Chapter Four
P AUL R UTGER WELCOMES US INTO our first poetry workshop like we’re being ushered into a church. He’s quiet and unassuming—a total contradiction from his poetry persona, which is bold and loud, according to Cindy from Arkansas. I wouldn’t know, so I made sure to skim the reviews of his work on Amazon before class.
The first-semester poetry workshop combines both the first- and second-year MFAs. Along with the five of us first-years, there are five second-year students, most of whom I recognize from the barbecue after-party. Including August. He makes no attempt to sit next to Kacey, although she tries to catch his attention. I take a seat next to her, with Will on the other side of the round table. It’s hard not to look at him, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“Welcome, first-years, to poetry workshop,” Paul says from the head of the table. “The real fun begins on Thursday when we look at your work, but today is just a little primer where we’ll go through some of my favorites to get the discussion going.”
This has never been my strong suit. In college English courses, I tended to take a back seat, preferring to let other people talk while I learned from them. I’m okay talking about classmates’ work, but when it comes to famous published people, a block goes up in my brain. I find the words difficult to play with, to interpret. It’s the same issue I had in client meetings. Unless I’m 1,000 percent sure what I’m about to say is brilliant, I can’t risk saying it at all.
We’re each passed a thick packet of poems, and I flip through it quickly, looking for something I recognize. I see Dorianne Laux and Ada Limón and then a bunch of old white guys whose names I remember being taught, but I hardly know anything about them.
The first one we read is “Skunk Hour” by Robert Lowell, whom I recognize as a confessional poet from the late 1950s, but that’s about as far as my knowledge extends. August reads it out loud, and although he’s from Michigan, it comes out with a Florida twang for some reason.
Paul opens us up to discussion, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to say.
“I think it’s really interesting that for the first several stanzas, we don’t have a sense of where the poet is,” Hazel begins, and quotes a few lines. “Then in the end, we get the first I , and I’m thinking of what it means to be an active participant versus a passive one.”
What. I feel stupider by the minute. I look over at Kacey to see if she’s going to say something, but she’s too busy underlining words in red pen.
Paul nods at Hazel’s comment. “That’s a great observation. There’s a real voyeurism to Lowell’s persona in the last stanza, and it feels like we’re unearthing an inner struggle.”
Julian, a second-year poet with a nose ring, chimes in. “I think we should discuss the metaphor of the skunk.”
“By all means!” Paul says. “Start us off.”
While Julian is talking about how the skunk in the poem is an outsider or something, Will’s face volleys back and forth between him and Paul. He raises his hand.
“Yes, William?”
“I’m intrigued by the tension between what it means to be exposed and what it means to hide,” Will says. “And I wanted to note the structure of this, too—”
I zone out. In the hope of looking like maybe I’m just severely introverted like Jerry and not an idiot who is clearly not smart enough to be here, I start moving my pen across the lines to make it look like I’m highly invested in these skunks.
Then, a minute later, even Jerry raises his hand to make some useful comment on the matriarchy, which everyone nods at. So I do, too.
After another hour, class ends, and I know I have an even more daunting task ahead: writing a poem for next week that proves why I’m even here.
“Tell me everything .”
Gen’s ponytail swishes distractingly as she holds the phone up to her face, jogging to catch the T, her cheeks as red as her hair. She’s late to work as usual. She’s still in Boston, where we purposefully reunited after spending college apart—she being the safety blanket I didn’t want to go without again. She works as the social media manager for a popular language learning app, spending all day in a glass-walled office, explaining memes to boomers who can barely copy-and-paste.
“I’m the dumbest person in the entire class.” I lean back into the pillows of my bed and stare out my window.
Gen must have made her train, because now I see her smushed against a million other commuters, the peering eyes of an older man behind her, looking right into the screen. I don’t miss that at all—spending rush hour feeling like you’ve been forced into a petri dish of stressed-out, too-close people who were never taught to cough into their elbows.
“So what? You’re probably the hottest, and that’s the real currency, baby.”
“Gen,” I moan.
She laughs. “There’s no way you’re the dumbest. I refuse to believe it.”
