I would go back to school and get a MFA.

(Although I know personally if a financial incentive is not present, my drive isn’t as strong.)

Every few months, i wander over to a graduate school program. In creative writing. In journalism. In film. Then I imagine how it would be like to be in school again. Especially now that I have the maturity to pursue a degree with thoughtfulness and rigor.

Yesterday as I cleaned out my room for an incoming sublet, I came across articles I had written for a home newspaper in 1995. My writing was clear and vivid, capturing an objective, interesting perspective. I remember how I applied for the classes in the school newspaper and yearbook, rejected from both. I always blamed it on my inability to communicate in person and I slunk away in disappointment, never trying again in college or after.

And when the earnest awoke again, I found myself surrounded by writers in their fifties and sixties. People who suddenly awoke to find that their dreams plundered by demands of children and careers. In a room today, I sat in a circle, free writing, and I wondered about the other attendees—did they just wake up now too?