I don't know about you all, but I am thoroughly exhausted. A five week class is almost too much on the old brain, isn't it? But we push on . . .
I suppose that's what I am asking you to do. Push. Through safe writing and perfect grammar for something more, something new. (Look, a sentence fragment.)
Some of you seemed to struggle today, and I may have lost one or two of you after grades were logged. That saddens me. The most valuable A I ever earned was with Jon Bolton after believing it would be that horrifying B (after all, that is what he put on my paper). And the best B I ever earned was with someone much more dangerous and looming--and I learned more in that class than any other. But, I suppose, that will come in time and retrospect when your "real lives" become your daily lives, or when you have to give a student you are just flat crazy about anything less than a 100.
I've mentioned before: what if this were the last class I ever taught? What would I give to it? What would I risk? Which makes me wonder: what if this were the last class you ever took? Are you sure you would just want it to slide by?
I remember one of my professors telling me to not be so invested, so close-chested, to my work as to not see its potential to be even better. So, instead of waxing philosophical in this Monday blog, let me ask you:
Can you?
Push harder?
Write harder?
Be better?
Or do we all sincerely believe that we are "good enough?"
Where do you see yourself backing down from the battle of writing?
And if this is all just a bit too academic, let me insert something more poetic.
I had a student back in 2004, let's call her Susan. Susan asked questions that others would have balked at, backed away from, and ignored. Susan revised and revised and revised and bled all over her page, never missed a class, peer-reviewed with a vengeance, and read her assignments with a voracity that bordered on hunger. I remember that she was tall, blue-eyed, and wore a lot of hats.
On her last paper, I gave Susan an A. She asked me how it could get better. Stayed after class and picked my brain and talked about how words were magic and how she wished she could spend every day eating them, crafting them, and making them spin in the air.
Susan had only three weeks left to live. The brain tumor was taking that spark out of her eyes with every breath she shared with me, yet, she went down fighting with a kind of courage that I have only seen in old men. And she never backed down. I went to her funeral, stood in the sweltering heat in Mississippi and listened to poetry she had written as a child--something about peanut butter. Hugged her mother and cried all the way home in an old beat-up Chevy Nova, all I could afford as an English teacher and the best car I ever had the honor of sobbing in.
And I became a better writer. It was the least I could do. I had time left. Time.
But wait. I'm not asking this kind of sacrifice of you, it's not even on the syllabus. I am asking for more push. I see those sparks, that love for words, and I wonder--
How far are you willing to go, Advanced Comp? How "advanced" would you like to be? Have you, at the end of the day, given it all you had?
And lastly, a quote:
"I'm not ever going to feel that way again. You don't get that twice."
Investigator:
"Most don't get it once." Mystic River
Someday, I want to write so well that I believe myself.
ReplyDeleteI was looking back at some of my high school work, even papers from last year, and I got so tired of digging through all of the flowery language and uselessly impressive vocabulary that I didn’t make it through one full essay. My sentences were flawless – they lacked all grammatical errors and they flowed in a way that was easy on the ears. But what did they say? Nothing. The danger of having a way with words is that you can often get away with saying nothing at all in a very pretty way. You can fool people.
Problem: You can’t fool yourself.
When I read my own writing I see through all of the literary tools and stylistic elements. I see through the put-on and the bla bla bla.
I see me.
Unfortunately, I have yet to earn the warrant of writing as me. I can take on different personas, mimic someone else’s style, even create my own voice to tell a story – but I have yet to look back on one of my essays and be convinced that I wrote honestly, as the me that I know. I see my writing style, I see my favorite conventions – but where are the signs of my identity? It’s not easy to write for someone who knows you inside and out, knows your thoughts, feelings, fears, secrets. Writing for strangers is a piece of cake – use the right tools and they’ll pat you on the back. But, if we cannot convince ourselves that our writing is honest and true, we strive in vain to truly move our readers.
I have always hoped that one day I would write a book - Dr. P’s post made me think about that. What if I found out that I had a few weeks to live? I think I would start my book. A book would be something for me to leave behind that could still touch the lives of others long after my death. I would tell all. (Three weeks to live - why not?) I would talk about my relationship with Jesus Christ, my feelings for all of my family and friends, my passions, my fears, my hopes, my dreams, my view of the world. No stone would go unturned.
But, am I really going to wait until death comes knocking (hopefully many years from now) before I write honestly about what matters to me? I hope not.
I guess that’s it, that’s where I’m “backing down from the battle of writing.” I’m not using the warrant that I have just by being born – the warrant of me. That’s where I want to push harder. I want to face my fears of wearing that warrant with confidence.
And, who knows, maybe I just took the first step.
The warrant of me. Gorgeous, Kristin.