I run through a mental list of the entire cohort. “Fine, I don’t think I’m dumb , but I don’t feel prepared. Or like this is going to come especially naturally.”
“It’s like day five. Give it more time. At least you’re not doing this anymore.” She looks to her left and right, and the man over her shoulder nods solemnly into the camera in agreement. Then she gets an evil glint in her eyes. “Anything new with Will?”
I’d told her everything, of course. Gave her the full play-by-play of the barbecue, the Writing Center orientation, how he stares at me in poetry as if I’m his moldy sourdough starter. “I’m ignoring him. He’s ignoring me. Just two strangers who happened to go to the same high school.”
At that, she gives me a look. “ Total strangers, who six years ago were about to ki—”
“No, stop, not going there,” I cut in. “I’m here to write, not to…”
“To what, sweet Leigh, to what?”
“To date ,” I grit out, like it tastes bad in my mouth.
Gen raises her eyebrows, a glittering smile undercutting the seriousness in her eyes. “Come on, every poet needs a muse. You haven’t dated in ages. Maybe, fine, don’t date anyone in your class, but you’re on a college campus filled with eligible grad students. Get yourself a PhD candidate. Some hot guy in glasses and a blazer hanging out in the library? I’m dripping just thinking about it.”
She’s right. I haven’t dated in ages. But in general, I don’t do long-term relationships. Not since my college boyfriend Andrew. Not since Middlebury. There have been guys, of course. I’m a modern woman with a variety of apps at her fingertips. Over the last six years, beyond the one-and-done dates, I’ve had a handful of relationships, but nothing designed to last. Four months with a software engineer who had Regency-era facial hair. Two months with a McKinsey consultant who, while he could not stop bringing up the fact that he went to Penn, was completely mystified by my camisole’s shelf bra the first time we slept together. Almost five months with a local high school AP Government teacher who was terrible at listening but very good at being listened to. None of them stuck, and it was never too difficult to say goodbye.
“Let me settle in first, and yeah, okay, I can look into the PhD crowd in a few months maybe. But writing comes first.”
“Great, because I need some entertainment. Work is kil-il-ing me.” She says killing like it’s a three-syllable stab to the heart.
“What’s going on?”
She casts a look around the cramped train. “Every day in this madhouse, I am seconds away from quitting. My boss is always up my ass, and fuckin’ Cassandra is micromanaging the hell out of this product launch. I had this amazing idea for a video post and they shut it down faster than my last salary talk.”
I grimace, knowing too well the feeling of your creativity being stamped out. Gen’s had a similar trajectory to me—graduated our high school, Rowan, went on to study English at Ohio State, worked in marketing ever since, drowning in stupid corporate lingo and too-small raises.
“They’re idiots,” I offer, though I know it’s no consolation.
“Okay, I’m at Arlington, gotta go get my soul sucked,” she laughs. “Another day in paradise.”
She blows a kiss and waves and suddenly she’s gone. A good reminder for me to buck up and make this program work for me so I never have to go back to that .
Three days later, I join Kacey and Christine in the atrium of Gilman Hall, where we are simultaneously “writing” and also drinking lattes and eating expensive oat cookies from the café. I like Kacey but have no idea what to make of Christine and her ponchos. Still, I don’t want the MFA to be a repeat of four years of English-major-ing where I couldn’t quite make friends in class. I’m trying harder now.
“What did you think of workshop, by the way?” I ask Kacey.
“Good, I think. It’ll be more interesting when we’re looking at each others’ poems, of course, but everyone seems engaged and smart, which is such a departure from what I experienced in undergrad. This is really a breath of fresh air.”
“Totally agree!” I ignore the tightness in my throat.
Christine is telling us about her fiction workshop when all three of our phones ping at the same time with an email.
“‘The 2023 Distinguished Writer Fellowship,’” Kacey says, reading the subject line out loud. She clicks into the email. “Oh shit , it’s Erica Go for poetry.”
I feel my entire body harden like an icicle. What are the odds? “Are you kidding?” I open the email myself and immediately start scanning.
