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Hello, and welcome to the ninth installment of NotWriting.com, an open
journal on how one writer spends his time when he really should be
writing.
Recently, in the middle of one of my classes, I had an honest-to-God
epiphany. One of my students had just read a remarkably perceptive
observation from his journal (I forget what it was, but it was good) when
Jesus came in the classroom window that opens onto Lexington Avenue. I
have no idea how He made it up to the second floor, nor do I know how He
opened the window, but the point is, He was there to talk to me.
"Hello, Chris," He said.
"Hi, Jesus. Why didn't you use the
door?"
"Don't ask."
Instead of the baggy robes and cloaks
I'd always seen him wearing in pictures, He wore a blue airplane
mechanic's jumpsuit. The beard was there, but much neater, more stylized.
Probably owned one of those portable trimmers.
"You really enjoy teaching, don't
you?" Jesus asked.
"Sure, why?"
"You should go to grad school and get
your M.F.A. You're going to need an advanced degree eventually."
"But I can't afford it."
| "Hey,
don't argue with me. The aid will be there. Apply and it
will come." "Okay, Jesus,
you're the boss."
"Not really," the Lord said with
one leg out the window. "But do what I said."
I nodded.
Apparently the students didn't
notice any of this. I suppose that's because by now they're used to my
frequent spacing out, my train of thought slamming to a stop and me
staring vacantly into nowhere for long periods like a stroke victim.
"Professor, what's wrong?" one of
the kids asked.
"Nothing."
This wasn't true. For the first
time in years, I was afraid. Not because the Christian savior had just
visited me and told me what I had to do, but because the process
of applying to grad school—the
GREs, the Personal Statement or Statement of Purpose,
the gathering of letters of recommendation, yada yada yada, the sheer
volume of crap I had to put together—scared
the hell out of me. I thought I'd finished all of that scurrying ten
years ago.
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Above: The "best" graduate
schools in
creative writing. The rumor, however, is
that the magazine's writers thought they
were rating area strip clubs, which
explains many of the high ratings.
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Fortunately, for a couple years I'd
been considering going back to school and had accumulated links,
documents, catalogs, and books with subversive titles like Cracking
Grad School Admissions. I was ready.
Skimming the literature, I was
reminded of a crucial point about applying to grad school: The Personal
Statement or Statement of Purpose—a
two- to three-page essay on your academic background and what you "hope to
accomplish" in your work—is
one of the most important parts of your application package. Whatever I
did, I needed to nail the SoP.
After sharpening 20-30 pencils, I sat
down to work. I had a steaming cup of coffee beside me; a bright lamp
overhead; a crisp, blank legal pad on an empty table; and my kitty on my
lap. I was ready. Without thinking, I dashed my pencil across the page:
I am writing to apply for fall 2003
admission into your M.F.A. program. This decision has not come easily or
lightly. I am ready to approach
I crumpled it up. After a couple
more false starts, I realized why I was having trouble. I wasn't being
honest. I was trying to give them what they wanted to hear, or at least
what I thought they wanted to hear. Taking a sip of coffee, I put the cat
down and got serious.
Statement of Purpose
The other day I decided it might be cool if I went to graduate school.
I think I want to get an M.F.A., or maybe a Ph.D.—heck,
I don't know. All I want is some letters after my name, you catch my
drift?
I like school. You know why?
Because it's not the real world. Everyone criticizes you professors
for hanging out in your Ivory Towers and not getting a real job, but I'm
here to tell you, man, the real world sucks. (It's nothing like that
show on MTV.) You work hard in college (sort of) and what do you
get? You end up with a job in some big company working for a guy
named Nick who fires you because he says he saw you tokin' on a fatty in
the fire stairwell when there's no way. I mean no way.
Anyway, your application has some questions
on it about my educational background and my goals and some other stuff,
so I better get started. For my undergraduate work, I majored in
biology, then switched to finance because I liked money.
Still liking money, I recently got a job
teaching kids English. I won't say where or how often (don't need
anyone bugging me at work), but I will tell you that I'm good at it.
The kids seem to keep their dirty traps shut and the girls haven't gotten
knocked up yet, although there are a couple weeks left in the semester and
I wonder about some of them.
As for my goals, I'd like to learn some
more about writing, maybe write a story or two. Just
nothing too strenuous, okay? Years ago, I was diagnosed with ADD,
and my psychiatrist recommended that whatever work I do, I give my
attention to it in seven-minute bursts. With effort, I can sometimes
read two or three pages of writing from magazines like Stuff and
Maxim, but if I even pick up The New Yorker I get a migraine.
All I'm saying is, don't expect much out of me the first year.
Oh, I see you have a "strict" 300-word
limit on this essay. (Whoops!) Hang in there, almost done.
I just want to say that writing is so important to me that I find myself
doing it at least once a week, which is a significant commitment for me.
In return for my commitment to your program, I will need the following: a
teaching assistantship or fellowship, a Lincoln Town Car (I plan on
running an airport service to make extra $$$), a two bedroom apartment,
and one of those cards for the dining hall. Plus, if you've got 'em,
I'd like some notepads with the college name and logo printed at the top.
(They're for my mom; she's so proud!)
Hey, I know you're busy, so I'll let you
go. Just so you don't forget me and my application, the last name is Orcutt. O-R-C-U-T-T, okay?
Word up.
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Above: The author, fed up with trying to write
his Statement of Purpose for grad school,
went out and got drunk instead, leaving his
loyal cat to watch over the wads of paper.
Above: Not unlike an NYC
homeless person, the
author humbly begs his
audience to, in the great
tradition of 1-800-COLLECT,
spare
a buck or two.
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Stay tuned for Part II, in which we
prepare for the
GRE. Thank you for your continuing patronage and for not setting me on
fire.
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©2002 Chris Orcutt and notwriting.com. All rights
reserved. |
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