Spent a week obsessing about going back to school for an MFA in creative writing. It's not something I've wanted to do, but there are certain economic realities I have to face. Gone are the days when a writer could get hired to teach at a college or university based on his/her publishing history. Nowadays, one must also become a talking parrot in a powermonkeysuit who gets paid to stroke fragile egos/babysit around the alphabet.
And I also have a pressing need to meet young fertile babes who can bear my offspring (would I be able to bear my own offspring? I need to know that, too...) No word of a lie, this meter's running off at the mouth... These mommas who take my workshops actually want me to become a real teacher, like Cain, what a role model that guy is, that their various learnings would become certified, and somehow more legitimate. And, to be completely honest about it, I must admit to myself in my heart of hearts that this small press racketeer shitick is, well, kinda tired, and, it would seem, has been pissing the corpse of Andre Breton off no end as of late. Time to turn a new maple leaf.
So I will apply for an MFA programme for fall 2008 at George Brown Community College.
Goodbye trial and tribulation!
Hello Nurse Ratched!