Personally Stated

I hate writing personal statements.

An intrepid friend pointed out to me that the above sentence is internally contradictory--what I mean is that I hate writing personal essays, the kind every application to anything ever always requires. Generally, the prompts are too narrow and not clearly defined, and the questions are trite and, to me, not indicative in their answers of the way I think as a writer or, really, as a person.

Occasionally, though, I can make it work for me. Not occasionally, that's a lie: this is the first time. And I'm happy with the result, because I think it does, somewhat, encapsulate how I think as a writer. This statement went in with one application in my most recent round of MFA-attempts. And I liked it. So here it is.

Describe in 500 words or less your development as a writer.

Let us approach this from the back end, as a maze more easily navigable from finish to start.

Today I am a writer living and writing at several coffee shops, at my desk, on the bed, on the couch, at the kitchen table, on paper, and on any of three different computers (yes, really) in and around Norfolk, Virginia. Yesterday I was also a writer, writing ideological and thought-based poems; writing poems that encapsulate a particular moment in time; writing poems that explore the nuances of meaning, both in words and in syntax; writing poems in prose then converting them to verse then back to prose; writing poems that are as aware of the speaking self as I, myself, am of the self that speaks.

Since September, I have been a writer. Learning the ropes of a true writing life for the first time: erratic meals, daily writing, revisions, not leaving the house for days on end. Always thinking, rethinking, deriving, rearranging, justifying, capitalizing, and surprising myself. I’ve never met a poem that has truly been “done.”

For the many months between April of 2008 and September of 2010 in which I was a writer in thought though not deed—sporadic, unpredictable, painful, infuriating—there was much cyclic thinking and rethinking. The development and subsequent dismissal of incoherent theory after incoherent theory. Many involved and encouraging conversations with a composer friend who also does not believe in inspiration, putting his faith instead in concentrated thought processes and dedicated hard work. It was not always like this; however it means that all the responsibility for the work I do or do not do is mine and mine alone.

Before that indefinable morass of writing less and less, I was a student writer. In Pittsburgh, I forged some invaluable bonds with other writers both of poetry and prose—we took from the company we found and created the company we wanted. Even in the more general, larger academic community, the writing program—so I thought—was an island on which we collectively chose to not build a raft. It was ever the better choice.

In high school I began to read Ayn Rand but had no sounding board for my writing and was not reading poems. I remember little else from this period save a rock-solid certainty that I knew what I was doing.

My first memory of poem-writing was during a Language Arts unit in fifth grade in which I wrote a short book called Tea for Two which I hope is stored in my parents’ basement and which, apropos of nothing, I look forward to seeing published before I die.