(no subject)
Hey, everybody. It's been a long, hard few months and I figured I should update those of you who don't know about it.
I applied to 11 grad schools; I've been rejected from 10 and am expecting my last rejection letter any day now. It's been a huge blow. I didn't write for months, longer than I've ever gone without writing since I was 11 or so. I've also had less self-confidence and self-esteem than ever before. And don't tell me I shouldn't be taking it personally - I know. But it still hurts like hell.
Seems like very few people get into grad school for writing straight out of undergrad; wish I had known I didn't really have much of a chance. As I started receiving rejections, I planned for the worst, never thinking it could happen. I figured Ron and I would move to the Boston area, I might take some writing classes, get a job in publishing, be near friends and figure out what I really want to do. Then I realized that that actually sounded better than grad school right now. I'm not ready. I'm just barely beginning to find my voice and know who I am.
Ron's parents bought him a ticket to Israel, wanting him to visit his sister. They didn't buy me one and we decided I shouldn't go. He left the morning after Valentines; we didn't get a chance to cellebrate properly. We had been spending a lot of time with Robin, who sees through both of us. She's been a catalyst for a lot of change. So he left when we'd both been blown open and were going through a lot of emotional stuff, when I was already overwhelmed and really needed him to be around.
Then he had to extend his stay. Then he had to extend it again. I was an emotional wreck the entire time he was gone. For a whole month, every moment was a fight just to be okay. I visited friends and sought day to day distractions. I started receiving rejection letters.
Things were a lot better when he finally got home. We both threw ourselves into the apartment hunt, found a place and had it pulled out from under our feet. I hadn't been writing at all. When I got up the courage to try it again, I discovered my computer was broken. And realized that I'd felt disconnected for a long time, and joyless. Everything felt like chaos: home, future, art, even boyfriend gone for awhile.
Ron and I went to a Haley Westenra concert. She was amazing, so connected with her soul that she made me believe in souls. I felt I knew her intimately. I realized that my writing has always been from a place of need, begging for love, and I am not connected to myself like that. And I need to be, to be the writer I want to be. Seeing Robin's art and hearing about Aernk's movies really drove it home. I'm not in touch with myself the way they are. I started trying to write again, with the plan to focus only on the process, to try to connect with myself amid all the confusion inside. If I could stop needing so badly to know what I believe, and direct my creative energies toward art and invention instead, I would be happier and make better art.
I wrote that and then opened an Anais Nin book I'd been reading, and the answer was right there, on the page, as though the world had brought it to me. She wrote about the neurotic (remember, this was in the 30s) as the artist whose creativity turned destructive, who invented a world of fiction and denied reality, setting herself impossible goals which only seem possible in her fictional world. Reading about this, I realized that I do it. All this time I have been searching for the greater meaning in life, really I was creating another world, a more beautiful world in which I had some power and control. I was not looking for something real, I was looking to change reality to something i could deal with. And yes, if I could stop doing that, then I could direct my creative energies toward art.
Realizing this, the whole edifice came crashing down. I thought I would always need to think about these things; I thought it was an essential part of me. So much confusion that arose when my invented world met the normal one (or failed to meet it), and now that confusion is gone. But I need to (re)learn who I am. I need to write things that I know aren't real and deal with what is.
We're moving this saturday to a duplex in Woburn. It has three floors, a finished attic with a skylight, and is two blocks from a beautiful lake with trails and a forest. We'll get Ron's canoe out of his parents' garage. It'll be good to start new, to have one good new thing I can depend on.
I just went to career services and it sounds like the job search is going to be even longer and more arduous than the grad school applications were. I'm hoping for editorial assistant at some publisher that actually does creative stuff. There's been way too much chaos in my life and I've learned that I really function much better with structure, so I think a job will be very good for me right now. It just needs to have some creativity so I don't go dead inside. I found one tutoring job, for the summer, that pays $23-28 an hour and is 6-10 hours a week. So I guess I'll see if I can do that in the interim.
I just talked with 2 of my three references, one a poetry teacher. Both of them were awesome. I'd been ashamed to tell them I didn't get in. They were so nice, I wasn't ashamed in front of them, but I couldn't stop myself from crying a bit. The poetry teacher almost cried too, says she's been there, when she was my age, sitting in an office and crying. They both stressed how important it is for me to just write, keep writing. Find a writing group. Take classes. She suggested a program in Rhode Island where I would go to live for a few weeks. I think it might be just what i need.
So that's what's been happening, in a nutshell. I've felt like I've been punched in the stomach and then kicked back down every time I tried to get up again. But things are starting to look up now. And in the long run this is probably all good for me. Don't know if I'm really returning to LJ though, or what.
