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Posts tagged as “Hunter”

Inspiration, The Impending Summer, and Change.

Here I am on the tail end of some major life changes and I feel like something is missing. I’m settled in my new apartment, my finances have leveled out after the move, I’ve been working regularly, and playing a lot. The transition into this new phase is basically over and I’m starting to feel a little antsy about it. Not antsy about the transition, but antsy about what’s next. That familiar tightness in the chest is back, that feeling that I’m not doing enough, that I’m not creating enough, that I’m wasting such valuable time as I’ll never have again. Hedonism has become dull, a chore, a worn out play-thing destined for the bottom of the toy chest. All the playing is a nice distraction from life when I’m stressed and stupid and trying to avoid my feelings (as I’ve been doing since the beginning of February), but when I’m not really avoiding anything all the hedonism does is inspire feelings of guilt and shame. Loss? I don’t know. Maybe that’s too strong a word. It makes me feel bad and dumb.

After cranking out the piece for Hunter earlier this year and my subsequent rejection, there has been this tiny little whisper in my brain chanting its disheartening mantra of “Fuck it,” which is a terrible attitude to seeping through your subconscious. Astute Black Laserites will notice that I’ve posted nary a single photo all year. It’s May. You’ll also notice that I’ve not posted any other writing besides the Hunter piece. And that I’ve made ZERO progress on the three music videos I’ve assigned myself for this year. Pathetic. This year’s theme is flailing around, begging for attention, and I can’t seem to muster it. What is my deal? I’m trading my work time for play time as a way to rebound, but it’s not having the affect it should. Quite the opposite, I think.

With this warm weather anxiety firmly gripping my chest, I’ve been thinking of a few simple ways to change things up, to put my brain into a different place. Let’s explore, shall we?

  • Buy a bicycle – I really want one. I think it would be nice to have one to ride around on in the summer time. On the other hand, it’s been 15 years since I’ve ridden a bicycle regularly and riding one around NY scares me more than a little. It’s something I need to overcome.
  • Lose a little weight – Nothing drastic. Just a little. I could stand a little definition. It will help me feel better, no doubt. I don’t really know how to do this, but maybe the bike will help.
  • Read more – This is another weird thing. I think I’ve read maybe 2 or 3 books this year? Again, it’s May. That is a surprisingly low number for me. I like reading a lot. It makes my brain function better and helps me write.
  • Work less – I’ve been working nonstop since October and I’m ready not to work for a little. I can afford it. Thankfully, most of June and parts of July and August I’ll not be working. Super.
  • Pick up the guitar again – It’s been a million years since I owned and played a guitar regularly. I’d like to get one again and flex that part of my brain so long dormant.

All in all, not an insurmountable list. With any measure of diligence I should be able to accomplish these things and they will open the flood gates of my brain so that I might be able to get some damned work done when I’m not working. What is this crazy work compulsion I feel about? Weird. Anyway, I’d like to work more.

And lest this come off as some whiny bitch and moan session (it’s not intended to be), here’s something I find inspirational.

A Letter to Hunter College on the Recent Decision They Made Regarding My Suitability for their Program.

Dear Hunter,

Boo.

I am disappointed. This is not a very fun way to start my Monday. I thought I wrote a pretty fucking good piece for you guys. Much better than last year’s certainly. Was it the F for the English class on my NYU transcript? Was it all the cursing in my piece? Was it that I’m just so super stylish and great that you thought I would overwhelm the rest of the students? Probably not. Whatever arcane magic went into your decision making process, I am not mad. Disappointed? Yes. Saddened? A little. Curious? Totally. I also understand that you only take six students a year and that the selection process is a difficult one. I guess I lost this little wager.

Luckily, I have a career I like and things to look forward to. And, shit, I can and will keep writing.

All in all, Hunter College, I understand. Personally, I think you made the wrong choice, but what are you going to do? We’ll see how I feel about applying a third time in the coming autumn.

