A throwback to my MA statement of purpose drafts

I really enjoyed Brandon Taylor’s recent post on this subject, so I thought it’d be interesting to go back and see what I wrote. Neither of these texts are exactly what I ended up submitting to places, but they were useful drafts – they helped me articulate wtf I wanted to do, etc. The second text (“Why I Write”) was something I didn’t submit to institutions; I think I did it because one of the people writing my recommendation letters asked me to. It was actually really nice to read these texts 14 years later and be like hmm, I still agree with some of this! i.e. certain core values haven’t changed blah blah. Some of it is a little cringe but what wouldn’t be, after this much time? I feel a lot of affection for the person speaking in these texts, which is the way I imagine Ani DiFranco and PJ Harvey feel when they listen to their demo recordings from the early 90’s, or Alanis Morissette addressing her younger self in her song “UR.”

SOP

My name is X. I work for two non-profits in Portland OR, where I help organize summer service trips to Mexico for teens and teach after-school classes at an elementary school. I’d like to work towards a Masters in Creative Writing.

I was born in Cambridge, England and grew up in Cali, Colombia, where I was surrounded by stories that blended violence with absurdity in that surreal manner I feel is unique to Latin America. In countries such as Colombia, Ecuador and Mexico where I have lived and worked for many years, not much value is placed on the definite; instead, facts are ineffable. My experience with reality in Latin America is one that deals with vagueness, where experiences (even violent ones) can most effectively be reported as subjective experiences. This is where my interest in the connection between reality and fiction first emerged, as well as why I find the art and crafting of fiction so captivating. More than anything else, I see writing stories as a way of ordering reality, of relating and communicating an experience to an audience in a way you don’t know how else to express.

In 2004 I moved to Portland, where I attended Reed College and completed a B.A. in Comparative Literature. My undergraduate thesis focused on the representations of truth in the fiction of William Faulkner and Uruguayan author Juan Carlos Onetti. I was especially interested in discussing questions about the forms of storytelling adopted by the narrators in these respective author’s works: what are the kind of emotional truths that fictional techniques can convey? What is the relationship between fiction and experience?

As an undergraduate, my favorite workshop courses were the ones that dealt with the question of the conflict between truth and fiction. In the work I completed for courses such as X’s Creative Non-fiction class and Y’s Questions of Narrative class at Reed, I explored the question of how the act of writing can both help make sense of and communicate the truth of experiences. This is a question I would like to continue to explore and hone in the work I complete for my MA degree.

Writing has always been the common thread connecting my experiences. While working at a microfinance office in Nuevo Laredo, I met a Uruguayan academic whose area of interest was Onetti; together we wrote and presented a paper at the local university and cultural center. In Colombia I interviewed clients applying for loans and wrote down their stories for the website of the non-profit I worked for. In Indonesia I interviewed villagers affected by tsunamis and earthquakes and wrote a report based on the results. At one of my current jobs, I’ve taught classes in Scary Stories and Mysteries and Detective Fiction. What I most appreciate about these experiences is how they’ve brought me into contact with a different range of people with diverse interests and histories in new settings that have both challenged and inspired me from all angles. I anticipate that a Master’s program will have a similar result. I have always found the time and capacity in my life to incorporate writing and literature, and with a Master’s program I now want to bring those two interests in my life to the forefront.

I want to get my MA in fiction writing because it will help me achieve two important goals: first, it will help me join and participate in a writing community where I can meet and learn from other writers. I’m curious and excited to see what it would be like to work in a culture centered around the actual act of creation. Second, it will give me the time and instruction I need in order to best continue to develop my work to its fullest potential. In terms of long-term career goals, what I want to do with my degree is to continue what I’ve been doing so far, which is being a teacher and an educator in any capacity. Teaching is especially appealing to me because I am constantly learning something new, meeting different people and am immersed in a culture that values curiosity and communication.

I am confident that Graduate Institution would be an excellent intellectual fit because of because of the research interests of the faculty and graduate students within the English Department and other departments. My conversations with faculty members such as _______ as well as graduate literature students such as ____ have further convinced me that Graduate Institution would be a lively community that emphasizes both creative and critical thinking. [SUPER boring paragraph lol]

I look forward to an MA program for the opportunity it will give me to both participate in and learn more about the contexts in which good writing is created and shared. I am confident I have the aptitude, motivation and preparation to be successful in this field of study and beyond into a career of fruitful writing, teaching and learning. With that, I thank you for taking the time to read and consider my application and my work.

Why I Write

I knew since I was four or five years old that I was going to be a writer. Between the ages of nineteen and twenty-four I tried to squelch this feeling, but it didn’t work, it kept coming back, as is usually the case when you try to deny your true nature.

I was reading in my favorite advice column the other day that the best thing to do in order to find satisfaction in work and in life is to do what feels most authentic to you. Over the past two years I’ve come to realize that writing and knowing that I want to write is the one thing in life I can depend on as an absolute certainty. In this sense I feel like I’ve become one of those racehorses with blinders over the side of their eyes so that they can’t see the other horses running besides them, horses with names like FEAR and BAD and NOT GOOD ENOUGH and instead just keep charging heedlessly, blindly towards the one thing I can keep focused on in my vision: “I am a writer, I am a writer who writes, what I write has meaning and value, what I have to say is important.”

I like to write because I am by nature an intensely curious, imaginative person.. Writing often feels like detective work for me, a kind of circular searching that never ends. What is strange to me is that I have always continued writing, no matter what I’ve been involved in doing. It’s like having this strange baby demon inside of me constantly squalling for attention.

I also like to write because I think it’s important to make art. Writing belongs to the people, not to the ivory tower. Anyone can do it, and should. Making art is good for the soul, and having people who are good to their souls is good for society.

One quote I like to think about in reference to writing is something said by the Peruvian author Mario Vargas Llosa. In a lecture he once gave, he talked about how in colonial times (back when the Spanish were still tramping all over Latin Americ), the language of novels was seen as this intensely subversive force. The two greatest forces in colonial Latin America were the church and the military, and the language endorsed by both didn’t have much space for the language of fiction, in which signs were muddled and unclear. Novels were seen as frivolous, sinful even—a language of lies. It was the kind of environment where Don Quixote had to be smuggled over from Spain in the bottom of wine barrels in order to reach South American audiences. Reading a novel back then must have evoked an illicit thrill; the experience must have been a lot like reading Orwell’s “1984” in Burma today.

I like this manner of thinking about the language of fiction: writing as a necessary tool that enables us to grapple with all that life throws at us. These are the kinds of stories that I want to write (to continue writing): stories that have the function of giving me and others courage, offer new ways of seeing, of feeling empathy, of making sense of ourselves in this world.

The last thing I want to say about writing refers to a comment I’ve never forgotten, spoken by my advisor back when I was writing my undergraduate thesis at Reed. He said, lo que cuenta es el trabajo mismo, un trabajo bien hecho—what counts is the work itself, a work well done. This is how I like to think about writing: what is important and what counts in the end is the work itself. It makes a lot of sense to me to think of writing as a craft or an apprenticeship, like blacksmiths or novice monks in medieval ages. I may not ever be the most talented or clever or experienced writer in any given writing workshop I attend. But I know that I am the kind of writer with determination and grit, who will stick with it—who has stuck with it. When things feel especially bleak, this becomes my mantra: in the end, the work is what counts.