April 13, 2009

Lunch with Miss K.

Graduation was a heady time, and the five of us that were the original cohort of our grad program gathered together on the lawn of our campus to shoot photos a few days before The Big Day when we'd all get our MFAs.

Miss K's husband did the honors, snapping away as we were giddy with excitement: our writing projects had been filed with the grad division, we'd completed classes, and all that was left were a few teensy hurdles, easily jumped over (we we did).

Today Miss K and I had lunch. She asked me how I was and I ran through an abbreviated version of what's on this blog. Then we traded places and I heard about all the challenges and twists and turns on her road. The meal was delicious, easy-paced and the server didn't interrupt us once, and generally didn't bug us (Aside: when did it become okay for the wait staff to interrupt a perfectly fine conversation to ask if we liked our food or other mundane questions?).

I called our little group "the original cohort" up above. That's what we're known as because this was the first year of the MFA, and we were the experimental children of this programk. We all talk now of where the pitfalls were, where we have holes in our education, weak spots. But at the same time the faculty were figuring it out, we were being knit together.

And the writing? The reason why we all slogged through two years? We all obsess, dream about, wonder about the writing. But really, none of us are. Was it the program, given it was just getting going? I remember more than once coming home to my husband, saying, what's the form for X like in your department? I need one and I guess I'll just have to write it myself. Then I would (they're still using some of my creations). Were we all just trying to figure it all out?

Or was it us? They grabbed a mix of students, most of us unpublished, except for local and small-fry publications. Miss K. (not her name, but an affectionate nick-name I gave her) was an exception to that, and of all of us now, she's writing the most. We talk about Writing as it if were a tall, modern building with no elevators, no front doors. How to enter? How to ascend?

1 comment:

  1. Great questions - how do we enter? And why don't we write? I ask myself that question too often.