Last night was the most heartening class yet, and I’m almost…bummed out about it. Because, let's be honest here: when shit sucks, writing is just soooo much more inspired then when everything is happy and wonderful. Which is an interesting discussion in itself, right, and a topic I have wondered about since I had my first real breakthrough with my fiction writing. That is: do you need to suffer in order to create your greatest and most expressive art?
For me, that particular breakthrough piece of mine was written during a highly tumultuous and brutally emotional period in my life, and channeling those feelings resulted in the best fiction piece I ever wrote. Shit, even with my nonfiction writing, it was always something remarkable or powerful that urged me to put my thoughts to the page in a way that resulted in something meaningful, versus were I to write about something run-of-the-mill. So when everything is going great - like this class - well, what the fuck do I write here?
It should be noted that I have not made up my mind on that front, the whole suffering v. creativity thing. Not even with the totally convincing video we were told to watch as a precursor to the first class. (For those of you who are interested, it was a David Lynch written/narrated video about the idea of creativity. What stuck out to me was how he firmly believes you *do not* need to suffer in order to create, memorable mostly due to his elegant argument, which was, well: “if Van Gogh suffered from constant diarrhea, how could he ever have had the time to paint Starry Night between trips to the bathroom?” I shit you not, and, pun intended.) So yes. Even with such elevated prose as that, a small part of me will probably always remain in the school of thought that challenging situations will result in the greatest stories.
But, alas, in the meantime, here we are: class is going well, I’m actually learning things, I’m getting past my own inner obstacles, and holy shit, I have no idea how to make that humorously bitter at all.
So, instead of my usual grumblings, I’ve decided, at least for this week, to post what I wrote during one of the exercises.
To set the scene, what we focused on in class this week, was “point of view”, which was to me, a natural progression from last week’s theme of “authentic voice”. It was also much more in depth than last week, given that class didn’t simply open with a quote of an author’s take on the subject, but was promptly followed by a solid 15 minute discussion. What this quote said, in part anyway, was that in writing, there are two pictures going on at once: what the character sees, what the world is, and the writer’s job is to make the reader see only one – what the writer sees. I liked that, and I liked how when other students began to speak up, that many of them suffer from the same issues and questions that I do. Not that I’m rooting for my fellow students to be in the woods and filled with despair, but I felt a real sense of camaraderie in our grievances. Such as: what should I describe? What should I leave blurry and out of focus, and what should I make sharp and clear? Should I describe setting and landscape, or should I hone-in more on the characters thoughts and inner voice?
The take-away was for me was that a lot of that gets hammered out through practice, and that do what feels right to you.
All that in mind, the first exercise was us closing our eyes, and her talking about a doorway. She wanted us to visualize the doorway, what it looks like, what the room we're in looks like. Then through the doorway, what do we see? What do we notice first? A smell, the light, a feeling, what? I remembered thinking damn, I really should meditate because this is crazy how calm and focused I’m feeling.
But then, bam, “Open your eyes, write what you saw”.
Without further ado, what I saw:
The door is just barely ajar, a short sliver of light curling like a beckoning finger. My heart is racing as I walk slowly towards it, the floorboards under my feet creaking with each step I take. Shadows cling to the walls like cobwebs, and living in their threads are the echoes of children’s laughter, and then, of screams.
I don’t know why I came back here. I don’t know why I drove all this way. How many years did I try to put this place behind me? How many years did I try to gouge out my own inner eyes to the memories of this house-
“Jane.”
I whirl around in a flurry of heartbeats. I can barely see who has called my name from the darkness, but then he emerges, his face just as white-washed and sickly-looking as when we were kids. “Michael?” I say in disbelief, “How – when did you – “ “You felt it too, then,” is all he says. My mouth snaps shut, but too late – it’s utterly dry, my sawdust tongue unable to evade what is happening. His eyes, so big and brown, are still so filled with sadness. I stare at him, then slowly, I nod. We turn to the door. It hasn’t moved, and yet, it seems to open wide to call us towards it, to cross its threshold and enter a room we hadn’t stepped foot in for decades.
And...that's it, haha. As I retyped it from my notes for this post, I am considering maybe bringing a laptop to the next class, because hot damn, I write WAY slower by hand.
Anyway, til next week...
Friday, January 24, 2020
Friday, January 17, 2020
Elena and Her Neuroses Take A Writing Class: WEEK TWO
The only positive thing I felt today was, how positive I was that it was going to suck.
