1 down, 9 to go.
I turned in my first application to grad school two days ago. I should feel some semblance of relief, but I don’t. My official test scores will take weeks to get there, and my stupid stupid MFA transcripts from London haven’t arrived despite being mailed 3 weeks ago. I’m pissed off! A really really really nice woman who answered my phone call to the Humanities department calmed me a bit, at least confirming that I would not be automatically disqualified. She said she wouldn’t know if it would help, but she accepted a scanned copy of my MFA transcripts until the real ones arrive.
It became far clearer to me how difficult it will be to get in when this week a professor connection I was trying to make basically said, flat out, “there’s no point in me talking to her because we accept 3 people every year, and I’m busy anyway, so leave me alone.” 3 people out of 100. My test scores are abysmal and I’m not that sure about my writing sample, so even if my grades, recommendation, and personal statement get me into top 10, these are easy elements by which to separate me out. And I’m screwed if some schools look at scores first – if they only look at 650 and up – I am dead. 3.8 GPA, UofC honors degree, Phi Beta Kappa or no, I’m a terrible test-taker. I’m counting on the readers being fair, and who knows how likely that will be. Hence, 10 applications. Hopefully I can raise my chances from 3% to, who knows, 10-20%, and maybe higher if I apply to many levels of programs. Which I think I am.
That’s the story, Mornin’ Glories. I’ve spent every night this past week working on my candidate statement, losing so much sleep, I can’t tell you, driving myself to exhaustion and sickness, and my work and grad school load have both suffered for it. If it pays off, it will have been worth it. If it doesn’t, I suppose I’m better prepared to do it again next year. If I can bear it. If I can bear it.
Knock, knock, knocking. Please let me back in. It’s cold and lonely out here.