For the previous four summers, I attended a ten-day residency devoted to my creative writing MFA. The first residency, in 2020, was entirely remote, and I zoomed in from my mother’s spare bedroom in East Aurora, NY. The following year, my classmates and I were devastated to find out our residency was remote again, but three of us opted to travel out west anyway, and one of my classmates and I bunked together for eleven days at the “Garage Mahal” in NW Seattle. Two years ago, finally, we had a real, in-person residency, where we all made our ways to Tacoma to stay in a dormitory on Pacific Lutheran University’s quiet, pretty campus.
Had I not graduated last year, I’d be in Tacoma right now, organizing my spartan little room in Harstad Hall. Last year, I’m convinced I had one of the best rooms, and audibly screeched with delight when I discovered where it was. Even better, I was still next door to my old “Garage Mahal” bunkmate, and not more than one minute walking-distance away from everyone else I loved in my dear Cohort 17. Right now, all of them are hundreds or thousands of miles away from me, so < 60 seconds was a vast improvement.
I could have attended this year. Because two of our residencies were affected by the pandemic, we can attend two additional residencies of our choosing. But, I chose not to go this year. And while I don’t regret my decision, there is of course a part of me that longs to be there. But—and this is the tricky part—not necessarily there now, but there in an alternate space-time that does not exist, with my entire cohort, as if we’d not yet graduated. I have this tendency, I realize, to long for configurations of reality that can’t ever exist, and it’s quite a trap, because that longing can never be satisfied. It just goes on, forever.
But I digress. I opted not to go because I knew I’d be disappointed this year—as in, I knew I’d want it to be like the version in my imagination that cannot actually occur. None of the original seven in my cohort are attending this year, and without them, without any of them, it wouldn’t be the same, it wouldn’t be worth the trip. Not yet. I will miss seeing them—that part I’ll miss most of all. But I will miss, too, the friends I made in other cohorts, the excitement and energy of each new day, the fascinating talks and lectures and classes, seeing my old mentors, my spare room filled with reflected sunlight, walking around the little neighborhood, seeing the bald white gleam of Mount Rainier’s summit glaciers in the distance. I’ll miss after-hours wine in plastic cups borrowed from the cafeteria (yes, we returned them) in one of our dorm rooms, or nervously rehearsing our critical paper presentations and thesis readings. I’ll miss our shared adventure on our day off (two years ago, we saw a pod of orcas swimming in the Puget Sound off of Fox Island! Swam in our undies in the cold, clear water, starfish clinging to the sand at our feet). I’ll miss late night ice cream runs and exploring the creepy 5th floor crevices of Harstad after dark.
(Maybe I really am a giant kid at heart. If that is so, I suppose this is OK. There are worse things to be.)
I chose to stay home this summer. I didn’t have the energy to travel far. It’s my first summer in four years not filled with homework and cross-country flights with long layovers and subsequent jet-lag). So instead I’m exploring New York State: two trips to the Finger Lakes, two trips to the Adirondacks, and hiking and going to the lake as often as I can manage. And of course, tackling writing I’ve barely looked at since my last residency. School (as in my work/teaching) was especially exhausting this year, thus I made revisions only to two essays from my creative thesis. But! Since summer break began two weeks ago, I’ve completed another round of revisions on two additional essays, and completed final revisions on another. I read a craft book on writing from beginning to end. I feel a fresh wave of creative and focused energy coursing through me, which has also re-directed my reading habits. After a year of mostly novels, I’m back in the realm of essays, and also trying out something new: reading short stories!
Choosing to pursue my MFA at the Rainier Writing Workshop remains to be one of the best decisions I’ve made in my adult life: it helped me focus on my creative energies (I still try to draw and paint, too, but it’s easier to stay on task with my writing), it made me a better reader, it helped me see things through horrific rough patches and learn better revision tactics. It also helped me learn the importance of both quiet and stability in my life as a writer/artist. Best of all, it introduced me to people I’d have otherwise never met or known, as all of them live far away from me (which bums me out), but all of them have changed my life for the better, have expanded and enriched it (which fills me with cheer). I’m endlessly grateful for my fellow members of Cohort 17, as well as my three wonderful mentors, not to mention the many other members of the RWW faculty who taught classes or gave talks that left an impression on my heart or mind, or both, as well as all the other gems in other cohorts I met who I remain in contact with, whose writing I now have the joy of reading.
I am a little sad not to be there. But, I’m also happy to be at home, reading and writing in the calm and quiet of my little house, with Penny and Seymour snoozing at my feet.
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