I had managed to move past the state of hopelessness with which last week’s class had left me, but now that the day of Week Two had arrived, its bitter taste was once again riddling my mouth and filling me with stomach-knotting despair. As a result, I plodded through my day with a sense of impending doom, checking the clock as I cooked, browsed Reddit, watched the news, and cooked some more. For there was a threshold: once it got to be 6:30, it was do-or-die. Well, do-or-just…don’t do. And I while deep down, I knew I was probably going to go, I was still throwing every possible sabotage in my path to delay the inevitable past that point of no return.
After hours of inner turmoil, the clock hit 4:45. The last vestiges of daylight were disappearing beyond the train tracks, and I too, was descending: into my bed, wrapped in a blanket, and snuggled with my two kitties. I knew I should go, if only to write this stupid follow-up, and if only to prove to my bar regulars that I wasn’t some pussy afraid of a dumb writing class, and yet…I was struggling. It would be so easy to just stay here, to throw in the towel before I even picked it up, and bow out of attending a class that made me feel so wildly and horribly inept.
I texted my boyfriend that I was having trouble, that I couldn’t scrounge up even the slightest will to go for my run, let alone to fix my bike’s flat, to shower, or to go to class.
“Start small,” he said, “Put socks on.”
I sighed inwardly, putting my phone down and mulling the wall.
Okay. Fine.
Ten minutes later, my bike was fixed. I was taking down the recycling, pausing at the door of our apartment. Deciding what I had the willingness, and time for, to do next. It was 5:30. And I decided: I’m going to run to class.
It was 5 miles each way, which, all tallied up, was a longer run than I’d ever done in my life. But, as I layered up and set my playlist, I figured that even if the class was another total and utter failure, at least I would be pushing myself past expectations physically.
I get there with 10 minutes to spare, and I feel…good. Running was a good choice. I immediately see that I’m the first to arrive, and I can also see the instructor isn’t thrilled. Who would be thrilled, after the joke of “writing” I put forth last week? I knew she’d rather have the stars of the class that had come forth last session, not me. But I force myself to stop thinking that way, instead engaging her in friendly conversation, and then excuse myself to the restroom to wash my face. Others start to trickle in, and when the door is locked and class begins, I see only half of us are here this week. And I feel a small sense of achievement: I could have been one of the missing. But I’m not. I made it.
And I’m glad: class this time is already different. Yes, it’s the same model: series of writing prompts, reading out loud if you want, and giving only positive feedback. But there’s an actual theme to the class this week – “authentic voice” – and instead of just leaving it at that, the instructor gives us tools to help us write authentically. I can hardly believe it: glimmers of hope start to pop up like small blades of grass within me. Because I might actually get something out of showing up today.
One of the tools, she says, to truly writing in your own voice is to avoid clichés. She’s scattered the tabletops with small strips of paper, each one with a different cliché. She tells us to pick one and write a story based on it, but without ever using it in the story itself. Maybe I should have picked a different one, because the one in my hand has me stumped. “Loose cannon”, I read, over and over. Loose cannon. Fuck me. I’m at a loss. I finally start to write about a time I was covering a shift and indeed, there was a VERY loose cannon customer. But I hate it as I write it. I don’t want my identity in this class to be “bartender”. I don’t want this to be what my writing revolves around. So in an effort to make it seem at least fictional, I try to make the narrator not sound like me. I try to make it more like a short story, and less like one of my blog posts. But by the time it’s Pens Down, I’ve still only managed to write backstory and hadn’t even gotten to the actual loose cannon part.
As you can imagine, I do not volunteer to read it out loud.
Others do, and they are all painfully good.
The instructor moves on to introducing the next exercise, during which I jot down notes for my future benefit: “GET TO THE POINT” “Just tell the story” “Skip the backstory”, which are things that the others all manage to do consistently, and seemingly, with ease.
The next tool she talks to us about, is that of using descriptors. Which, I admit, is good advice – everyone notices things differently, and everyone notices different things. We are asked to close our eyes as she places an item in our hands, hear her telling us to use our senses to explore it, and write a story about it.
She’s given each of us a cinnamon stick.
And well, I don't know about you, but I certainly never thought a cinnamon stick would be the thing to bring me to the brink of a breakdown, but here we are. All I can think of, as I hold and smell this prop, is how good everyone in this class is. How great they are at the things I am not. How I just can’t seem to do this. How maybe I shouldn’t be writing fiction at all. How I should just pick up my shit and leave, and tell the instructor: “I’m sorry. But I can’t write.” I swallow the tears and sobs, and force myself to focus.
