This is a post about an emerging/aspiring writer’s quarterlife crisis.  Otherwise known as, Trying To Decide What To Do After You Finish Your Fancy Pants Creative Writing MFA.

This week, in between all my piles of work, I dedicated a bit of time to catching up with a couple of writer friends who I hadn’t properly seen in a long while.  On both occasions we talked extensively about what it means to be a writer graduating from an MFA program.

One friend, let’s call him X, has already finished his MFA and is now working in a traditional office job.  He talked about falling into an awful slump in which he felt like he had achieved none of the successes he’d hoped for.  He talked about how difficult it is to stick to your personal creative goals when you’re no longer in an environment where those goals are your priority above everything else.  He talked about how he wants so badly to be writing, to stay creative, to continue working towards his goals — but life is getting in the way.

I gave him a bunch of my tips on how I stay on top of my goals, how I motivate myself, how I change my habits in order to help me keep writing as a priority.  And he kept saying, “that’s a great idea,” or “that’s really helpful,” and I knew I was giving him great advice . . . but at the same time there was this horrible fear churning in my stomach.  I thought to myself: how easy would it be for me to forget all these things that I’m telling him?  How easy would it be for me to jump back into the career I had before and fall into the same exact slump, feel the same exact defeat?  I could absolutely see myself in his shoes a year from now, maybe working in a fantastic corporate job but totally hating it, and hating myself for taking it, and wondering how I was ever going to get back on track with all the creative dreams I ever had.

The other friend I spoke to, let’s call him Y, is in the same boat as me.  Chipping away at his thesis.  Getting ready to graduate in May.  Trying to answer the big question: what’s next?

Y said that when people ask him what he does now, he never says, “I’m a writer.”  Always, his answer is, “I’m in grad school, getting my MFA in fiction.”  And then he said something that’s been echoing in my brain ever since.  He said: “Everything we’ve done up until now . . . that’s nothing.  Our writing careers begin the moment this program ends.  We have to make a decision right now — are we going to dedicate the rest of our lives to doing this?”

And I thought:  Wow.  Shit.  He’s 100% right.

We talked about Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000 hour rule — how it supposedly takes 10,000 hours for you to become an expert at something.  Y told me about a successful writer who said if you looked at his first few thousand stories, you’d have to say he had absolutely zero talent.  But he achieved success by writing nonstop, churning out work, sharpening his skills.

We talked about this idea that Y got from Darin Strauss, which is that you can’t have a job and then treat writing as something you do on the side.  You have to tell yourself that your job is to write and you have this weird other hobby that happens to provide you an income.

I thought to myself:  This is doable.  I can do it.  I will do it.  I am determined.

So I’m answering the big question right here, right now.  Getting it down in writing, in public.  What am I going to do when I finish my MFA in a few months?

Am I going to dedicate the rest of my life to this?

Yes.  Absolutely.  Yes.