For Moments Like This

As a third semester student at Stonecoast, I am required to spend this semester working on a critical project. Most people write papers--research papers or English Lit-type papers that focus on one or two aspects of a writer's work, or a branch of critical theory, etc--some people do projects and then write papers.

I opted for a research paper about writing groups in prisons and shelters, because I'm interested, and because I would like to do some of that--for money--after I graduate, and the research may come in handy for things like grant-writing and convincing administrators that the work needs to happen. I think having an MFA is suddenly justification for me to demand to get paid for doing the things I love to do.

Anyway, it's been a trying semester because it's not my favorite kind of writing. I did manage to slide in some creative bits by interspersing the research/expository sections with personal narrative about my own experiences facilitating a writing group in a shelter.

But the best news is, I just sent in my final draft to my mentor (the very talented and patient-with-my-delays Alan Davis), which means that I get to spend this last semester working on fiction. As long as he agrees that it's actually a final draft.

I just sent K down to the store for a bottle of ginger ale** to celebrate, and I may smoke a cigarette. It's hot times in the old town tonight, folks.

If you want to read it, drop me a note and I'll send it out like the fucking flowers are sending out millions of tiny pieces of pollen to irritate my entire face (that is, with fervor and profligacy). I'll put my email address in the comments section***.

More on Mother's Day tomorrow.


**for reasons of poverty, not any kind of abstinent behavior. Don't worry, Stonecoasters, I'll be singing in the streets of Brunswick post-Joshua's soon enough.

***I think that has something to do with avoiding spam, but really I'm just copying other people who do it because it seems like a good idea.