I try one beginning, then another, then another, crossing each one out. God damn it. This was so hard. I try again. Okay. I like this opening, well, at least in comparison to the other shit I had written, and go with it.
I get three paragraphs in, and again, feel tears of frustration and disappointment ready to burst out of me. It sucks. I suck. Who was I kidding, ever thinking I could be a writer? Who was I kidding, thinking I might actually have a semblance of a chance of doing this, for real, when there’s so many better, more talented, writers out there? I look around the small space, its walls papered with signs for writing events and writing open mics, and think of all the other people trying to be writers too, and I become overwhelmed by the wave of reality, and have never felt more small.
But, no. Stop. I look down to what I’ve written, and try to focus on at least editing it, if I’m not going to move forward with it. It’s not awful, but I have no idea where the fuck it’s going. I think. Okay. It’s got two female roommates, polar opposites that no one understands how they are friends. A small but bright apartment that smells of cinnamon and cigarettes. I think back to when I had a roommate like that, and the time her ex came to the apartment threatening to break in and kill her, and we had to call the cops. If my two characters bonded over an experience like that, it could explain their friendship. So I go with it, writing furiously until times up. And when I put my pen down, I actually feel, once again, a sense of accomplishment.
It was sort of how I felt after class, when I ran home, and successfully planted my flag not only on my longest run, but also in pushing myself past nearly giving up on my writing. It had been a fierce and sharp reminder that my writing is mine, and I have the power to make it it's best. Where I had been feeling that my writing as so clumsy and pedestrian in comparison to others in the class, instead of letting my negativity consume me, I forced myself to hunker down. I did my best to forget about tearing myself apart in the moment, to instead really hone-in on writing on a level I know I can, even when it seems like I can't.
It was hard, man. It was harder than my 100 Days blog when all the shitty, dark truths I had to accept about myself, came to light. But that’s when I knew: this class is too important and valuable to stop now. Because when something is this hard, when something makes me want to give up so quickly, it means the growth that will come from it will be invaluable and incredible. But its on me to make that happen. And though I will probably face many near-breakdowns in the weeks to come, I know in the end, it will be worth it.
And if nothing else, I’ll come out of a it a much better runner.
I had managed to move past the state of hopelessness with which last week’s class had left me, but now that the day of Week Two had arrived, its bitter taste was once again riddling my mouth and filling me with stomach-knotting despair. As a result, I plodded through my day with a sense of impending doom, checking the clock as I cooked, browsed Reddit, watched the news, and cooked some more. For there was a threshold: once it got to be 6:30, it was do-or-die. Well, do-or-just…don’t do. And I while deep down, I knew I was probably going to go, I was still throwing every possible sabotage in my path to delay the inevitable past that point of no return.
After hours of inner turmoil, the clock hit 4:45. The last vestiges of daylight were disappearing beyond the train tracks, and I too, was descending: into my bed, wrapped in a blanket, and snuggled with my two kitties. I knew I should go, if only to write this stupid follow-up, and if only to prove to my bar regulars that I wasn’t some pussy afraid of a dumb writing class, and yet…I was struggling. It would be so easy to just stay here, to throw in the towel before I even picked it up, and bow out of attending a class that made me feel so wildly and horribly inept.
I texted my boyfriend that I was having trouble, that I couldn’t scrounge up even the slightest will to go for my run, let alone to fix my bike’s flat, to shower, or to go to class.
“Start small,” he said, “Put socks on.”
I sighed inwardly, putting my phone down and mulling the wall.
Okay. Fine.
Ten minutes later, my bike was fixed. I was taking down the recycling, pausing at the door of our apartment. Deciding what I had the willingness, and time for, to do next. It was 5:30. And I decided: I’m going to run to class.
It was 5 miles each way, which, all tallied up, was a longer run than I’d ever done in my life. But, as I layered up and set my playlist, I figured that even if the class was another total and utter failure, at least I would be pushing myself past expectations physically.
I get there with 10 minutes to spare, and I feel…good. Running was a good choice. I immediately see that I’m the first to arrive, and I can also see the instructor isn’t thrilled. Who would be thrilled, after the joke of “writing” I put forth last week? I knew she’d rather have the stars of the class that had come forth last session, not me. But I force myself to stop thinking that way, instead engaging her in friendly conversation, and then excuse myself to the restroom to wash my face. Others start to trickle in, and when the door is locked and class begins, I see only half of us are here this week. And I feel a small sense of achievement: I could have been one of the missing. But I’m not. I made it.
