A professor of mine had sent over an opportunity for a fellowship specifically for writers of color, and that got me to thinking what types of opportunities I should look for outside of the fall and spring semesters. Lately, I’ve been attending Bronx Council for the Arts memoir workshops, on the Saturdays that I don’t work, to get a feel for what type of writing comes out of those not privileged or shackled to an academic institution.

I’m not oblivious to the effects of an MFA program: each one with its own unique flavors and hang-ups, which in turn become your flavor and hang-ups. I’ll be honest: I spend half my time writing what I enjoy and half my time measuring it up to the work of my peers. I like workshops because they keep me honest and productive (biweekly deadlines do help me churn out material), but I wonder to myself to what extent I write what others want to hear? There is no easy way to draw the line between a word you write for yourself and a word you write for someone else, and I think I’m coming to terms with that as I publish more and more.

When I was younger, shinier, and more afraid of the world at CalArts, the work of my peers opened my mind — the breadth and quality of the work of my peers then (many of whom have gone on to Kenyon, Tisch, etc.) still strike awe in me. My summer at CalArts will always have a tender spot in my heart, because that was the first time I ever took a chance on something I loved — and don’t our first loves always hurt the most?

I am excited to attend Bread Loaf, and yet at the same time I’m wondering to what extent will my new peers influence my work. I often worry that I am a late bloomer as a writer, because I chose to pursue a stable academic degree: at first at the request of my parents, but then at the very real pressure to live independently in an increasingly expensive and inequitable society in order to do work that rang true and moved my soul. Perhaps I am asking the wrong questions, approaching the Bread Loaf in the wrong light. I fear my own inadequacy as much as the next guy, and that may just be okay if I can pack up, leave New York City for a weekend, and go find my inner spiritual kernel of truth hiking the Green Mountains.