Sincerely,

Joe Dillingham
The Black Laser

01 – Of Friends and Lovers

In front of me on the altar lies my best friend Arturo, cold, grey, and dead in a box.  Arturo’s mother cries throughout the service, silently soaking her dainty handkerchief with tears and snot.  Beside her, his father holds the sans-handkerchief hand, looking stoic and strong, but the heavy lines of his face reveal the war this tragedy has caused inside his head.  Oh, poor babies.  Is it wrong to feel so little when so many people are mourning?

His sister Eva—god, she looks tight today in that black dress—speaks after the priest gives his eulogy, generic but comforting to those who would have it.  She is so sincere.  I am impressed.  She says they all miss Arturo, his bright smile, his laugh, his winning attitude.  That it is such a tragedy to have one so young taken from them before he had the chance to affect the world.  Cut down in the spring time of his life.  Strong and handsome, Arturo was a man who loved his family, his friends, his country, his God.  

I zone out.  

I imagine the taste of her lip gloss on my lips, something fruity, sparkles smeared on my face.  I try and imagine the color of her panties.  I stare at her tits gently jiggling in her dress as she gesticulates meaningfully during her speech, adding appropriate emphasis to the most poignant, heart-felt moments, when his auntie who is sitting next to me grabs my hand and looks deeply into my eyes.  Hers are filled with tears, red, swollen.  I do my best to play it like I have been captivated by Eva’s words rather than staring at her amazing rack, but the woman is so lost in her sadness that I could have been screaming and cursing and throwing things across the church pews and she still would have thought I was displaying a sensible expression of grief over Arturo, my sweet lost best friend.

Eva finishes and sits and some cousin who I have never met comes up and plays some sad sounding song on the piano I don’t know but which really opens the water works in the crowd.  I hide my face in my hands to avoid any more sincere exchanges of misery.  I close my eyes, enjoying the darkness, and press my palms hard into my eye sockets.  Hopefully the redness the pressure causes will be enough to convince people I have been suffering silently, tears barely held back in this moment of extreme loss.  

Oh, poor Arturo.  If only you were here to see how hot your sister looks today.

With my head swimming, full of Eva, I notice myself coming to half-mast—probably best not to stand up from the pew with a boner—I fill my head with all the unsexy thoughts I can muster: my sixth grade homeroom teacher, the homeless man who used to pee on my window and then shit himself while napping on my block, taxes, the rotten fish smell of the wharf on a hot summer day.  I focus so hard on not getting hard that I barely notice when the funeral procession begins.  Arturo’s dad passes me, misinterprets my attempts to thwart my erection as grief-induced detachment, and places his hand on my shoulder in a show of support.  

“Come, David,” he says, “let’s pay our final respects.”

I look up at him, my eyes still glazed and red from the pressure of my palms, and nod silently.  As one of the pallbearers—it’s me, his father, three of his male cousins, and some ridiculous curly haired guy he went to college with—I take my place at the head of casket opposite his father, good old Gus, and cast my eyes across the solemn, expectant crowd.  They are all miserable.  I hope that none of them can tell that I feel nothing for Arturo right now.  It is the living sibling I am more concerned with at this point.

I catch Eva’s eyes and think I read the briefest glimmer of a message there.  Hope for later?  A promise?  Is she thinking about me as much as I am thinking about her?  I shudder and close my eyes, my lips pursed, and swallow hard.  I conjure unsexy thoughts at a heretofore unreached pinnacle of torturousness.  I grimace at the choice scenes playing across my mind’s eye.

Gus catches my revealing facial expression and says to me, “It’s ok.  You can let it out, son.  It’s ok to let go.”  Gus, if I let go of the careful mental balancing act happening inside my head right now, I would bear your son’s coffin down this aisle with my cock like diamond, laughing at how stupid you all look.

I decide against letting go.

