University of Chicago
I have never had a space to be a writer. In high school, whenever my class is given a creative writing assignment, my friends groan in unison. By the time their groans have quieted, I have already thought of a first sentence. At lunch, everyone at my table complains about the poem or short story. Even though I have already scribbled out my ideas on the corner of class notes, I roll my eyes and nod in agreement, too embarrassed to pit my eagerness against their aversion. I feel like there is a metaphor for my situation. A fish out of water? A square peg in a circular hole? No. Not quite. My frustration cannot be condensed into those cliches. My feelings of isolating enthusiasm and creativity-stunting shame yearn for a metaphor not yet written, one with a syntax all its own and diction breathed from the lips of Calliope herself. Maybe I am getting ahead of myself though. But unique problems like these demand unique solutions. That’s where the University of Chicago comes in.
I need a model for a writer. I will learn the finer details of poetry from passionate professors, eminent writers, and poets themselves. Figures such as John Wilkinson and Srikanth Reddy will fill the void left by years of isolation, and maybe they can teach...
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