And I’m glad: class this time is already different. Yes, it’s the same model: series of writing prompts, reading out loud if you want, and giving only positive feedback. But there’s an actual theme to the class this week – “authentic voice” – and instead of just leaving it at that, the instructor gives us tools to help us write authentically. I can hardly believe it: glimmers of hope start to pop up like small blades of grass within me. Because I might actually get something out of showing up today.
One of the tools, she says, to truly writing in your own voice is to avoid clichés. She’s scattered the tabletops with small strips of paper, each one with a different cliché. She tells us to pick one and write a story based on it, but without ever using it in the story itself. Maybe I should have picked a different one, because the one in my hand has me stumped. “Loose cannon”, I read, over and over. Loose cannon. Fuck me. I’m at a loss. I finally start to write about a time I was covering a shift and indeed, there was a VERY loose cannon customer. But I hate it as I write it. I don’t want my identity in this class to be “bartender”. I don’t want this to be what my writing revolves around. So in an effort to make it seem at least fictional, I try to make the narrator not sound like me. I try to make it more like a short story, and less like one of my blog posts. But by the time it’s Pens Down, I’ve still only managed to write backstory and hadn’t even gotten to the actual loose cannon part.
As you can imagine, I do not volunteer to read it out loud.
Others do, and they are all painfully good.
The instructor moves on to introducing the next exercise, during which I jot down notes for my future benefit: “GET TO THE POINT” “Just tell the story” “Skip the backstory”, which are things that the others all manage to do consistently, and seemingly, with ease.
The next tool she talks to us about, is that of using descriptors. Which, I admit, is good advice – everyone notices things differently, and everyone notices different things. We are asked to close our eyes as she places an item in our hands, hear her telling us to use our senses to explore it, and write a story about it.
She’s given each of us a cinnamon stick.
And well, I don't know about you, but I certainly never thought a cinnamon stick would be the thing to bring me to the brink of a breakdown, but here we are. All I can think of, as I hold and smell this prop, is how good everyone in this class is. How great they are at the things I am not. How I just can’t seem to do this. How maybe I shouldn’t be writing fiction at all. How I should just pick up my shit and leave, and tell the instructor: “I’m sorry. But I can’t write.” I swallow the tears and sobs, and force myself to focus.
I try one beginning, then another, then another, crossing each one out. God damn it. This was so hard. I try again. Okay. I like this opening, well, at least in comparison to the other shit I had written, and go with it.
I get three paragraphs in, and again, feel tears of frustration and disappointment ready to burst out of me. It sucks. I suck. Who was I kidding, ever thinking I could be a writer? Who was I kidding, thinking I might actually have a semblance of a chance of doing this, for real, when there’s so many better, more talented, writers out there? I look around the small space, its walls papered with signs for writing events and writing open mics, and think of all the other people trying to be writers too, and I become overwhelmed by the wave of reality, and have never felt more small.
But, no. Stop. I look down to what I’ve written, and try to focus on at least editing it, if I’m not going to move forward with it. It’s not awful, but I have no idea where the fuck it’s going. I think. Okay. It’s got two female roommates, polar opposites that no one understands how they are friends. A small but bright apartment that smells of cinnamon and cigarettes. I think back to when I had a roommate like that, and the time her ex came to the apartment threatening to break in and kill her, and we had to call the cops. If my two characters bonded over an experience like that, it could explain their friendship. So I go with it, writing furiously until times up. And when I put my pen down, I actually feel, once again, a sense of accomplishment.
It was sort of how I felt after class, when I ran home, and successfully planted my flag not only on my longest run, but also in pushing myself past nearly giving up on my writing. It had been a fierce and sharp reminder that my writing is mine, and I have the power to make it it's best. Where I had been feeling that my writing as so clumsy and pedestrian in comparison to others in the class, instead of letting my negativity consume me, I forced myself to hunker down. I did my best to forget about tearing myself apart in the moment, to instead really hone-in on writing on a level I know I can, even when it seems like I can't.
It was hard, man. It was harder than my 100 Days blog when all the shitty, dark truths I had to accept about myself, came to light. But that’s when I knew: this class is too important and valuable to stop now. Because when something is this hard, when something makes me want to give up so quickly, it means the growth that will come from it will be invaluable and incredible. But its on me to make that happen. And though I will probably face many near-breakdowns in the weeks to come, I know in the end, it will be worth it.
And if nothing else, I’ll come out of a it a much better runner.
