am i feeling disdain or fear?

i recently suffered through analysis. not freudian, or transactional, but literary. i love discussing a story as much as, well, anyone else, but the story loses its magic for me when i have to consider aspects such as: the author's self-referential argument between narrator (the author, in this case?) and character about the thin veil between reality and the fantastical. i've not read a lot of "postmodern" fiction, but if the subgenre dictates this kind of discussion, i don't need to read a lot more. i don't like fiction that plays games. metafiction. feh. give me a good story, dammit. and characters that make me feel something. and a theme that leaves me wondering about the world, or the people in it. i've never been one to glorify masturbatory intellectualism. it reeks of musty panties, and i'm embarrassed for those who wallow in them. it. whatever. i'm ranting, so grammar's negotiable.

so, why am i pissed off about it? mainly because i suspect that IF i do get into this MFA program i've applied for, i'm gonna have to suffer through many more black beret discussions like today's. can i do it? yeah. but damn if i'm afraid of losing access to the magical gremlin inside me, the little dude who allows me to write my stories without worrying about all the analytical "booshit", as russel brand might say. i love writing, and i'm determined not to let learning about it ruin the fun. i just wonder why we monkeys feel the compulsion to overanalyze every single little thing to death ad infinitum. thppt. anyhoo, back to your regular business.

right now, i'm reading: "my happy life" by lydia millet