Am I Nuts?

So I am looking at three graduate schools to get my MFA in creative writing.  Goucher (in Baltimore, which boasts about its creative Non-fiction courses, not fiction), Goddard (in Vermont) and Warren Wilson (in North Carolina).  All three are in the top five for low-residency graduate programs which means that I can do my course work on-line, but I am required to go there once a semester for 8-10 day stays (January and July); kind of like a mini-camp for writers.

The cost is outrageous.
The time consumption is crazy.
I've already spent a bundle on my education.
There is no guarantee I'll get in.
There is no guarantee I'll have success after I graduate.
I can't get off of work that many days.
I'll never be able to juggle work, home, kids and homework.
I'm 38 with responsibilities, not 24 with an idealistic imagination.
I'm not even a good writer; I probably won't even get in.

I think that's about it for the negatives, other than my brother's sarcastic comment when I posted the idea on facebook:  "You got no chance...pack it in...go on the welfare. Give up. What's the sense. Hell no. Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow?" This cracked me up because it is so dead-on the ridiculous that it made sense to do the opposite. 

I went to the writer's retreat back in July and I flew high for a good month, before life, once again, cracked me upside the head with a two-by-four.  I was writing every day, excited, making time to write, sometimes I had eight hour stretches where all I did was drink coffee and type on the keyboard.

I remembered a time, way back when I was pregnant with Paige, when I was an insomniac and I would get up at 3 in the morning, grab my notebook and write until 7; my notebook filled with a story - a young adult story that had characters and scenes that made me jump with joy.

Then I had Paige, a full-time job, then Tony, a full-time job, then life.

I began another novel with a crazy character who swore, drank and went through self-made, catastrophic dramas inside her head.  The writing was terrible, but I wrote every day, after hours, after the kids were in bed, before the family got up.  And I wrote the final chapter and jumped for joy.  The first draft was done!  I sent it to a publisher and was told to rewrite it.

Then my ex left and life sucked for a long, long time.  The first draft was put away again.

During the trying months, I reworked it.  It got better.  And better.  And better.

Then Jeff died, and for a year I didn't even think about it.  I could barely keep my head in the game of life, much less in a work of insubstantial, inconsequential fiction.

The writer's workshop advertisement came up on my blog.  I hit the link on the last possible day to register.  I noted the dates - an entire week away.  There was no way I could do it.  I closed the link and checked my email.  There was an email from my ex, noting the summer vacation schedule and I checked the dates. Huh.  Same dates as that writer's workshop...  So, on the last day with hardly a hope of there being an availability, I signed up for the workshop, the last day of registration.  There were others also trying to get in.  I got in. I went. Loved it!

Then Dad died. And uh, uh...  (still blown away...)

My point is that I've been circling the drain on the whole writing career, ready to pack it in, give up, go on the welfare for years - before Paige and Tony, before Law School, before College...

No.

Not this time.

So, I will be saving money for a few months, and I plan on the July residency, the 25+ hour a week workload, the January residency, the July residency again, the January residency and the final residency, and a Master's degree.  Two years, the tub is filled and I am swimming, not circling.

An MFA will give me the opportunity to teach what I love; to do what I love; to be who I've always wanted to be; and it will be the fulfillment of my life's calling - of that, I have no doubts.

And it is so damned exciting.  The joy I get when writing is the joy I feel about attending classes.  My gut does not lie, my gut says, go, go, go.

And go, I must.