Sunday, September 16, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Creative Writing Class
Every time I went to class, I sat on one side of the conference table and everyone else sat on the other side, with our teacher at the head. It felt a little odd and the teacher even mentioned something about it once, but, no one moved to change. It made doing her seating arrangement much easier.
I had signed up for this writing class in a community education program along with seven others. We were all older people looking for something to do with our time and maybe some had dreams of fulfilling long held wishes of writing that great American novel. But, as it turned out, most were into mysteries.
When it came time to read some of our stories outloud, there were alot of words about blood and guts and how hopefully the main character was going to get away with it all. And, as a result, two weeks into the class, I was falling to sleep at night with visions of gruesome scenes swimming through my head, awakening me in the middle of the night with nightmares.
I began questioning my weak little voice, wanting to discuss feelings and pastelly things. So, I tried on the tough guy for a few minutes, trying to write something interesting with excitement and adventure. But, I couldn't. I wasn't going to make it with this group.
I discussed my predicament with a good friend, who advised me to leave and never look back. But, there was something there pulling me in, showing me a glimmer of hope. I was learning something, but, unable to write. I thought I'd present the quitting idea to my husband, who I knew would be very disdainful of the idea and make me feel like a failure. So, I did and he did. I even went so far as to think I could hide my defection from him and just go to the library where I could read for two hours. But, I then remembered that the class was in the library and a fellow classmate would undoubtedly see me. I'd never get by with it.
So, what was I doing anyway. I didn't have a history of quitting. Once I started with something, I was in for the long haul. Driven by this need to achieve, I realized quitting was not an option. Which led to a pep talk to myself.
Why was I on one side and they were on the other? Who had whom in a headlock? Was I going to let these people push me around? Would they be the ones to decide what I would write and how I was going to do it? It has never been my style to knuckle under.
So, when Wednesday night rolled around, I put all my papers and pens and books in my bag and headed out the door. And, in robot-style, went to class and sat on my own side of the table, staring over at the others across the way. And, noticing that two people were gone. And, by the end of the semester, two more were gone.
That last class was actually fun, with people joking and laughing about first and second voices and opening up about decisions about character development and plots. I told them I had switched to fiction after thinking I wanted to write in a memoir-type style and one of the other tough private detective guys confessed that he wanted a happy ending to his story. Instead of writing the truth about his friend's death, he was going the fiction route and keeping him alive. Yeah, why not keep things happy.
We all filled out our instructor evaluations and left with smiles on our faces, planning on the next online summer class.
(The kicker to this story is that I took it in Louisiana and a year later after returning home to a remote area of Michigan got a notice from our small school library that this teacher was coming to my small town to sign her new book. Small world.)
I had signed up for this writing class in a community education program along with seven others. We were all older people looking for something to do with our time and maybe some had dreams of fulfilling long held wishes of writing that great American novel. But, as it turned out, most were into mysteries.
When it came time to read some of our stories outloud, there were alot of words about blood and guts and how hopefully the main character was going to get away with it all. And, as a result, two weeks into the class, I was falling to sleep at night with visions of gruesome scenes swimming through my head, awakening me in the middle of the night with nightmares.
I began questioning my weak little voice, wanting to discuss feelings and pastelly things. So, I tried on the tough guy for a few minutes, trying to write something interesting with excitement and adventure. But, I couldn't. I wasn't going to make it with this group.
I discussed my predicament with a good friend, who advised me to leave and never look back. But, there was something there pulling me in, showing me a glimmer of hope. I was learning something, but, unable to write. I thought I'd present the quitting idea to my husband, who I knew would be very disdainful of the idea and make me feel like a failure. So, I did and he did. I even went so far as to think I could hide my defection from him and just go to the library where I could read for two hours. But, I then remembered that the class was in the library and a fellow classmate would undoubtedly see me. I'd never get by with it.
So, what was I doing anyway. I didn't have a history of quitting. Once I started with something, I was in for the long haul. Driven by this need to achieve, I realized quitting was not an option. Which led to a pep talk to myself.
Why was I on one side and they were on the other? Who had whom in a headlock? Was I going to let these people push me around? Would they be the ones to decide what I would write and how I was going to do it? It has never been my style to knuckle under.
So, when Wednesday night rolled around, I put all my papers and pens and books in my bag and headed out the door. And, in robot-style, went to class and sat on my own side of the table, staring over at the others across the way. And, noticing that two people were gone. And, by the end of the semester, two more were gone.
That last class was actually fun, with people joking and laughing about first and second voices and opening up about decisions about character development and plots. I told them I had switched to fiction after thinking I wanted to write in a memoir-type style and one of the other tough private detective guys confessed that he wanted a happy ending to his story. Instead of writing the truth about his friend's death, he was going the fiction route and keeping him alive. Yeah, why not keep things happy.
We all filled out our instructor evaluations and left with smiles on our faces, planning on the next online summer class.
(The kicker to this story is that I took it in Louisiana and a year later after returning home to a remote area of Michigan got a notice from our small school library that this teacher was coming to my small town to sign her new book. Small world.)
Message to Anne
Anne:
As I read your note, I smile, ...'as you bring me through my door for the first time in a year'...how funny! Please write stories...that is your calling, I feel...great story teller.
But, maybe, you are more verbal. Maybe, a tape recorder is in order.
Big feminine energy jumps out from the page. Everything to do with the detail. Like lace circling the wrist of a sheer blouse.
Oh those neurotransmitters...my many years on anti-depressants...free from them now.
I've grown to accept that bodies are different. One turns and moves in one way...the other, twists and falls. How to explain. How to live a pain-free existence. I guess that is what we all search for here on facebook.
