, ignoring the warning to avoid long fiction, I’ll shove it all in a manila envelope, not the fancy black leather binder of last year. It’s the equivalent of showing up to the American Idol auditions in a bathrobe. It’s the proof that I’m crazy jaded and not too worried about collecting another rejection letter. It is liberating to act as if I don’t want it that badly. It’s fuck if I care. It’s a lie.
Comments
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.
