I took the GRE on Wednesday....I did not do as well as I would have hoped, and this was my only chance to take it in time so that the schools would receive the scores by the application deadline. Really, the only school that needed it was UNC's PhD in journalism....I am hoping I didn't shoot myself in the foot with my scores. After all, it's pretty established that standardized test scores like the GRE and SAT don't predict success. I'm hoping my Master's thesis wows them. *fingers crossed*. Other than that, I've been writing for work a lot, trying to find time to work on personal statements and my nonfiction portfolio, and read more books. Every program wants a list of recent books you've read, and again, I'm consumed with the fear of not reading books that are "literary" enough. So now I'm reading Edith Wharton's "The House of Mirth", and working my way through some classics that I haven't read yet, like more of Virginia Woolf's books and maybe some James Joyce thrown in there. And I love, love, love Carson McCullers. And Joan Didion. And Jerome Groopman. And Jhumpa Lahiri (whom I got to see in person at Barnard!). So....maybe I can convince them I am literary after all.
I never thought I was creative before. I don't see myself as an "artist", I see myself as a writer. But I was told writers are artists, in their own ways. I don't see myself that way at all. Looking back, I guess the signs were really there all along....in high school, I would write poems during Biology and Chemistry classes. While registering for freshman year classes for college, I actually asked for permission to register for a senior seminar on the writings of Sylvia Plath. I was denied, but the professor met with me that semester to discuss Plath's writings. That was an awesome thing for a busy professor to do. My "Literary Marketplace" class with Dr.Coppa...that was maybe the one class I REALLY looked forward to. She was a hyper-caffeinated, hyper-intelligent version of Janeane Garofalo, from NYC, dressed all in black and super hip. She wore these kick ass black leather boots, her hair was always disheveled, she talked a mile a minute and it was wonderful. I still can't walk through a Barnes & Noble without remembering learning about what makes some books get featured, or placed with their covers facing outward (yeah, it's not random). I also loved my "American Writers" class, in which my professor, who, in his flannel shirts, Wranglers and scruffy beard looked more like the janitor than a PhD, taught us how to be kids again when he took us on the college's front lawn and had us make and fly paper airplanes. My "African-American Literature" class introduced me to Alice Walker, bell hooks and Toni Morrison. For one of my psychology classes, we had to pick someone famous to evaluate....and I chose the poet Anne Sexton.
I do wish I had sat down with someone back then and learned about all the different career options in writing and English. Part of me does wish I had listened to my heart about majoring in English and being a writer, but I don't regret going the way I did. I've learned a lot and had great experiences along the way. And everything I've done has brought me to this moment, right here. How could I regret that?
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