And, honesty. It is the best 'policy'. I've put many a foot in my own mouth. I still struggle with not knowing the right thing to say/do at the right time. I get in trouble almost daily with misunderstandings. So, I'm thinking I need to talk and explain more. I am thinking that will help. I tend to be the quiet one sitting attentively. In a group, I'm the one the teacher will turn to and ask a question. And, I'm the one who fumbles around and ends up looking like 'duh'. I think they refer to this as 'self-esteem'. I've bought many a book on the subject. And, the thing that grows it the most is expression. Can't listen too much to anyone else. You have to do your 'own thing'. Express. Do. In whatever form that takes. Thanks so much for your words and good feelings. They come through the page. I struggle with wanting to make you all better. But, beginning to accept.
Mucho gratias. Nan
As I read your note, I smile, ...'as you bring me through my door for the first time in a year'...how funny! Please write stories...that is your calling, I feel...great story teller.
But, maybe, you are more verbal. Maybe, a tape recorder is in order.
Big feminine energy jumps out from the page. Everything to do with the detail. Like lace circling the wrist of a sheer blouse.
Oh those neurotransmitters...my many years on anti-depressants...free from them now.
I've grown to accept that bodies are different. One turns and moves in one way...the other, twists and falls. How to explain. How to live a pain-free existence. I guess that is what we all search for here on facebook.
And, honesty. It is the best 'policy'. I've put many a foot in my own mouth. I still struggle with not knowing the right thing to say/do at the right time. I get in trouble almost daily with misunderstandings. So, I'm thinking I need to talk and explain more. I am thinking that will help. I tend to be the quiet one sitting attentively. In a group, I'm the one the teacher will turn to and ask a question. And, I'm the one who fumbles around and ends up looking like 'duh'. I think they refer to this as 'self-esteem'. I've bought many a book on the subject. And, the thing that grows it the most is expression. Can't listen too much to anyone else. You have to do your 'own thing'. Express. Do. In whatever form that takes. Thanks so much for your words and good feelings. They come through the page. I struggle with wanting to make you all better. But, beginning to accept.
Mucho gratias. Nan
Identity
I am the one who is locking my car.
I am the one walking to the entrance of the store.
I am the one selecting the shopping cart to push into the store.
I am the one pushing and seeing the clerks in the store
I am the one picking up the apples and wondering why organic has to be so bad looking and knowing the answer and putting them in my cart anyway.
When I am looking for a title.
I need to be called something.
Searching for the words to write on the form in response to the question on job title.
I think the census asked this question.
When I am asked to say something about myself at a Yoga workshop.
Rambling on not knowing the words.
What do I need to contribute to this situation about myself.
And, the people before me didn't just give their names and a short answer. They said more. So, I need to say more.
And, how honest? Heartfelt.
I am the one walking to the entrance of the store.
I am the one selecting the shopping cart to push into the store.
I am the one pushing and seeing the clerks in the store
I am the one picking up the apples and wondering why organic has to be so bad looking and knowing the answer and putting them in my cart anyway.
When I am looking for a title.
I need to be called something.
Searching for the words to write on the form in response to the question on job title.
I think the census asked this question.
When I am asked to say something about myself at a Yoga workshop.
Rambling on not knowing the words.
What do I need to contribute to this situation about myself.
And, the people before me didn't just give their names and a short answer. They said more. So, I need to say more.
And, how honest? Heartfelt.
Childhood Memories
My best friend, Maureen, lives down the block and across the busy street.
So, I can't run over there to visit any time I want. She and I are the only kids in the neighborhood who go to a Catholic school, so we walk home together. Sometimes, I just keep walking and talking with her when we are passing my home and we carefully cross Broadway to get to her home.
My mom doesn't know my friends like Maureen and doesn't know that I love the smell of sugar cookies. I don't care if I have to climb all those stairs to get to her apartment. Things are quiet here in the dark halls. And, her kitchen floor is coming loose in places, like the wind came through and made bubbles that don't crunch down all the way when you walk on them. We can hear her bird walking around in his cage. She and her brother, Mike are so poor that they had to save up their money from a card sale to go to Woolworths to buy him. I think it's a him.
Getting Older-Stealing
Today, I tried to steal a table and two chairs.
I had almost made the getaway, when Albert comes running out of nowhere. He is yelling at me and waving me to stop. And, as he is helping me unload my stash, he comments on how heavy the table was, as I clutch tighter, afraid of losing my grip on it. And, pointing out to him that the top is coming loose from the base. Still, in my mind, I'm thinking with a little paint it could have been perfect for the small alcove by the front door. The plan was for me to sit out there in the morning with a cup of coffee enjoying the birds.
In the past, getting caught red-handed like this would have caused great embarrassment, but, that is one of the advantages of getting older. You get used to those awkward moments. And, the general public will usually overlook some of the crazy stuff.
And, to think just earlier in the day, I was whining to myself about how old I felt and how this group of young people I was with made me feel like I used to feel when I was subbing and would run into a student. Like I was the only adult present.
I had almost made the getaway, when Albert comes running out of nowhere. He is yelling at me and waving me to stop. And, as he is helping me unload my stash, he comments on how heavy the table was, as I clutch tighter, afraid of losing my grip on it. And, pointing out to him that the top is coming loose from the base. Still, in my mind, I'm thinking with a little paint it could have been perfect for the small alcove by the front door. The plan was for me to sit out there in the morning with a cup of coffee enjoying the birds.
In the past, getting caught red-handed like this would have caused great embarrassment, but, that is one of the advantages of getting older. You get used to those awkward moments. And, the general public will usually overlook some of the crazy stuff.
And, to think just earlier in the day, I was whining to myself about how old I felt and how this group of young people I was with made me feel like I used to feel when I was subbing and would run into a student. Like I was the only adult present.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)