Post-MFA Writing: Doubt, and Exhilaration

During the MFA program, right around now is when people are starting to pull together their first "packet" to send off to their mentor. An agreed-upon amount of creative work (so many poems; a chapter; so many pages of prose; an essay or three); three responses to books read during the "packet period."

So, what about now?

A good friend of mine, and one of my inspirations, has continued the "packet" structure by herself since she graduated a couple years ago, and she's so inspiring both because of her commitment to art, literature, and poetry and because of her commitment to herself as the wonderful poet she is. At least a couple of my fellow graduates this year said they were planning the same.

Just as when I was a serious oboist in my teens, I realized upon passing with distinction the top "grade" that this was just a beginning, not the be-all end-all it had seemed before its achievement, so graduating the MFA seems much more the beginning of a writer's life than any sort of acme or culmination. Which is great, right? Because it means we get to continue, leaning, making mistakes, interacting with others...And yet, it's a whole new challenge. Most of us entered the MFA in the first place seeking the structure and validation it provided, the "official stamp." I could justify to myself that I was "working," on a very expensive degree, where without that I might have felt I was just playing around when I could be racking up hours of editing/translating time.

So what about now, student loan payments and all? One thing that differentiates post-MFA from MFA life is that we now have a carefully curated body of work--the thesis--which is an entity in its own right, separate from ourselves, birthed. This is true, even granted that by the nature of the MFA theses themselves are often works in progress--part one of a novel; a poetry collection that is still growing--or, in my case, an interweaving of poems and essays that begs the question whether it should go out into the world so conjoined or if in fact it contains the central nervous systems of two collections, one in each genre.
I feel that sense of obligation deeply. People have responded to my work, and more people should have the opportunity to do so, both for the people's sake and the work's sake.

Nonetheless, I feel like I've mostly been "playing around" so far, and mostly that's seemed appropriate--pressure off, and in the context of making revisions, open mind, openhearted listening all over again to what the piece wants to be. 

Then this afternoon a new poem started to come. And it was just like the first time ever. Sh**ty first draft coming out onto the page, focus, love, delight...and then doubt. What if I can't do line breaks? What if the material is either hopelessly trite or impossible obscure? Is this telling too much about me, under the surface? Etc. etc. etc. 
Worse yet, I'm one of the rare birds who actually enjoys writing critiques and has published book reviews, and has been encouraged by mentors to continue to write them (another habit I need to pick back up). I'm supposed to be a serious critic of other people's poetry. But I don't have a clue how to evaluate even this shi**ty first draft. What if everything I thought I knew is wrong or forgotten?

And my other self answers, CELEBRATE! Be in the unknowing! Being a critic [cognate with "discern," "discriminate," "crisis," (yes, and "crime")] means being very openly observant and being willing to draw distinctions based on that observation, which is far different than being an arbiter who determines how others should think/judge.

So, as a real live post-MFA writer, I'm a bit scared. But I'm also really excited. Will you join me for this dance?