Friday, January 10, 2020
Elena and Her Neuroses Take A Writing Class: WEEK ONE
I finally did it. I committed to a seven week creative writing course, sacrificing my Thursday nights shift to attend the 90-minute class in Brooklyn. How did I feel about it, in the days leading up to it? It was weird. I didn't really feel much. I was trying to not, in order to avoid things like nerves or having a wall up. I was...open, if you will, to whatever it might bring.
So, how did my first class go?
This might sum it up nicely: I came home and stress-ate carbs for an hour, while watching “The Keepers”, a docu-series about a murdered nun, to help take my mind off things, until I passed out on the couch.
I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty scarred when it comes to being open with my artistic creations I don’t feel confident in. Actually, generally speaking, I will not put myself out there at all, if I don’t feel confident. I’ve always been that way, whether it’s at a new job, or a new school, or a house party where I don’t know anyone while knowing all too well, how little I fit in. I will be quiet, observe, glean what I can, bitterly and inwardly admire those who are clearly more advanced and better than I am, and sit back until I feel ready and sure enough in myself to step up, and be heard. Which is sometimes, sadly, never.
At this rate, my time to shine’s gonna be my literal deathbed confession.
And knowing that fills me with a rapid, suffocating, sense of panic.
After I made the choice to stop pursuing an opera career, part of it was because I really thought writing was it for me. Nothing else I’d ever done came as naturally. I was never able to execute any other creative outlet as honestly and openly and even…powerfully, as I was with the written word. It was something I couldn’t stay away from, even if I tried, and where all other aspects of my life waxed and waned, writing was a constant. It was the one thing that could actually, literally, make my day. More than a crush saying they liked me back, more than cooking the best thing I ever cooked, more than making a shit ton of money in a shift.
And now I’m in this class, confused, deflated, humbled, and sad. Because…wow.
I’m pretty shit at this.
And that wasn’t the lesson I needed.
I am, probably more so than anyone else is towards me, extremely hard on and critical of myself. It’s a detriment, in many ways, because it stops me, more often than not, from pursuing something that even mildly interests me. I am so cautious about potential failure, of looking bad, of not being my best, that I don’t even try. It’s kept from committing to travel, moves, job changes, etc., and I’m left in this place where not much about me has changed. And in the mildly glaring lights of the classroom last night, I became painfully aware of how very stuck I am, of how very unevolved and uninteresting. It’s the mirror I tend to avoid, because it’s the mirror I polish with one eye closed.
And man, it sucked.
Yes, sure, as I write this, the hormones are raging. Which is pretty sweet; it’s a 7 week course, so it should conclude in a nice full cycle, if you will. But I don’t know, I don’t think it’s the hormones that are making me feel sad. I think it’s the notion that the one thing that makes me happy, the way opera used to, could be the one thing to break my heart more than anything else ever will – again.
It’s a hard exercise, to look at yourself under an even more critical lens than you already do. Like, dude, I know I got enough shortcomings to deal with, like, really? We gotta pile on even more? The irony is, this class is, eye-rollingly so at times, a “Safe Space” class. I mean it. No criticisms, no negative feedback, only positive and glowing responses allowed. For the entirety of the course.
And like, that’s cool, I guess, but how am I supposed to grow? Like this? Like sitting here, in the quiet corner, hearing how great the other writers are as they read aloud, while I look down at the filled page in my notebook with distaste and disappointment in myself? Like confirming what I already feared: that my fiction is hokey and mediocre and wandering, at best? Man, I don’t want my fellow classmates to sift through the pile of whatever shit writing prompt exercise I managed to eke out, and extract the one mildly-encouraging piece of feedback they might have. I don’t want them to affirm my shittiness, either; I want answers, god damn it! I want to know if what I’m attempting to do – writing fiction – is something I’m capable of. If stories don’t whirl around my mind at Stephen King speed, should I be trying at all? If my writing is somewhat…pedestrian, elementary, unrefined, should I even be here? If fiction doesn’t come as easily to me as, say, writing about my sex life and gender roles does, should I maybe not be writing fiction?
Self-doubt is an admitted plague within me, and honestly…I don’t want to have to resort to fucking carbs and true crime documentaries to provide me reprieve. I want to actually grow; will this class help with that?
I don’t know. I texted a buddy after, who also writes, who’s taken many a writing class, and he gave me a piece of great advice: “Don’t compare yourself to others. Compare yourself to you, now, to you in seven weeks from now.” That was pretty great. Not enough to keep me going back, but pretty great. No, I think my documenting my experience after each class will be the thing. Hold me accountable, make sure I go, so I can write some shitty prompt exercises, feel terrible about myself, and bike home.
