Middle and Guts: On Choosing To Leave My MFA Program

When I was accepted into the MFA program at the University of South Carolina, I was living in Florida, working as a copywriter, and applying to MFA programs because, in role, I felt stuck in Florida. I'd finished my MA and in that time had written my first novel and a expert chunk of the stories that would become my kickoff collection, God in Neon. I was tapped into the Orlando literary community and all of its wonderful events, but I still felt like I could be doing more. An MFA program—a adventure to spend a couple years working on my writing, working on some other novel—seemed like the all-time option.

By January, I'd establish out I'd gotten in. I'd gotten into one other program and been waitlisted at a third. By March, I'd accustomed my spot as ane of the iv in the incoming cohort. I began preparing for a life in Columbia, South Carolina, a urban center I'd been to exactly once in my life and knew nothing about across the facts that the university was there and it was the capital. I was told by my mentor, who had gone to the same MFA program, that it was a absurd little Southern town. I believed him.

In May, I was looking effectually Craigslist for freelance writing gigs. I wanted a job writing about booze or nutrient. As evidenced past other pieces I've written hither on DEM, I've spent fourth dimension in the service industry and food and booze were and are close to my eye (in the literal sense that I have a bottle of wine tattooed on the inside of my left bicep). Realizing that Florida wasn't the market to be looking in, I clicked through the New York City CL and, lo and behold, I establish a posting for a spirits writing gig. I practical. A few hours after, The Manual followed me on Twitter. Then I got an electronic mail from my now-boss. Then we chatted on the telephone. In the span of nearly nine hours, I was hired.

At the beginning, as with whatever new job, it took a lilliputian time to build up steam. I started with a few pieces a month while learning how to make, maintain, and utilize contacts in the industry. I learned the power of working with PR firms and developing those relationships. I worked to define my palate even more. I wrote and drank and wrote almost drinking. It was heartening seeing my pieces being shared non only by the magazine, but past readers that I didn't know. I reveled when people left dumb comments and then shared the piece regardless. Information technology was the first time I could actually see that any printing was good press. It bothered me less and less that some dude in LA didn't concord with my thoughts on this scotch or that rum. If he wanted to say how impaired I was as he clicked the share button, any, bro. Go for it.

""In October, I received an electronic mail that I had to read multiple times in club to even begin contemplating. Information technology was an invitation to a private cocktail party of sorts. With Anthony Bourdain. The Anthony Bourdain.""

In October, I received an email that I had to read multiple times in order to even brainstorm contemplating. It was an invitation to a individual cocktail party of sorts. With Anthony Bourdain. The Anthony Bourdain. The i who, despite him existence a scrap of a jerk (or asshole or whatever name you'd prefer to call him), was ane of my idols in my early college years. He wrote about food and drink and he was from the suburbs of Jersey, but like me. He had wit and he got to travel the world, indulging. I wanted that, I wanted to be him, and hither I was with the adventure to see him. The trouble was that, at this point, I was in Columbia, attempting to write parts of a novel while teaching and doing viii other things. I couldn't become up to New York for the party, so I asked if nosotros could exercise an interview some other way. It was granted and I got to spend eleven minutes and thirteen seconds talking on the phone to Tony (every bit the PR woman referred to him and, fifty-fifty now, saying that, I feel like I'm part of some club because I called him that). A few months later, I institute myself on a plane to Las Vegas and that same night, tasting 75-year-old scotch, poured past the grandson of the man that made it.

""It is the paradigm of a dream job—I get to eat and drink succulent things and, more chiefly, I get to talk to people who love what they do. I get to sit down and chat with them about their passions and that is as good every bit any glass of bourbon.""

These sorts of things kept happening with increasing frequency. I was making more contacts, getting deeper into the spirits earth (considering I'd only been a "professional" for less than a year), and frankly, loving every fucking minute of information technology. It is the prototype of a dream chore—I get to eat and drink delicious things and, more importantly, I go to talk to people who love what they do. I get to sit and chat with them virtually their passions and that is as expert as any glass of bourbon.

