I know most of the words to a Pussycat Dolls song. I might have sung along to it at karaoke. I did NOT sing actual karaoke, Pussycat Dolls or otherwise.
But it does make me think about the snobbiness of my reading and writing. I am a snob about everything. It's funny, because I am usually all self-deprecating, like 'who am I to say what's good and what isn't?' Yet, I will wrinkle up my nose and then look dramatically down it at all sorts of things. NCIS? Cheesy. Lie to Me? Interesting. ER? Fuggetaboutit. House? Bookmarked on Hulu. The Historian? Read it. Twilight series. Nuh uh. I am hoping that once the hipster is out of vogue, we can stop worrying about liking things ironically or not. You know what? I like Britney Spears' Circus. I like Stephen King short stories. I like hostess cupcakes. They aren't guilty or ironic pleasures. Singing along in the car to music so loud it's rattling the windows is fun. Giving myself the heebee-jeebees, also fun.
Why is the MFA the degree everyone wants? Is it because they are all certain (despite mountains of evidence to the contrary) that it's a short cut to the magical land of teaching jobs and getting out of the slush pile? I have no such delusions. At this point, I accept that I will need a PhD to do anything academically. I am hoping that any program that accepts me and that I can afford will give me an indication as to whether or not I want to continue in academia.
Maybe I'll hate being back in school. I doubt it, but maybe I'll hate being broke all the time.
All of December will be applications. I really had hoped to be done by now with all this. I wrote a little blurb today, just the beginning kernel of an essay. It'll have to wait until the bees are done though.
The best thing I read all day was this: Reference Season. Wherein our intrepid former MFA professor walks us through how he decided who would get the axe and who the wreath of roses. It's a marvelous, scary, and imperceptibly encouraging piece. Maybe maybe maybe.