Signed Sealed Delivered...

I talked to Vivian, my very honest bestie, to discern if there was something in me I had missed, some part of my efforts to evolve that had failed so badly, they warranted Dianna's treatment of me. I discussed some of my particular weaknesses, finding an accord: that nothing really added up to her conclusion. Then, I cleared my head of all the mucus that had compacted itself inside of it, and moved on. I set my application to Bennington, on which I'd worked so hard, to the side, and returned my focus to Lesley.

My essay, my writing sample for both schools were similar, but not the same. Still, working from the first was easier than working from scratch. I rewrote my essay to Lesley, which had to be much shorter than Bennington's. As any writer knows, shortening is always harder than proliferating. I got it done though, working with the same determination I had been for the previous months when I began to work on my Bennington application.

Because I write in three forms, fiction, non-fiction and poetry, I felt the need to represent all three in my application to Bennington, in spite of the fact that I was applying only in Non-Fiction. At Lesley I was allowed to apply in however many fields I chose, and so I decided to apply in Non-Fiction and Poetry. I believed my work in fiction, though more plentiful, was my weakest. This was a hard choice. On one hand I wanted to get in, and felt that I should represent my best work to better ensure admission. However, I want to enter a writing program to improve my work, and really wanted to work in the area that I felt was weakest.

The truth, though, that I always have to return to, is that my fiction pieces are primarily biomythographies. Part of my writing of fiction is related to my love for the genre, part of it is my desire to hide behind it. It's so much easier to tell certain stories to the world and pretend you aren't talking of yourself. Fiction for me is akin to that "friend" we always get advice for. Maybe, I had to admit, the reason my fiction is so much weaker is because I have yet to have a fictious story to tell. Maybe I need to tell my story and get on with it, own up to it.

Aside: The samples of non-fiction were excerpts from a memoir I've been working on called Honest: A Break Up Memoir. I originally pedalled it as a novel. One of my readers challenged me as such: "It seems more like a true story than fiction..." What was I to say? I decided to just girl up and brave it out. Now, year having passed, since the incidents detailed, it seems a bit easier to do, but only with that memoir. I had to battle against the urge to write yet my next difficult story into a work of fiction, but that's a later post...

Bennington required I think 20 to 25 pages of non-fiction. What I decided to do (risky) was submit 20 pages of non-fiction, three pages of fiction and three poems (two pages). I figured, if they discarded the extraneous items, I'd still have submitted the minimum, that with those items I did not exceed the maximum number of pages, and that if they reviewed the materials, they would give insight into my particular style of writing. But, of course, this well thought out sample did not get submitted.

For my application to Lesley, I met the maximum number of required pages in both non-fiction and poetry. They allow you to submit both in one application. I refrained from submitting in fiction also. Sometimes I regret this. It would have been informing, the reaction from the review team. But now it's too late for that, right? Kinda.

I went to Teddy, my second recommender, taking the form and having him complete it on the spot. He sealed it, and I mailed it. Nehassaiu mailed her recommendation, and I mailed my application.

I want to say that, while I was working out my whole writing sample concern, I did call the school. I spoke with several people and they were terrific about answering my questions and providing me with information I didn't know I needed. They did let me know, however, that I was a bit on the late side for June consideration. I rushed my packet out.

I have to say that there is something to be said for that feeling. I took that hefty envelope to the post office, they weighed it and I paid to have it delivered. I left the weight of years of hesitation and self doubt on that post office scale. I had taken a long desired step toward a future scribed with deep blu letters.

Beginnings. Preparing For This HeadRoad Trip.

I grew up writing, yet it never occured to me that I may want to pursue a career in writing. I'm not sure why, but I think it has something to do with all the pressure from everyone around me encouraging me to be a doctor, lawyer, an actuary or an engineer. My first major was actually electrical engineering. I was cursed with abilities in math, actually enjoying algebra and loving calculus. So, I thought, maybe I should pursue one of these money making fields.

I sat in the front row of my major classes and drooled for an hour and twenty minutes. One class is all it took. And I don't mean one class as in, I took a class for a semester and then called it quits. I mean, after that first hour and twenty minutes of embarrasing myself and my teacher, I wiped the side of my face, cleaned off the desk, and I never stepped foot in that engineering building again.

What was I to do? While figuring nothing out, I continued to write and perform poetry. Boy, was that working out! A born performer, I was out there every day reciting "poems" and getting paid to do it! Yes, I was one of those "poets" that wrote my newest "poem" on the way to the gig and proudly said so when I got on stage. This was proof of just how deep I was, that I wrote this hot shit on the way there. Bam! I blew your mind and then I walked off stage to wild applause. The chosen people got to walk with me, patting my back and telling me how I had done it again.

Ridiculousness.

One thing I learned from that era of my life is to gauge your audience. Those people would have had me foolishly publishing that crap I was spewing and reading those poems all over the city, country, earth to people who knew nothing about poetry except that sometimes it rhymed and sometimes it didn't.