The casket lifts slightly and I take the cue and we start leading it down the aisle of the Roman Catholic church holding the service, with its idols and stations of the cross and blood sacrifice.  Roman Catholics are a strange bunch.  I do not and will never fully understand their mysteries.  Gus is a believer though, and Arturo’s mom, Adoracion, well, just look at her name.  I feign it for them, if only so they don’t suspect.

We make it halfway down the aisle when a woman wails and throws herself on the coffin.  Her weight makes my arm hurt.  I turn and place my other hand on her and realize that it is Adoracion in the flesh.  She grabs my lapels, tears streaming down her cheeks, and collapses into me.  Eva grabs her mother and I hand her off, but not before Eva lightly brushes my hand with her own.  I nod to them both with as much gravitas as I can muster and continue down the aisle, my hand still tingling from the electricity in Eva’s touch.

A hearse waits for us at the bottom of the stairs leading down from the entrance of the church.  Much of the audience, if you want to call them that, lines the stairs on either side of the path to the hearse.  The rest of the onlookers file out behind us.  Solemnly, with tremendous weight and importance, we lead the wood and metal box containing the sad, empty flesh of poor, sweet Arturo into the back of the hearse and shut the rear door.  Tears erupt in the crowd when the latch connects, signaling the very last car ride Arturo will ever take.  I am tempted to call shotgun.

Thoughts on the Hunter alumni reading last night

Last night, Juli and I attended the Hunter Alumni reading night at the KGB Bar in the East Village after enjoying a meal of lentil soup and potato pancakes at B&H Dairy on 2nd Avenue. I have one word to describe the event—Wow. Now, that sounds fucking cheesy as shit, and it is, but let me explain.

But first, here’s the brief.

Please join us for the Fall 2009 reading featuring, Vanessa Manko (Fiction, 2008), Maya Funaro (Poetry, 2008) and Jason Porter (Fiction, 2008).

Vanessa Manko earned her MFA in Fiction from Hunter College (2008). After training in ballet at the North Carolina School of the Arts and dancing professionally with the Charleston Ballet Theater, Vanessa returned to school to earn a B.A. in English from the University of Connecticut. She went on to receive her M.A. in dance studies and cultural history from NYU’s Gallatin School. In addition to writing fiction, Vanessa writes about dance. She is the former Dance Editor of The Brooklyn Rail, and has written articles and reviews for Dance Magazine, NYFA’s Current, Dance Teacher, and Dance Research Journal. Vanessa is currently completing her first novel. She lives in Brooklyn Heights.

Maya Funaro’s chapbook Setting in Motion was released in 2009 by Fox Point Press. She completed her MFA in poetry at Hunter College in May of 2008. Her poetry has appeared in Ekleksographia, and Ology, the Graduate English journal of Hunter College. She holds a B.A. in Visual Art from Brown University and has studied printmaking, bookbinding and letterpress printing in Providence, Bologna and New York. Born and raised in South Jersey, she currently makes her home in Sunset Park, Brooklyn.

After a brief career as an online news editor and a less brief non-career as a rock musician, Jason Porter completed an MFA in Fiction at Hunter College in 2008. He has since written a short novel titled Why Are You So Sad? and is hard at work on a new novel about a fallen celebrity boxer. Despite a perfectly happy childhood in southeastern Michigan, he is even happier to now call Brooklyn his home, where he is gradually aging along with his girlfriend and their two nearly perfect terrier mutts.

The KGB Bar, as awesome and Communisty and red as it is, is a tiny little upstairs affair you’d never know was there save for the sign on the street. The windows are curtained and you have to walk into what was clearly once a tenement building that has been converted into a bar/theatre/performance space. The KGB Bar occupies the second floor with the other things on other floors. Tidy! When we got there at about 7:40 for an 8 o’clock start time, only a couple of tables were filled. Mind you that there are probably only 8 tables in the whole place. Nevertheless, it was still relatively empty. By the time the first reader went on, it was packed. Passage to the bathroom was impossible.

