Lesson #001: Throw away your lists.

I just found out two hours ago that I was accepted to UCLA's Screenwriting MFA program. And I don't say the following to be hated, but I applied on a whim, four days shy of the deadline last November. I was feeling angsty and despondent about work, ritual and life, and saw no other way out. After the melancholy waned, I did admit that it would be a dream to attend, but I promised myself I wouldn't hold my breath about the whole thing.

Oh, how I lied. It has been like sitting on splinters waiting for these months to pass. I've pretended to deny my desire to become a student again, but every day of numbingly walking my way through the world of the working has left me certain. Even if "school" is lame, writing is not. I hungered to write, longed to check out from the 9-6, post myself at a Coffee Bean with my MacBook Pro and tap-tap-tap away. Dreamt of it sleeping, dreamt of it waking. But what were the odds?

About 2000 people applied to the film school for consideration in all programs this year, of which there are seven Master's (Animation, Cinema & Media Studies, Cinematography, Moving Image Archive Studies, Producer's Program, Production/Directing, Screenwriting). From this number sixty were granted interviews for the Screenwriting MFA. From that number, they apparently will admit 17-24 students. I received an interview, but even after being granted it, I kicked myself out of what I perceived to be a field of dysfunctional, self-serving hope. My interview, at best, was an awkward mess. I sweat through my dress shirt. I laughed too loud. I said "I don't know," about four times. And I'm pretty sure I told my interviewer I stalked him online. Yeah, let in the crazy girl.

But lo. Here we are two weeks later, and the bated breath has been calmly released.

Immediately after seeing the email from the program administrator, I went into shock. I fainted for about 2 seconds, awaking after clunking my head, hard, on the arm of my free, hand-me-down Craigslist sofa. And then I started screaming uncontrollably. I hugged my roommate. I hugged myself. I screamed some more. I hugged my head. I replied to the email saying, "Yes, yes, yes, I accept!!" And then I called my parents. And then I contemplated how to tell the news to my boss.

That's a matter for another day (or week...or month...).

Right now, I have to start thinking ahead to the education that awaits, and I find even before entering the hallowed halls of this wonderful institution, I'm already learning: about preparation. You have to prepare yourself for film school as you would for any other dramatic change in life. And one of the first lessons is easy: shed your hang-ups about your inadequacies. It is difficult. Because even if we pretend otherwise, we actually do love our inadequacies. They blanket us, they soothe us, they grant us excuses to perform inadequately.

Immediately following my interview in Awkward City, I typed up one list about my lack of qualifications for film school and a second detailing why it was okay that I wouldn't be admitted. I saved the lists on both my home and work computer so that, at any given moment in a day that I got depressed about my creative or social performance, I could open it up, read it, and feel a little better, in this weird, self-flagellating, slightly masochistic way. Maybe weird. But also human. Though I made the list after my interview, it is really a list that we who suffer for the sake of creativity make all the time. Well, OMG, just throw it away. Get rid of it. Because if you don't think you're good enough, who else will?

Yeah, I made the list. But part of me knew it was stupid and useless unless I showed it to someone else--that's how we get our validation--and another part of me knew I would only show it to someone else if I got into grad school. So it seems part of me always thought I would get in. Why did I ever pretend otherwise? To protect myself if I didn't? Eff that. A list of self-doubt isn't protection. It's just a springboard for others to judge you.