Okay, so,

a friend of mine, a guy named Langston, who had written and self published the book Back to Africa with a White Woman with another friend named Wadud, on whom I had a crush, (shh, nobody knows!) invited me to become part of a writing community. His idea was that we would workshop one original piece every week. I was down. Other initial members included Nehassaiu, who's performances impressed me and who was becoming my big sister, and Samuel. There were others who eventually dropped off. These others were similar to me - sure they were already amazing. They felt they didn't need to waste their time with such silliness as workshopping and crafting their pieces. I, on the other hand, liked having my own little private audience of poets to whom I could read my awesome work. Can somebody say ego?

BUT! Something happened while I was there. Maybe it happened because I did, at least, take the process seriously. I gave feedback on the work of my cohorts and I seriously considered their feedback. And it seemed they always had some. My perfect pieces never seemed quite perfect after we'd discussed them. And other pieces, that I had not authored, were getting a lot more appreciation. Can somebody say busted - I mean, awakening?

What was that shit I was writing?

We began to study authors. Our group expanded. We began to share members with the Dark Room Collective, people began to get fellowships and began to enter MFA programs. People with MFA's began to join our group. And I expanded. I began to write poetry.

The writer's collective we formed became known as 12th house. Well, known to us. You probably never heard of it. We met weekly for years. It was because of that association and my studies with the awesome Sonia Sanchez, that I began to understand the career of writing.

My time in 12th House was a blessing, because it freed me from the world of spoken word - the planet of singing syllables - and landed me in the land of literature. It introduced me to the process of crafting and showed me that what I'd thought were classic works of art were plain foolery. Our initial focus was poetry - simply because that was what the members wrote. Eventually through new members, we had a group of prose writers. I myself didn't introduce my prose until late, just before 12th House began to transition, its members moving on. I therefore didn't have the benefit of learning where the strengths in my prose writing lay. I found myself stuck in the abyss of,

"How do I know it's good enough?"

I completed projects that were going nowhere, because I was afraid they weren't strong, literary pieces. I didn't want to publish contemporary literature.

No judgement there, okay? Well, maybe a little judgement but not like the, "You suck! You write contemporary literature" kind of judgement. It's more the, "I am seeking a different audience," discerning kind of judgement. The judgement that asks, "Would I like this shit if I hadn't written it?"

I began to yearn for the benefits of an MFA. I wanted to grow, learn, study craft, receive feedback, recognize my strenghts and labor through my weaknesses. I decided to apply to MFA programs, but where?

I couldn't just move to some awesome MFA program in New England or New York. I had become an unwed mother. Best thing to ever happen to me, (the mother part, not so much the unwed part), but it did place some limits on me. There were no programs that interested me here in Philadelphia. I was going to have to give up. But wait! Ellis started teaching at something called a low-res MFA program. I didn't have to live there, it was well respected, intense learning still took place... What is this place called Warren Wilson!

I did my research, and completed the application to Warren Wilson. I sent my poems to Ellis and got great feedback! Then I decided nothing was good enough. I didn't apply.

I found I was afraid to apply.

"How do I know my works are good enough?"

I worked on applying for years (primarily I worked on myself). I continued to speak to my friends and associates, who encouraged me to apply. The assurance of those teaching in MFA programs themselves should have been enough, you would think. But no. I still waited years, working on my pieces. I had gone from egomaniac to... what? I was confident that I could write something valuable, but not confident that I had written it, and couldn't figure out how to know.

I completed a collection of short stories, a collection of poems and short stories, and a memoir that I could not allow myself to release.

"How do I know it's good enough?"

Things were getting ridiculous. I set my sights, once again, on the MFA. Armed against my uncertanties, I decided to apply. But those years of searching, writing, and reading introduced me to a new genre: Creative Non-Fiction. This is what was meant for me.

I learned that Warren Wilson doesn't offer that concentration.

Shyt!

Love at First Write

It defies the thirty years that have passed, how clearly I recall the ruler drawn faultlessly in a small, tan composition book. The words beneath it, so precise and right, were written in fabulous first grade hand underneath. Love burst forth for what I had accomplished - not copying words of another, but crafting my own description of this measure I had made which seemed beyond improvement. It was simple and felt perfect and I had my first glance at who I was: a girl of words.

It was the book, Listen Children, an anthology of Black Literature edited by Dorothy S. Strickland , that affected me more than any other during my childhood. A gift from a neighbor, Listen Children contained poems, stories, biographies, and speeches, and I memorized most of it. This book was my initial introduction to poetry. I performed "Way Down In the Music," by Eloise Greenfield, at my first talent show.

In fifth grade I entered my original work, "Black Boy," into a poetry contest. I'd written it in fourth grade, but Masterman started in fifth, and that was the first poetry contest to which I had been given access. At this nationally recognized school, uncontested as the very best in the city, I competed equally against all other grades through twelfth, and won first place. The questions regarding the poem's true authorship were meaningless to me. This victory was defining.

And so, here I am.