The turn out was incredible. I recognized a number of current and former Hunter MFA students from the two open houses I’ve attended. It’s demonstrative of the strength of their community that they could fill this place up on a cold Tuesday night. It is certainly a good sign to me that Hunter is the right place for me. A program that inspires that sort of loyalty is attractive. I would like to be part of it. Now, I just have to convince them that I am right for them.

Thoughts on the Hunter open house last night.

Last night, as many of you who keep tabs on the goings on in my life outside the professional realm know, was the open house for the 2010 applications to Hunter’s Creative Writing MFA program. After the disappointing results of last year’s application, I am ready and primed and pumped and revved about this year’s round. It was not nearly as severe of information-overload as last year, which is nice. Many of the things I wrote about here were confirmed by faculty and student alike. I need to allow for the natural tendencies and rawness and voice in my writing to “jump off the page” as they were fond of saying last night. The Black Laser provides plenty of evidence that this is not a problem for me. On a(n almost) daily basis I write for you, my loyal legion of followers and well-wishers, in a voice that I think rather adeptly echoes the way I speak. Probably fewer “fucks”, but whatever. The trick—not that it’s a trick, more of an approach, really—with my fiction will be not to work it so hard that I end up neutering the natural cadence and flow of the words. I need to edit for clarity and mistakes, but not worry that something might come off as too TOO, you know what I mean? See that sentence? I probably need to edit it for clarity, but fuck it. My writing needs to be functional and raw and exciting; polish can come later.

Last year I imposed hiatus on myself and then worked exclusively on one piece for months—thinking, writing, rewriting, and revising an idea I’d had while sitting at brunch with Juli some months before. It ended up being a very limiting process for me and didn’t allow me to play around with the piece as I ought to have. And I think the piece suffered for it, as I described in my previous post on the topic.

This year I intend to approach this creative submission process differently. I also have a number of things going for me this year over last year. First, I’m freelance, meaning I have more flexibility in deciding my schedule if I need to. Of course, if works comes up, I’ll take it, because The Black Laser can’t live off lightning and fear. Even he needs to eat. Second, I have the experience of the process last year to inform the decisions I make this year. Third, I don’t have to worry about getting my transcripts and letters of recommendation again. If I have to apply a third time, I will, but let’s think about that if that happens, yes? Fourth, and most importantly, I have the perfect venue for trying out ideas for my final piece—The Year of 5000 Photos and 50 Short Stories.

Oh, right, remember that? A quick check in the right hand column will show that I’ve made admirable progress on my photos, but my poor stories have languished. Poor stories. And, with fewer than 60 days left in 2009 (where has it gone?!), if I’m to live up to my end of the bargain, I need to get going.

From here on out, I will be writing every night, at least 500 words. If I can do more than that, I will, but 500 will be my minimum. I often get stuck thinking, “Man, I have nothing to write about. Where are the ideas?” and I get all hung up and stupid and don’t do anything. For the rest of the year, if I have nothing new to write about, I will rewrite old ideas or someone else’s ideas or ideas I thought were dumb, just to keep my fingers moving. If I am not working, then I will try and do two rounds of 500 words, one first thing in the morning, followed by a walk, and then another 500 hundred. Quality is less important than producing regularly. If I am able to crank out 47 more short stories this year, then somewhere within that body I will have something worth editing or turning into something more for the purpose of the application due February 1, 2010.

Come the new year I am going to turn my attention toward getting the personal statement finished and whipping the creative submission into shape. I haven’t forgotten my idea of reading the first 20-25 pages of books either, mind you, but I might have to push that back until after 1/1/10. January will be a busy month for me trying to get all this stuff done, but I can do it. I can DO IT. I mean, the one student last night has two children, 3 and 6 months, a full time job, a husband, and still manages to get her MFA work done. Impressive. I’m not even committing to CLOSE to that kind of schedule. I can do it!

Don’t forget that I have to fit The Frontiersman’s Wife in here too. At the very least, baseball will be over soon and that time sink won’t be around to distract me anymore.

We have embarked on an exciting end-of-2009, Black Laserites! Keep reading!

