I'm flawed. You're flawed. We're all flawed.

You know the feeling. Someone critiques your writing; you flash them the evil eyes and think, "You complete moron! You've missed the point of my piece entirely, and of course you did-- you're an idiot and I hate everything you've written anyways, so what do you know?"

First you wish them bodily harm, then you start scheming your revenge, and then finally you think to yourself "Hmmm. Maybe they have a point?"

The other day I posted a link to a Poetry Foundation article about the worth of MFA programs. While I've never been "officially" enrolled in any creative writing program, I did take three MFA workshop classes in poetry as a post baccalaureate at Portland's lovely State University when my schedule (and $$!!!) allowed.

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