Month: January 2018

On Writing When You’d Rather Not

Reflecting on the first semester of my MFA program at UVA, I’m struck by how lovely, how dreamy it’s been. I had various worries about beginning the program, but none of them ended up being confirmed: except one, maybe, just a little bit. I worried that it would be harder to write once writing (good, successful) poems became my main responsibility. This is both true and not true: on the one hand, writing is easier because I’m doing it more often, and because it’s hard not to feel inspired when I’m surrounded by such astonishingly talented people. Most of the time, writing is what I want to do. On the other hand, the point of an MFA program is that you must write regularly, even if inspiration doesn’t arrive. You have to hand work in to a group of people you earnestly want to impress, and are not certain of impressing. I’m not always in the mood. It is different to have to do something, and that fact sometimes triggers an impulse to procrastinate. While …

What to Do in the Meantime

Photo credit: Michal Ziembicki The waiting period between now and April is pretty much the worst. I know this well. The last two years I applied, I was waitlisted at a few of my dream schools. In the ’16 cycle, I received a nice email from Syracuse saying I was on the waitlist for fiction. After a slew of rejections (I think the final count was six rejections out of eight that year), the Syracuse waitlist was like ice on a bruised ego. Of course, as you can guess, I stayed on the waitlist until I was eventually bumped off. In the ’17 cycle, the results were slightly better. The rejection count went down from six to five (progress!), and instead of one waitlist, I had two: UVA and Johns Hopkins. On April 11th, UVA sent me a very transparent email, saying there was one unsecured spot but it was unlikely I’d get it. And in a world of waitlist uncertainty, I was just as grateful for the honesty as I was disappointed. Then two …

My Two Cents

I’ve been hesitating with this post for a while because I don’t think I still quite know how to appropriately articulate what I’ve been feeling, but here it goes. Maybe it’s because these are the narratives I’ve been taught as a woman of color, even in my own household — stay quiet and be grateful. But I am grateful, and we’ve been shushed for too long. These are my very brief two cents. Cent 1: Having grown up in Miami — a minority-majority, strange placewhere Spanglish reigns as the official/unofficial language of the city — my experiences in predominantly white circles had been limited. Business signs are in Spanish. I speak to my parents in Spanish. For seven words, you toss in three in Spanish. It’s arguably fair to call Miami the capital of Latin America. But despite having grown up wishing Celia Cruz was my celebrity grandma, I’d spent most of my life reading predominantly white literature. I learned, early on, that names like my own were nowhere to be found in books. Much …