Hunter Application Round 2… GOU SHORYUKEN!

So, I like totally forgot something I wanted to talk about in the previous post. That is, I wanted to discuss my decision to write a short story or to share the beginning of a novel. I can hear your brains saying, “WHAT!?” But let’s talk about this.

In the previous post I quoted Hunter’s creative requirements, but let me put it here again in case you missed it last time.

If you’re a fiction writer, send us 20-25 pages (a short story, the start of a novel, or several short stories that total 20-25 pages). Sending more than 25 pages won’t help your cause.

I have three choices here. First is to write a short story that is between 20 and 25 pages. This seems, to me, to be the least attractive option, mainly because a lot of tweaking and pulling and shoving has to go into something to try and make it between 20 and 25 pages. What if the piece feels good and ready at 18 pages? Do you try and add two pages? What if it’s just barely scraping by at 28? Do you try and take away three pages? With the former example, you could always just add a 5 or 6 page short story and have your total come out to a perfectly acceptable 23 or 24 pages. Then you have the option of letting the work stand as is fits best, without needlessly padding. That is a fairly attractive option. Or maybe you submit four 5 page stories? That’s good too. You can show your breadth. I feel like I’ve got about 47 of those due by the end of the year, so maybe some of those will go toward this purpose.

But what about the latter example, the 28 page story that you would have to seriously cripple to make fit within 20-25? You could always argue that you should be able to remove 3 pages from just about anything and help make it better. But then you’ll find another area that needs to be expanded upon, so there are your three pages back in action again. What to do? Well, you could expand upon the idea even further until it becomes the beginning of a novel or a novella. Then you don’t need to worry about crafting your resolution into a short space. Instead you have the opportunity to focus on doing the best writing you can, which is the whole point, right? Of course you pedantic bastards out there can argue that editing a piece to meet certain constraints is part of the writing process. That’s true, but for the purposes of this application it is better to provide samples of your voice and talent, than your abilities as a copy-editor. That can come later. For now it’s about the writing.

This all got me thinking. What happens in the first 20 to 25 pages of a novel or novella? And you know what I realized? I have no fucking idea at all. That’s not for lack of reading either. I just could not tell you beyond the broadest sense—characters are introduced, settings, maybe a plot thread—what happens. I don’t mean in terms of actual plot, like Dude goes to eat pie and falls down, but in a dramatic structure sense. I suppose we can think of it in the same way as we think of films, that being that the first 20 to 25 pages of a novel or novella is the beginning or whole of the first act, depending on the length of the work. Let’s go back to my film school text book on screenwriting for a definition and description of what happens in the first act.

Act I, the Setup, joins the story at a critical moment. The main character and the premise are introduced. Approximately one-third of the way into Act I, a catalytic event kick-starts the plot or another source of momentum for the story….The First Act ends with a turning point that takes us into the Second Act.

Let’s say that a novel is 250 pages long. Sure. That’s a fine metric. If the first Act is 1/4 of the novel, that’s about 62 pages—way more than 25. Still, the three act structure is a highly restrictive mode, best used only as a guideline for what to start with and how to get your plot moving along. Most novels, and many films, don’t even come close to fitting.

Then what is the best way to understand what happens in the first 20 to 25 pages of a novel? It’s to read the first 20 to 25 pages of well written novels. Duh. My next step is to go back and read the first 20 to 25 pages of a bunch of the books on my book shelf and make note of what happens in each. I will be posting those notes here (probably) as I go along, and for discussion, not that anyone discusses anything here. For me to discuss.

Does anyone have suggestions of books they think have amazing beginnings? I can’t promise that I’ll read them, but I’d love suggestions nevertheless. Here’s an incomplete list of the books on my shelves. See anything there you feel strongly about? Do you like to party? Help a ninja out.

Gearing up for Hunter Application Round 2… FIGHT!

