Take One

Please accept your waiting stub. Numberless it read, Your message has been sent.... Maybe it's just me, but lately more people than usual have asked about the particulars of my schooling. I hadn't made a pact of silence with myself, and I tell of applying to Creative Writing undergrad. A pact of silence would have made this a more underground affair, no entry unless you are an uninvited mole.

I search for clues. Even after hours of work put in, I can find editing spots in my manuscript, since saved and sent in an earlier form. Re-reading the official application instructions for undergrad and grads, I try to gauge the level of needed writing sophistication. I want to see other applicants' work, although it would be nerve wracking, the comparing. I stopped short at asking the secretary how many students had applied this year. The future is coming soon enough. I have better things to do now than try and force palm-reading powers on future's right hand. There's no catching it. I'm better off trying to catch something else more assessable, a westbound bus perhaps. There is always a bit of a psych-up when waiting for something. Waiting always takes a bit of you, waiting to meet up with you. If there wasn't a psych-up, you're not really waiting, you've forgotten. While I'm waiting let me take this ticket, I need something to write on.