My MFA in Creative Nonfiction

I will clean this up, but I wanted to share this with everyone today.

In 1990, I applied to a bunch of Master of Social Work and Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing programs. That spring, I was faced with a really hard choice. I was twenty-five-years old, and had to decide between two paths that I loved equally but so differently—helping and writing. At the time, both careers, both acts, both sets of skills, seemed so disparate, so separate, so unreconcilable—it felt like so much was on the line, that I never would be able to bring both together. I needed to choose wisely. I was so torn—I had been told by many that I was a naturally gifted helper: it made sense to get my MSW. It was also a practical choice, a degree that would never make me wealthy, but would probably lead to a solid, stable career.

But writing--I loved to write. I wrote every day on a ten month trip through Central America when I was 21. I never before had felt so free, so connected, so alive. Becoming a writer was something that I so desperately wanted to do. Yet I was afraid. Afraid I would not be good enough, afraid that a career as a creative writer would be self-indulgent, a recipe for failure, not in line with my social justice orientation.

I had become so tortured by the prospect of making a decision that I struggled to sleep and when I did, for the first time in my life, I had nightmares. On a crisp, February morning, I drove down to the Santa Monica pier and walked around. I had moved to Los Angeles for the year to stay with my family and save money for graduate school. As I walked around the pier,  Marvin Siegal popped into my mind. Marvin was the father of a childhood friend, Lewis. Marvin often took us to the peer, bought us hotdogs and lemonades and allowed us to play in the sand as long as we wished. Marvin, a talented and kind man, was an artist—a cartoonist. Marvin, was also a deeply depressed man, and killed himself some years later.

I had not thought of Marvin in a long time, and thinking about him hurt. It hurt a whole lot. It hurt even more that somehow the implications of a lost life did not make my decision any easier. I was lost. Deeply and profoundly lost.

I left the peer and walked along the shore for a while. I sat down in the sand and played with the sandcrabs—I always have found cute things to pet.  As I gazed past the water toward the horizon, I reached into my pocked and pulled out a quarter.

I held it in my hand and tossed it up and down for a while.

“Heads MSW. Tails MFA,” I said out loud.

Heads.

And so, my future was decided.

Just like that.

A few months later, I was on a train to Philadelphia to start my Master of Social Work degree at the University of Pennsylvania.

I am now going to give you a ridiculously abridged synopsis of the next two and half decades—a whole poop ton of life. MSW. American Bulldogs. Social work career. Therapy practice. PhD in Social Work. Faculty position. New family. More faculty positions. More dogs.  Wonderful dogs.  (Did you know I love dogs?). Tenure. Lots of articles. Lots of books.  Administrative position at University of Washington Tacoma. Amazing gift of my coaching practice. Wife’s disability. Back to faculty. Divorce.

My adult life, twenty-five years of it, in a paragraph.

At 50, I was divorced. I have written about this before—you can find those posts. What many of you might not know is, at that time, I desperately needed some hope. I was not doing very well. I desperately needed something to give my new life a sense of meaning, a sense of purpose, something to make all the pain and suffering of caretaking and disability and divorce make sense.  Oh, and my knees were starting to go. I became disabled too (as if this is just some parenthetical side note, but, alas, I still struggle with my ingrained hegemonic masculinity).

Days after the divorce, I considered perusing an MFA, but how crazy would that be-- a ridiculously large alimony sapping my resources--I was unsure if I would even be able to keep my house. And then, the issue of my age—I would never get to even use it, and would be paying back a student loan for years! I was becoming disabled, and I wanted to start a creative writing program?

But something happened that year—my coaching practice, which I had not marketed for years, took off. I was going to be ok, financially. And more than anything, I needed this, I needed to come full circle, to gift myself something so impractical but so essential to the core of who I am. I needed hope.

Tomorrow, I receive my Master of Fine Arts in Creative Nonfiction from Queens University of Charlotte’s Latin America program. A few days short of 54 years old, nearly three decades past that point of painful decision making, I have my MFA.

I am not going to say much more about it now. I have learned so much during the last two years-- lessons that have made me a better writer, a better scholar, a better coach. But for now, I just want to take it in—I have my MFA! The writing of my creative thesis, Wound Care, has been just that—the care and healing of so many wounds, some decades old, some far more recent.

Mostly, it is about this-- and I recognize that this might sound crazy to some of you, that only now, even after having published more than 15 books, 120 or so academic articles, a whole lot of poems and essays—I can now, in my heart of hearts, say, I am a writer.

I am a writer.

I am a writer.

I have my fucking MFA!

But, this is not just about me. It is about other people too. I have some people I want to thank here.

Sandy. I love you so much--thank you for being my sweet honey. I am in awe of your goodness, your desire to grow and strive. You surprise me every day.

My daughters, Sugs and Myah. Being your Newphie has been one of the great joys of my life—thank you for letting me love you.

My mom—for life, for love, for support, for being my rock. You rock. I mean, really.

My thesis advisor, Kathryn Rhett.  My MFA mentors, Fred Leebron, Jon Pineda and Robert Polito. Thank you for challenging my writing, not allowing me to get away with anything. I will keep working at it, I promise.

My friends. So many friends have supported me, challenged and loved me, cried with me. I am going to name some of you, and sorry if in the emotional stupor I forgot to add you here. You know I love you. Thank you Brandon (bro), Jamie/Jim, Doug. Dan, Mark, Mike, Marc, Scott, Greg, Ben, Ren, Eric, Ravi, Roger, Louise, Russ, and many others. Much love.

To a few of my friends no longer with us. Especially Gil Shoenstein, Greg Bershad and Dave Dan.

My coaching clients—you allow me to bring the best of who I am into each day. You, along with my MFA, have allowed me integrate two identities into one self--the helper and writer. I would thank you by name, but, that would blow the confidentiality thang J.

Lastly, Dad. It has been a long time dude.

In humble awe of it all,

Rich Furman, MFA, MSW, PhD