Two years ago, I began a low residency MFA program at Fairfield University. I was a member of the first cohort in the new creative writing program.Through 5 residencies, ten intense days each in January and July, I worked with dedicated writing colleagues and inspiring faculty. We talked, laughed, discussed writing, reading, publishing, and the future of books. Workshops, seminars, wine, talent shows, student readings, nightly socializing in the community room, music, stunning seasonal sunrises and sunsets, and a New Years' Day polar bear plunge became part of the fabric of our evolving program. Between residencies, I worked with dedicated faculty mentors intent on helping me become a better writer, one page at a time. As with any intense experience, there were occasions of disagreement, disappointment, and doubt but what I gained was worth the difficult moments.
In working on my memoir, Pickle Earrings, I discovered a voice, my voice, that became bolder and more confident with each revision. I knew the work would be difficult, not just the writing and editing, but the self examination, answering the questions that surfaced, and having my work critiqued in small, intimate workshops. There were stretches of time when I was unsure that I would complete the requirements for graduation. But I did.
In the end, on January 4, 2011, twenty-five writers of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction walked across the stage in a chapel full of family, friends, mentors, and fellow students.
As one of the final requirements of graduation, each graduate chose 2 lines that represented their work. The lines were read aloud as we walked across the stage. I took a long time to select two sentences that represented the thousands of words that I had written. My final choice incorporated themes that appeared in my work : my mother, family, flowers, and a sense of safety:
"For a few weeks, when ruffled by the breeze, the fragrance of the deep purple flowers infused my room, reviving my own summer memory: playing punch ball in our side yard, running toward third base, one of my mother's lilac bushes, grabbing a fistful of leaves just before the ball whizzed past my back. I was safe."
And, now a new beginning.
Having earned my MFA degree, I don't know what is next for me but I know that I will keep on writing.