Every year, the Perrin MFA offers two second-years, one poet and one fiction writer, special fellowships where they get to have one-on-one tutorials with distinguished visiting professors, sponsored by alumni. It’s an excellent networking opportunity, but even more so, it’s a year of full funding without work. No Writing Center, no assistantships, no teaching. Just a full year to write and rewrite. It’s a great deal that any student would die for.
To apply, first-years submit a statement of interest as well as a small sample of work. The English department, with input from the visiting professor, decides in the spring.
But the fact that the visiting professor is Erica freaking Go makes this opportunity not a want but a need. She’s the poet who made me feel like poetry was even something I was interested in. The first poet I read who wrote like a human, who wrote about womanhood and girlhood and pop culture. Slang, playfulness, sexuality. She’s outstanding. And I’ve been reading her work for the last ten years. I feel almost entitled to this.
“Erica is really good,” I say, tempering my response, trying not to give away how utterly thirsty I am. “I wonder how many poets will want the fellowship.”
“Probably most.” Kacey raises her eyebrows. “Though to be honest, I maybe won’t apply. I genuinely want to teach next year, get that on my CV.”
“I’d fucking kill for the fiction one,” Christine says with a huff. “Jeremiah Brandon got the Booker Prize two years ago.”
“If you want it, though, Leigh,” Kacey adds. “I’d say basically everyone else in the cohort is your competition.”
I didn’t even know it would be Erica until two minutes ago, but I want it. I want it for the middle school Leigh, who thought being a good writer could make her popular. I want it for the high school Leigh, who never thought she’d end up at an MFA program after that confidence-killing workshop. I want it for this version of me now: the one who doesn’t know what else she will do— can do—if not for writing. I don’t want to go back into marketing, but I know the odds. Poetry is hardly a stable career, and I don’t want to be a hobby poet who thinks she’ll write lines over lunch breaks until life inevitably gets in the way. This fellowship could be my best, most sure shot at being a full-time creative writer.
I re-read the email carefully. Statement of interest. Four to five poems. Due in January. Bridget warned me not to do anything too stressful, said I should be viewing this program as more of an artistic space than a competitive academic program, but surely this is fine. It’s not like I have to do anything additional beyond the statement of interest essay. I’ll submit the poems I’ll write for workshop. Easy. It’s hardly an application at all.
“Hey, Penelope!” Kacey yells across the atrium, and the second-year poet who hosted the after-party waves and trots over, backpack in hand.
“How are you all settling in? I’m guessing you got the email?”
“About the fellowships? Yes. I’m foaming at the mouth,” Christine says.
Penelope laughs. “Definitely apply. You never know who’ll get it.”
I nod. “What do you think it takes?”
We all lean in as Penelope takes a seat at our table and begins spewing insights. In their year, Julian got the poetry fellowship and Vanessa got the fiction; the secret, Penelope says, is to submit work the visiting professors will know what to do with.
“What does that even mean?” Christine asks, eyes wide.
Penelope shrugs. “If you’re good, you’re good, but I’ll say this: If the visiting professor is only writing magical realism and you just don’t fuck with that, it’s not gonna be a good fit. If you’re committed to only writing poems with meter and they bring in someone who lives and dies by free verse, they’re not going to pair you. At least not from what I’ve ever heard.”
That’s a good sign. I feel like Erica will respond well to the pop-culture poems I tend to write, since that’s where she finds so much inspiration for her work as well.
“I’m sure it’ll be a great fellowship with Erica and Jeremiah. They always are. Amazing experience, amazing connections. You could basically set up your writing career with this,” Penelope says. She lists what the fellowship winners in the years above her have gone on to do—regular placements in The New Yorker , professorships at Iowa, making the New York Times bestseller list, the prestigious under-thirty Ruth Lilly fellowship. Not to mention that Julian and Vanessa apparently hit it off so well with this years’ visiting professors that they’re being invited to literary scene parties like they’re already members of the community and not just two MFA students. At the thought, every tendon in my body tightens with want.
Penelope’s off to work on our own university lit journal, the Perrin Review .
“What’re you thinking, Leigh?” Kacey asks as my eyes glaze over in deep thought.
“I’m getting that fellowship,” I say, and it’s the most confident I’ve felt all week.