The open house for Hunter’s Creative Writing MFA program is coming up in just a couple of weeks. Not getting in last year was a disappointment, for sure, but it also motivated me to really kill it this year. When I was in high school, I only ever applied to one school—NYU—because, god damn it, that was the school I wanted to go to. When my utterly dismal high school grades didn’t get me in, I taped the rejection letter to my wall above my desk, spent a year at Foothill Community College, made a better film than the last time, and got in. Round 2 is for killing it. I’ve learned that much in my life.

And with that, Round 2 begins now.

It is time for me to look over last year’s work and evaluate it to see what did and what didn’t work. If I am going to make a better showing this time, and a better showing is what is needed, then I am going to have to be cognizant of my weaknesses as a writer so that I don’t let them get the better of me. Conversely, I must be aware of my strengths so that I can play to them, accentuate them, give them room to shine.

Last year, I submitted a piece I wrote called “Julian & Clive. But, before I get into what I think did and didn’t work in it, let’s look at the submission requirements for the program, yes?

2. Demonstrate talent
We’ll look at your grades, of course; but what we are really hungry for is talent, so we need to read what you can write.
If you’re a fiction writer, send us 20-25 pages (a short story, the start of a novel, or several short stories that total 20-25 pages). Sending more than 25 pages won’t help your cause.

All the fiction and nonfiction pages you send us must be double-spaced and in a twelve-point font. Poetry may be single-spaced or double-spaced.

4. Write a story about yourself
Tell us about yourself, why you write, and why you wish to come to Hunter. You’ve got 500 words to do this, so that does not mean 600 words. This personal statement might be the piece of writing that gets you into the program, which is not intended to make you worry excessively about it, but to remind you to make it real. A statement that feels fresh and true will be a treasure to those of us who read for admissions.

Clearly, the story I wrote was for section 2 above. Overall, it’s a decent story with some funny ideas and some well executed points. However, I think I tried to shove WAY too much into what ended up only barely fitting into 25 pages with some creative margins. This story could have easily filled many many more pages, and been served better for it. I had to throw out too much, keep things too brief, not allow the story to breathe, to try and fit it into the 20-25 pages allowed. There’s no space for nuance or subtext when I’m trying to hammer home this grandiose idea I had about a man’s inability to take responsibility for his own actions in such a short format, around 7500 words. Basically nothing! The characters come off as one dimensional since they are not given space to exist as anything but caricatures. A more skilled writer might have been able to pull it off, but I’m trying to get into writing school, not run the damn thing.

I tended to write the thing as if it were a treatment, that is, describing everything we see and focusing on the action. With a treatment, that makes sense, since what you are doing is describing what the movie will look like before it is even a screenplay. It’s not so great for a short story. It ends up feeling stilted and boring. If you can freely enter the thoughts of your narrator or characters at any time it makes sense, why wouldn’t you? If you can jump around through time and space as it’s appropriate, why wouldn’t you? If you can describe things, anything at all, however you want with images and references impossible to show on screen, why wouldn’t you?

I also think I tried to make the thing too fucking dramatic. This is a hole I’ve fallen into before. Some unconscious part of me thinks that good = dramatic, which is obviously not true. And not even really my strength. Quirk and humor are good. There doesn’t need to be fire and death and doom.

Finally there’s the ending. What the fucking fuck was I thinking? Jesse was right. I should have just ended it when he lost consciousness outside the burning ice cream truck. What’s wrong a little uncertainty at the end? Nothing, I tell you. Nothing!!!

This year I have a handful of things to keep in mind as I concept and write.

  1. Keep it simple – DUH.
  2. Stay away from dull action sequences – This isn’t a treatment; it’s a short story.
  3. Embrace illusion and uncertainty – Fuck it, man. Not everything needs to be spelled out.
  4. Let your characters breathe – I just need to make sure each character feels properly nuanced so that the piece doesn’t end up feeling like a comic book. I’m not writing Spiderman and my villain isn’t Doctor Octopus. There doesn’t even need to be a villain.
  5. Allow lightheartedness – Good and funny is better than serious and dull.