I applied to 11 grad schools; I've been rejected from 10 and am expecting my last rejection letter any day now. It's been a huge blow. I didn't write for months, longer than I've ever gone without writing since I was 11 or so. I've also had less self-confidence and self-esteem than ever before. And don't tell me I shouldn't be taking it personally - I know. But it still hurts like hell.
Seems like very few people get into grad school for writing straight out of undergrad; wish I had known I didn't really have much of a chance. As I started receiving rejections, I planned for the worst, never thinking it could happen. I figured Ron and I would move to the Boston area, I might take some writing classes, get a job in publishing, be near friends and figure out what I really want to do. Then I realized that that actually sounded better than grad school right now. I'm not ready. I'm just barely beginning to find my voice and know who I am.
Ron's parents bought him a ticket to Israel, wanting him to visit his sister. They didn't buy me one and we decided I shouldn't go. He left the morning after Valentines; we didn't get a chance to cellebrate properly. We had been spending a lot of time with Robin, who sees through both of us. She's been a catalyst for a lot of change. So he left when we'd both been blown open and were going through a lot of emotional stuff, when I was already overwhelmed and really needed him to be around.
Then he had to extend his stay. Then he had to extend it again. I was an emotional wreck the entire time he was gone. For a whole month, every moment was a fight just to be okay. I visited friends and sought day to day distractions. I started receiving rejection letters.
Things were a lot better when he finally got home. We both threw ourselves into the apartment hunt, found a place and had it pulled out from under our feet. I hadn't been writing at all. When I got up the courage to try it again, I discovered my computer was broken. And realized that I'd felt disconnected for a long time, and joyless. Everything felt like chaos: home, future, art, even boyfriend gone for awhile.
Ron and I went to a Haley Westenra concert. She was amazing, so connected with her soul that she made me believe in souls. I felt I knew her intimately. I realized that my writing has always been from a place of need, begging for love, and I am not connected to myself like that. And I need to be, to be the writer I want to be. Seeing Robin's art and hearing about Aernk's movies really drove it home. I'm not in touch with myself the way they are. I started trying to write again, with the plan to focus only on the process, to try to connect with myself amid all the confusion inside. If I could stop needing so badly to know what I believe, and direct my creative energies toward art and invention instead, I would be happier and make better art.
I wrote that and then opened an Anais Nin book I'd been reading, and the answer was right there, on the page, as though the world had brought it to me. She wrote about the neurotic (remember, this was in the 30s) as the artist whose creativity turned destructive, who invented a world of fiction and denied reality, setting herself impossible goals which only seem possible in her fictional world. Reading about this, I realized that I do it. All this time I have been searching for the greater meaning in life, really I was creating another world, a more beautiful world in which I had some power and control. I was not looking for something real, I was looking to change reality to something i could deal with. And yes, if I could stop doing that, then I could direct my creative energies toward art.
Realizing this, the whole edifice came crashing down. I thought I would always need to think about these things; I thought it was an essential part of me. So much confusion that arose when my invented world met the normal one (or failed to meet it), and now that confusion is gone. But I need to (re)learn who I am. I need to write things that I know aren't real and deal with what is.
We're moving this saturday to a duplex in Woburn. It has three floors, a finished attic with a skylight, and is two blocks from a beautiful lake with trails and a forest. We'll get Ron's canoe out of his parents' garage. It'll be good to start new, to have one good new thing I can depend on.
I just went to career services and it sounds like the job search is going to be even longer and more arduous than the grad school applications were. I'm hoping for editorial assistant at some publisher that actually does creative stuff. There's been way too much chaos in my life and I've learned that I really function much better with structure, so I think a job will be very good for me right now. It just needs to have some creativity so I don't go dead inside. I found one tutoring job, for the summer, that pays $23-28 an hour and is 6-10 hours a week. So I guess I'll see if I can do that in the interim.
I just talked with 2 of my three references, one a poetry teacher. Both of them were awesome. I'd been ashamed to tell them I didn't get in. They were so nice, I wasn't ashamed in front of them, but I couldn't stop myself from crying a bit. The poetry teacher almost cried too, says she's been there, when she was my age, sitting in an office and crying. They both stressed how important it is for me to just write, keep writing. Find a writing group. Take classes. She suggested a program in Rhode Island where I would go to live for a few weeks. I think it might be just what i need.
So that's what's been happening, in a nutshell. I've felt like I've been punched in the stomach and then kicked back down every time I tried to get up again. But things are starting to look up now. And in the long run this is probably all good for me. Don't know if I'm really returning to LJ though, or what.