Scott D. McLean, MD

Eleven months ago I was wrapping up a career as a clinical geneticist, not on the short list for the Nobel, but with a respectably lengthy resume. The sailing had been smooth; however, the day came when I chose to come about and tack into the wind. Though there was a stiff breeze and plenty of nautical metaphors, I was under no pressure to beat to quarters. I just hoped to avoid capsizing or foundering on the shoals and set about to make writing my center of gravity, a keel weight. This has brought me to a new port of call. Next July I’ll begin a two-year MFA (fiction) at Fairfield University, which, it just so happens, abuts the Long Island Sound.

This means that I have declined a few offers from other MFA programs, each of which may have been the better choice. Too many variables and irrationalities make second guessing a futility of the first order. In other words, who knows? The factors that became more persuasive for me included, foremost, the faculty and the flavor of the program, though some aspects of the decision seemed alarmingly similar to selecting a case of pinot noir. Was it harvested during the year of the fires, were the vineyards upwind, is the label cool? Am I going to drink all that?

Decisions, both personal and collective, enjoy the full spectrum of irony. With either cabinet picks or a semester of studying fiction, one must be careful what one wishes for, or one just may get it. Sometimes two.

Whether a brace or a baker’s dozen, let us take some pleasure in giving thanks, as this is the season for Thanksgiving (with a capital T). Of course, it seems to be a nested sub-season inside the Xmas mega-season. Reindeer began nibbling the grass in our neighborhood just after Labor day.

For all my readers, especially the 3 people who have made it this far in this posting, thanks. Enjoy the short days and long nights, the turkey and cranberries. Make a little crater at the apex of your mashed potatoes and fill it with gravy. It tastes best that way.