Wink ahead and it is June. School's over and I'm headed back to the NY/NJ expanse for some family stuff and to meet with some of the people I'd worked with via email for the past yr. It's Monday morning and I'm walking up out of Penn Station, a journeying I've taken countless times in my life, but this time, it felt unlike. I've gotten nostalgic for other things—a meal here, a hug from a person at that place, etc.—simply this was the kickoff time I realized that I had missed the City. I'd spent a decade trying to escape from it (with stops in NC, MT, NH, FL, and SC), and this was the first fourth dimension my encephalon was going, "No, yous need to be here." I walked the streets, the ones I'd gone upwardly and down so many other times for plays or concerts or just to evidence visitors the sites, realizing now how much I'd missed them.

Over the next few days, I had my meetings, I drank my fancy cocktails, and I got stuff in line for articles. I did more in ii or three days in person than I could've achieved via e-mail in a week. It got me thinking nearly the viability of staying in S Carolina. In my yr at USC, my output consisted of 85% spirits writing and 15% creative writing. I got paid for the spirits writing and it was, at the end of the day what I wanted to exercise. I'd missed out on whatever number of special events while in Columbia and, if I wanted to bring my spirits writing game to the next level, I needed to exist at those events.

I spent the flight abode thinking nearly this. I had signed upwards for iii years. USC had called me out of however many to bring to their programme to let me piece of work on my craft. I'd carved out a life in Columbia. I had friends and a favorite bar and the place yous could go on Thursdays to eat the best burgers in boondocks while drinking Yeunglings for $1.25 each.

""But, so at that place was the City. I could be living in and effectually ane of the greatest cities in the globe, writing almost the topic that interests me the near.""

But, and then in that location was the City. I could be living in and effectually one of the greatest cities in the globe, writing about the topic that interests me the most. I already knew some great writers in the area, who would keep me in the loop on all things literary, and I had a place to stay while I got on my feet.

I went back and forth for the residuum of the flight back to Charlotte and and so the drive to Columbia. My roommate was home when I got there and he asked how my week was.

"Weird," I'd said, dropping my backpack on the basis unloading on him equally I did, everything I had been thinking through.

"Y'all'd be moving to New York to write," he'd said. "Don't exist stupid."

He and I both knew he was right. That I'd made my decision. How could I not follow through on that opportunity? Writing in New York is the dream for then many and I was about to pursue that. Yes, I'd made commitments, but if what about following your eye and your guts? What about when every fiber of your being is screaming that y'all need to practice something? How are you supposed to ignore that? How are you supposed to settle the voices inside merely because of an agreement? If I stayed in Columbia for the next two years, I'd have a foot out the door, I knew. I wouldn't be thinking about my own piece of work, wouldn't be giving my friends' work the attention it deserved, would care even less about teaching comp and rhetoric. I'd be thinking about the what-ifs, the what would've happeneds. Sure, the spirits writing gig would still be in that location in two years, just, I reasoned, if I'd been able to achieve this much in a year, what most in the side by side year if I had the chance to actually push it as much as I could?

The answer, in the stop, was easy. I'd made enough of other decisions in my life that went against my heart and gut. I stayed in relationships longer than was healthy. I chose to do things that went against my ameliorate judgment. Not this, time, though. No. Not this fourth dimension.

And, finally, perhaps this will come back to seize with teeth me in the ass. It wouldn't be the get-go fourth dimension by a long shot that that has happened. That'south okay, though, because if it does, I'll figure it out. I'll make another eye and guts decision, following what's best for me at that point in my life.

ABOUT THE Author

Sam Slaughter is a spirits author for The Transmission and is based in the New York Metropolis area. He is the writer of When You Cross That Line and God in Neon. He can be found online at www.samslaughterthewriter.com and @slaughterwrites.