Seven weeks, seven posts, seven nights of overeating and tears.
Let’s do it.
So, how did my first class go?
This might sum it up nicely: I came home and stress-ate carbs for an hour, while watching “The Keepers”, a docu-series about a murdered nun, to help take my mind off things, until I passed out on the couch.
I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty scarred when it comes to being open with my artistic creations I don’t feel confident in. Actually, generally speaking, I will not put myself out there at all, if I don’t feel confident. I’ve always been that way, whether it’s at a new job, or a new school, or a house party where I don’t know anyone while knowing all too well, how little I fit in. I will be quiet, observe, glean what I can, bitterly and inwardly admire those who are clearly more advanced and better than I am, and sit back until I feel ready and sure enough in myself to step up, and be heard. Which is sometimes, sadly, never.
At this rate, my time to shine’s gonna be my literal deathbed confession.
And knowing that fills me with a rapid, suffocating, sense of panic.
After I made the choice to stop pursuing an opera career, part of it was because I really thought writing was it for me. Nothing else I’d ever done came as naturally. I was never able to execute any other creative outlet as honestly and openly and even…powerfully, as I was with the written word. It was something I couldn’t stay away from, even if I tried, and where all other aspects of my life waxed and waned, writing was a constant. It was the one thing that could actually, literally, make my day. More than a crush saying they liked me back, more than cooking the best thing I ever cooked, more than making a shit ton of money in a shift.
And now I’m in this class, confused, deflated, humbled, and sad. Because…wow.
I’m pretty shit at this.
And that wasn’t the lesson I needed.
I am, probably more so than anyone else is towards me, extremely hard on and critical of myself. It’s a detriment, in many ways, because it stops me, more often than not, from pursuing something that even mildly interests me. I am so cautious about potential failure, of looking bad, of not being my best, that I don’t even try. It’s kept from committing to travel, moves, job changes, etc., and I’m left in this place where not much about me has changed. And in the mildly glaring lights of the classroom last night, I became painfully aware of how very stuck I am, of how very unevolved and uninteresting. It’s the mirror I tend to avoid, because it’s the mirror I polish with one eye closed.
And man, it sucked.
Yes, sure, as I write this, the hormones are raging. Which is pretty sweet; it’s a 7 week course, so it should conclude in a nice full cycle, if you will. But I don’t know, I don’t think it’s the hormones that are making me feel sad. I think it’s the notion that the one thing that makes me happy, the way opera used to, could be the one thing to break my heart more than anything else ever will – again.
It’s a hard exercise, to look at yourself under an even more critical lens than you already do. Like, dude, I know I got enough shortcomings to deal with, like, really? We gotta pile on even more? The irony is, this class is, eye-rollingly so at times, a “Safe Space” class. I mean it. No criticisms, no negative feedback, only positive and glowing responses allowed. For the entirety of the course.
And like, that’s cool, I guess, but how am I supposed to grow? Like this? Like sitting here, in the quiet corner, hearing how great the other writers are as they read aloud, while I look down at the filled page in my notebook with distaste and disappointment in myself? Like confirming what I already feared: that my fiction is hokey and mediocre and wandering, at best? Man, I don’t want my fellow classmates to sift through the pile of whatever shit writing prompt exercise I managed to eke out, and extract the one mildly-encouraging piece of feedback they might have. I don’t want them to affirm my shittiness, either; I want answers, god damn it! I want to know if what I’m attempting to do – writing fiction – is something I’m capable of. If stories don’t whirl around my mind at Stephen King speed, should I be trying at all? If my writing is somewhat…pedestrian, elementary, unrefined, should I even be here? If fiction doesn’t come as easily to me as, say, writing about my sex life and gender roles does, should I maybe not be writing fiction?
Self-doubt is an admitted plague within me, and honestly…I don’t want to have to resort to fucking carbs and true crime documentaries to provide me reprieve. I want to actually grow; will this class help with that?
I don’t know. I texted a buddy after, who also writes, who’s taken many a writing class, and he gave me a piece of great advice: “Don’t compare yourself to others. Compare yourself to you, now, to you in seven weeks from now.” That was pretty great. Not enough to keep me going back, but pretty great. No, I think my documenting my experience after each class will be the thing. Hold me accountable, make sure I go, so I can write some shitty prompt exercises, feel terrible about myself, and bike home.
Seven weeks, seven posts, seven nights of overeating and tears.
Let’s do it.
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