So, I did my first MFA residency earlier this month and my brain didn't explode. Although I think it came close. I also gained two pounds despite the fact that I hauled myself out of bed at 5am every day to get some exercise (must have been the peanut butter and fluff stashed in my room). I digress. The residency was fabulous--so full of precise, helpful insights into my own writing as well as the writing of others (which helps clarify my own). It was also incredible to spend evenings listening to faculty and past student readings, as well as graduating student readings during the day. My brain whirled and churned and thanked my lucky stars I was among such company. I will also admit to the healthy (or unhealthy?) amount of self doubt being among such talent caused my fragile writer-ego. In a blur of wanting to write, I wondered if I could, really.
I came home, digested, worked out harder and longer (goodbye 2lbs), and read a book. Have I ever mention how happy reading makes me? Well, it makes me downright delirious. And, reading something good puts me over the moon.
I just finished Jeffrey Eugenides The Virgin Suicides (I know, I know, where have I been?) and I loved it. It's dark, and weird, and a little gross in some places (maybe more than a little) and say what you will about the "We" narrator, I think Eugenides handled it like the pro he is. It made me feel like not just a reader, but a part of this dysfunctional community. And that made me laugh at the darkly funny parts, and mourn deeply for the Lisbon girls.
Up next, I "have" to read Anne Tyler's Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant. Have I mentioned that I love graduate school?