But when I started taking courses at the doctoral level, I could see I had made a grave error. For anyone out there who may be wondering, pursuing a Ph.D. isn't the best day job for a struggling artist. I wanted to write a novel, but my days and evenings were filled with grading papers, writing papers and reading theory. Meanwhile, the unfinished draft of my novel remained just that: unfinished. To make ends meet, I had to teach summer school and take an extra job, so the "free time" that academia was supposed to allow basically got whittled down to a few weeks a year. My fellow T.A.'s who wanted to teach, who were in the program for the right reasons, continued to take delight in their students and studies, but I grew more hopeless that I would ever have time to do what I really wanted-write.

You might wonder why I didn't drop out of school and take a less time-consuming job that would pay the bills and still allow me time to write. To be honest, I wasn't sure I could support myself with my writing. I worried I didn't really have the potential, and that all the free time in the world wouldn't be enough for me to write a book worth reading. When I started to fret about this, often in the middle of theory class, I tried to boost my spirits by remembering my writing had been praised by people other than well meaning friends and family: Someone at a prep school in New Hampshire had read the first two chapters and almost given me a fellowship.

Many past Bennett Fellows returned to campus this spring to celebrate the fellowship's 35th anniversary. Shown here are (first row, left to right) Anne Campisi, Charlotte Bacon, Sharon Hamilton (widow of James Hamilton), Gina Apostol, Bob Chibka; (second row) Lucy Ferris, Maggie Dietz, Katherine Towler, Laura Moriarty, Kate Bernheimer, Brian Rogers, Priscilla Sneff; (third row) fellowship founder Elias Kulukundis '55, Greg Smith, fellowship director Charles Pratt '52, Rod Kessler, Tim Norris, Kevin McCaughey, Bruce Dobler; (fourth row) Greg Barron, Ilya Kaminsky.

Getting the Call

I had applied for the George Bennett Fellowship for Creative Writing at Phillips Exeter Academy four years earlier, at the same time I was applying for grad school. The flier stated that the fellowship was open to any poet or fiction writer who had not yet published a book-length work. A committee would read all entries, and then choose one writer based on the merit and potential of the writing. That writer would spend an academic year at Exeter, room and board paid. There would be no teaching responsibilities; the winner of the fellowship would only be expected to write.

I had low expectations when I entered that first time. I knew I was still young, and that I hadn't read enough yet. I was right. The rejection letter arrived in March, but it was the most heartening rejection letter I had ever received. Over 150 writers had entered, the letter stated, and my entry had been singled out for an honorable mention. Charlie Pratt-the English instructor who administers the Bennett Fellowship-wrote me a personal note stating that several members of the committee had been moved by my chapters, adding that he hoped I would apply again.

I did. Four years later, several months into the doctoral program I never should have entered, the Bennett Fellowship seemed my only hope. Nevertheless, I waited until December 1, the last possible day entries could be postmarked, to mail the newly revised opening chapters. I remember looking down into the slot of the mailbox after the package had already fallen in, feeling a combination of hope and dread, wondering if I should have gone over it one last time.

"Don't get your hopes up," my sister warned. She meant well. I had confided in her how much I wanted to win the fellowship, how I was checking my mailbox three, four times a day. As January drifted by without word from New Hampshire, I started to lose hope, though I continued to obsessively check my mail. Saturdays with no mail were the worst, because that meant a whole weekend of waiting, the chance of good news diminishing at twice the daily rate.

But it was on a Sunday in early February that I came home from the Laundromat and heard Charlie Pratt's quiet voice on my answering machine, asking me to call him back in New Hampshire right away. When I did, he told me I had been selected as the finalist for the Bennett Fellowship. I would need to fly to New Hampshire by the end of the week, if possible, for an interview.

"Of course," I answered, trying to sound normal. But after I hung up, I had to sit on the floor for a long time, eyes wide, mouth open, slowly convincing myself that I had not imagined the call. I don't know how common it is for people to have moments like this, when they are literally knocked over by good news. I hope it is common. It should happen to everyone at least once. I've had a lucky life in many ways, and I've experienced many kinds of happiness. But getting that phone call from Charlie was perhaps the most exhilarating moment of my life. As I write this, I'm trying hard to avoid the "dream come true" cliché. But winning the Bennett Fellowship that year really was a dream, something I wanted more than anything. And it really did come true.

'Play Is the First Step' As part of the 35th anniversary celebration, Elias Kulukundis '55 gave an Assembly talk describing his decision to endow a fellowship in memory of English instructor George Bennett, "the man who more than anyone had inspired me to write." The author of two books, a translation from Russian, and a play, Kulukundis also spoke of the inspiration he has received, in turn, from the Bennett Fellows. Excerpts from his remarks follow here. Some of you have said I changed your life. Well, you changed my life as well. Since the founding of the Bennett Fellowship in 1968, you have been an inspiration, an example, and for a while a reproach. But you're not a reproach now. For a number of years following the publication of my first book, I found I couldn't write. Suddenly, writing was no longer play. It wasn't even work. It was unending anguish, a thorn in the heart. But then sure enough, life took an unexpected turn. I had a career in business. And a few years ago, I was building two ships, and spending all day haranguing on the phone with the shipbuilders and the ship managers and the ship charterers. And I needed to go to a world where I was the undisputed master. In the evenings, as though by magic, I started to feel the same vibrations I had felt at George Bennett's house years before. They were like the sound of the bell in The Polar Express that goes on ringing for those who can hear it. For me, the bell had been silent for many years, and suddenly, very faintly at first, and then more loudly, it began to ring. And I followed where it led me, into a world where I could hear the sound of its ringing once again. And once again, I began to play. Elias Kulukundis '55 (right) founded the Bennett Fellowship in 1968 to honor his former teacher and mentor George Bennett '23. Attending the anniversary celebration were Bennett's son, Co '60 (left), and his widow, Violette (center). What I started to write was literally a play. A play with music. (I didn't write the music. But I wrote the words.) I worked on it every night when I came home from the office, and the hours would pass and I wouldn't realize how late it was. And I would go to sleep for an hour or two before getting up again. But who cared about sleep? Writing was play. The play grew and grew, and at last it was finished, at about the same time as the ships were. By working all day, I somehow freed myself to do what I wanted at night. What I did at night was only for myself, and I didn't owe it to anyone. And that is the essential quality of play. You don't owe it to anyone, and it has no purpose other than itself, at least for the time you are doing it. What I mean by play is not that what you do is not serious, or that it's not also work. But it is a special kind of work. To create something you have to be willing to spend some time not accomplishing anything that others think is worthwhile. For the time you are doing it, you have to not think about your grade point average or your résumé. You've got to let what you are doing fly out of your hands, the way you throw a frisbee. That is play. If you're tempted to say that that is wasting time, then waste time. If you do enough of that, you may become an artist, and that will become your work. But play is the first step. After I finished, I started revising my first book, The Feasts of Memory, and now that has come out in paperback. And just as I was getting ready to come up here, I finished my second book, The Amorgos Conspiracy, about the escape of a prisoner from an island in Greece. So this reunion is a special one for me. It is my reunion too, my reunion with the profession of writing, with the spirit of George Bennett, and with all of you. -Elias Kulukundis '55