“Hey,” Keti peaked her head inside my office. “You want to take a walk?” I did not want to take a walk.
Minutes earlier, the truth had descended into my email with swift brutality. I’d been spazzing refresh for weeks—irresponsibly, repetitively, nonsensically—waiting for word on my application to a local Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing program. Late Tuesday evening, I tapped refresh casually and an actual email appeared in unread, bold font. My breath froze. Click. Word salad fed through my retinas until it coalesced slowly into conscious rejection: “We received a large number of…”, “I wish I had better news…”, and “Best of luck in your writing life.”
Next thing I knew, I was walking with Keti through heavy, nippy air. Foliage rusted, peeled, and dropped silently around us. Before we could even get into it and before Keti could ask, “So… how are you doing?”, I noticed I was fine. Like, euthymic. I’d crafted three separate pieces for the application’s submission requirements and tendered $75 to apply. I’d acted upon what I wanted, committed myself completely, and through the process of applying, improved as a writer. Maybe I was close to getting in, maybe I didn’t sniff admission. Maybe they liked what I wrote, maybe they hated it. Did it matter?
Walking through that distinct clarity of autumn’s air, I remembered what I felt after my acceptance to medical school, my admission to its honor society, and my match into residency: relief at having not failed. To have peace now, after pursuing what I care about most, only to get rejected, made me chuckle.
“What?” Keti asked as we walked up our driveway.
“Nothing,” I said. “Life’s a funny teacher.”
To livin’ a life we love,
Ryan Fightmaster, MD