That sounds like it might be a lot to keep in mind, but it’s not really. If Christians can remember 10 Commandments, I can remember 5 guidelines. Right? Right.

The other part of the submission process is to write 500 words about why you write, why you want to write, and why you want to go to Hunter. Here’s what I wrote last year.

I am a grocery store clerk, a salad bar operator, a construction worker, a real estate agent, a motion picture editor, an actor, a voice over artist, a musician, a production assistant, a web designer, and a great many other things. I am a son, a boyfriend, a brother, an uncle.
I believe in language and its power to create and shape the world we live in. I look for the darkest, most shameful aspects of human nature and draw humor from them. I find greatness in the mundane. I spend every step of my commute to and from work devising biting ways to start stories and introduce characters. I send my older brother particularly choice phrases of cynicism for amusement.

I write because losing my younger brother cemented in me that life is far too short, too fleeting not to embrace passionately. Despite the wisdom of Eastern sages, I’m not sure we get the chance to try again.
I write because there is nothing more human than to write. Whales sing. Monkeys scream. But only humans can commit their thoughts, feelings, fears, and dreams to words and share them with people they might never meet in an exchange that may last centuries.
And I write because, as part of that timeless exchange, I want to make people laugh and feel and think and remember.

I want to be part of Hunter’s tight-knit community of writers. When the speaker mentioned at the open house that only 6 students are accepted each academic year, a chorus of groans swelled in the room. Yet I was enticed. I have always thrived in small groups focused on intensive hands-on work. The challenge compels me. The selectivity excites me. But more than those things, the strong sense of community calls to me. It is a testament to the strength of the group that Hunter was able to get all the current students out on a weeknight to come talk to prospective students at an open house. Obviously you all have each other’s best interests at heart.
Most importantly, I want to work on my craft as a member of the Hunter community. Writing is a difficult, personal pursuit easily kept squirreled away from the potentially scornful eyes of the world. But, it is difficult, if not impossible, to grow as a writer without opening yourself and interacting with other people. For my part, I hope to serve my classmates as a reliable, insightful reader providing thoughtful criticism . From the faculty and my classmates, I hope to receive unflinching critique and analysis. I will strive to be an integral part of my fellows’ education and growth as writers since there is no better way for me improve my own craft. I don’t want to just be told my work is good—my mom can do that. I want to be challenged to make my work the best it can be, and I know Hunter can do that for me.

Am I serious? I thought this was pretty good when I wrote it, but now I can’t help but think that it’s the silliest thing I’ve ever put down on paper. Or arranged into bits on a hard drive. But you know what I mean. There’s a whole lot about this that could be better. But let’s distill it all into one, single word.

What was I doing, delivering a eulogy? Speaking to the court? Apologizing to the family of the man I killed? Jesus Christ. How about I incorporate a little bit of my personal voice into this thing next time, huh? The whole thing sounds like shitty 6-grader poetry. I can do better.

To sum it all up, I’ve prepared a little visual reference of my intention.

hunter-ssf2

In case you don’t understand, I’m Akuma (awesome) and the Hunter Application is Ryu, and I’ve just kicked the living shit out of him and a bunch of Jamaican people are dancing because it was so awesome. I don’t think I can make it any clearer.

Ouch.

picture-40

Oh well. I can’t say I’m not disappointed by this news, but what are you going to do? It’s not fruitful to sit and fret about why I was not selected since there’s no possible way for me to ever know the truth. And, luckily, it was not the only thing going for me. Still, I’m bummed out about it. I don’t feel personally rejected, just disappointed not to be able to pursue something I was really excited about.

I guess there’s always the long shot that they come back to me as potential filler for a longer list if there are still empty spaces, but that’s an even slimmer chance than this was. I’m not even going to think about that.

There is, of course, always next year. I didn’t get into NYU the first time I applied either. Maybe history will repeat itself. Or not. Just got to keep creating, I suppose.

Now, let’s never talk about this again. Well, a few weeks at least.