Hi Again

*saloon doors swing open to reveal me, back in town once again*

Dear Critters, friends, and family alike,

I had every intention of writing to you over the last few months. I even wrote the first draft of this three weeks ago. My silence was unplanned, and I can’t offer you much other than the feeble excuse that my life got weird, and then it flipped upside down. As I mentioned sometime last year (time blurs), I was in the process of applying to graduate schools for an MFA in creative writing. Since then, I shape-shifted into a belabored mess of reading my writing, reading others writing, fixing my writing, convincing others that their writing is incredible (it is), convincing myself that my writing is dog shit, convincing myself that my writing is incredible (not really, but enough), somehow shelling out like $600 on application fees, and trying so hard not to bite my expensively manicured nails down to the quick. But in a miraculous turn of events, it worked.

Photo by Wonderlane on Unsplash

I was too scared to even utter that I was applying to graduate school, like a shy child mumbling in front of a room full of adult strangers. A simile is entirely unnecessary here and borderline untruthful, given that the reality is identical. Graduate school, MFA programs in particular, are highly competitive, highly invitational of judgment, and highly aspirational. To admit a desire to make a living as a creative can be an embarrassing display of naivete, like smiling through a conversation only to realize you had a piece of spinach in your teeth the whole time. Is that why they kept glancing anywhere but my face?

If I weren’t such an irrational idealist, I would have backed off from the whole dream and accepted the dutiful joys of a once-weekly overpriced lunch salad and 2 hours of constipated creativity. But I’m addicted to getting degrees that promise no money and elicit eye-rolls from proper red-blooded Americans, so I spent the last 6 months mumbling that I applied to MFA programs. Now I get to say that I’m starting an MFA program this fall. I am a writer!*

In the span of 30 seconds, my entire life changed. Whatever path I’d seen for myself a year ago evaporated and coalesced into a cloud of infinite possibility. It’s hard to describe the shock, the euphoria, the shades of yellow and green and blue, the tears meeting the corners of my smile. If I were a simple human appeased with a professional LinkedIn post, I’d say, “I’m thrilled to start a new chapter of my life!” But I’m 50 red squirrels trapped in human skin, so EWAGDGAEJAIOGODDFNDMVD!!!!!!!!!

Photo by Włodzimierz Jaworski on Unsplash. I’m obsessed

All this to say, I was in a weird, hazy funk for the earlier part of this year, partly induced by winter (that notorious thief of joy) and partly induced by the painful cavity created by seeking academic validation (that other notorious thief of joy). I’m getting better now that I’m once again hooked up to an IV drip of academic validation.

There’s another part of my absence that I hesitate to share with you, lest you take it too personally and dispatch me from your lives forever. I’m at times scared to share my writing here. I’m not sure what space this Substack occupies in my creative life, even though I’m the one steering the ship. I adore the chance to connect and share bits and pieces of my life and partake similarly in yours. But there are some things I’m not sure how to say or some things I know you don’t want to hear.

Logistically, a lot of my crafted and suped-up writing is being submitted to magazines and journals for publication, rather than this Substack.

Superficially, I wrote somewhat of a triptych piece about a yoga class, a Brazilian wax, and the post office. I can’t in good faith post this knowing there are at least a few of you who probably never want to read about that (I won’t name names, guess yourselves).

And, oddly, even though I feel that I speak plainly and directly in these newsletters, and I strive for an accessible, easy-going language, I still see that there are some misinterpretations of what I’m saying. That’s a testament to my novice skill as a writer, both in my ability to convey meaning using words and my thin-skinned inability to dodge the weirdness and keep moving. Instead, it bounces off me like a dodgeball to the dome, leaving me stunned and taking me out of the game.

Photo by Wan San Yip on Unsplash

But anyway, now that I’ve waterboarded you with my hesitancies and honesties, I’ll get to my points.

I’m starting my MFA program this fall. The Crit will be returning soon, very soon. I send all my love, gratitude, and blooming spring flowers your way. Ultimately, I couldn’t do it without you. We can’t do any of this without each other. Collective support of the creative arts, even as small as reading this newsletter, proves that profit does not matter above all.

You know what they say. Bad times make for great art. And it’s bad times out here. Like really bad. So I’ll see y’all soon.

xx,

Spicy Tostada

*I’ve been a writer for some time now. But I’m also a self-inflicted product of the USA, unable to allow myself to proudly identify as something until I’m being paid for it. Read: I got full funding!!! And I’m working on embracing non-monetized/tokenized/weaponized identities.