ReplyDeleteI most definitely can improve as writer. I read or heard somewhere that Denzel Washington still takes acting classes from time to time. Why would such a seasoned and well know actor take an acting class? Aren’t those for newbie wannabe actors? The reason is because Denzel takes pride in acting as a craft. Denzel possibly sees acting as one bare room that you can redesign multiple ways. With a craft you can learn new fresh techniques to do your craft better, improve your weaknesses in the craft, and also gain awareness of how different people approach the same craft. The same is true for our writing, but I feel like sometimes we get complacent in our crafts. We are comfortable with the way we write because it works and gets the job done. It can be weird to start a sentence with a bit fat AND. I know that some Grammar Gestapo are convulsing as I write this blog. But sometimes the rules have to be broken in order for the beauty of the writing to flourish. Dr. P’s gives constant call to action for us to try different things in our writing and approach our writing with a different lens. I find myself using the parenthesis more in my papers and blogs as a way to flip the script. Traditionally, I would usually just create an appositive, a fancy term for setting off nonessential items in a sentence, which I just did, but parentheses can perform the same job.
ReplyDeleteThe pushing exercise we did today was interesting because we gave our fellow classmates fresh perspective about their own writing. We suggested them another vibrant color that they use for their bare room. Dr. P has mentioned in class how we get in this committed, I-love-my-writing-like-I-love- a fiancée that sometimes we miss the opportunity to break up and try something new. I guess one reason main reason why I feel like I have gotten complacent in my writing is because I have written on a constant basis in college being an English Education major. I do see the importance of branching out and stepping out on faith with my pen to show and not just tell and to say old clichés in new ways.
Even though I’ve been told do the best you can do, and that’s all you can do, I feel that I can improve on anything that I do in life. Writing papers is something that I try my hardest to get better at. Honestly, I’m not the writer most people expect. I struggle a lot with whatever I write. In formal papers, yeah, I can fix most of the grammatical errors. Over the years of college level writing, I would like to think that I’ve improved. In some ways I have improved. In other ways I have not. It’s just a learning process that will cause me to push myself even harder to achieve that level of being better at writing. For my future students’ sake, I want to push myself to be better every day because they deserve the best from me. They don’t deserve a teacher who half-asses her lessons and expects students to learn from those lessons. So, I need to push harder for not only my sake, but also for others’ sake. One way I can push myself harder is to look carefully at comments that teachers make on my papers. I will not lie…many times I look at a paper’s grade and throw it on my kitchen table. I saw the grade, so now it’s time to move on to the next one. This isn’t right of me to do because what am I learning from throwing the paper on my table? Nothing. I’m doing exactly what I don’t want my future students to do— not learning from their mistakes. In order for me to push those future students, I have to push myself…no matter when I begin teaching, either in a month or next year after grad school. I have to push myself now.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteKristin said that if she had the time to write a book "no stone would go unturned". I latched onto this phrase and the wheels started turning. I think I'm exactly the opposite. I don't want to even go near that stone, much less lift it and see all the spiders, beetles, worms, and other creatures that reside there. Let them be. Let me be. I'd rather burn the stacks of papers I've written over the years than go tromping through their ghosts. The literary goals I had once endeavored after, accomplished (and sometimes not) can rest where they lay.
ReplyDeleteI don't want to upturn that rock because that would mean addressing myself. Confronting my warrants: the good, the bad, and the pathetic. Poking at torment and distain brought about by a paper scorned, or critically striking down the paper esteemed. Tearing away the bubble wrap of protection that forces me to accept my writing as part of myself is like having to eat it also. It forces me to take my own writing in, which is daunting.
I'd rather go excavate a new rock than endlessly turn another. But what I fail to realize (or maybe I do realize and don't want to) is that it's critical to understand the impressions, lines, dents, shape and texture of every rock upturned. Understanding the good, the bad, and everything else about my writing in the past will help me to write in the future.
The key is turning over that rock and knowing what's under there, and not being afraid of it. Knowing that the spiders and bugs may come crawling, but that they'll go away with work. You've got to want to know what's hidden in the depths that you missed in your fright. You've got to want to know what happens if you put pressure on your rock. It may turn into something unexpectedly beautiful.
My relationship with writing is a lot like a relationship with a lover.
ReplyDeleteSome days are wonderful. We get along fantastically and me and the words I want to say make love so sweetly and tenderly that it’s hard to imagine that we could ever have a bad time together. Other days, we can’t seem to get along and hardly speak. Sometimes writing doesn’t cooperate like I want it to and we end up having a huge fight in which my fingers angrily bang on the keys forming a sentence that looks like this: ;awot voiaw;g aijrhg. However, the make-up sex is always mind-blowing. A passionate frenzy of words and punctuation ending in a beautiful piece of prose.
Just like any first love, I can’t seem to kick the habit of writing. No matter how frustrating it can be. No matter how much I want to give up on us all together. It finds a new way to surprise me, and I want to do whatever it takes to help us grow. It just takes time and effort. Sometimes, we need to take a break from each other. But sooner or later, writing seduces me and the love affair begins all over again.
Bourdain (No Reservations) is on in the background right now. He’s in Peru, and even his mostly objective commentary awes me to no end. His voice is present in every word he writes, and our discussion about his writing is running through my head. How has this man honed his voice so effectively, so consistently, so…confidently? He must be a demigod of some sort. Some benevolent muse has given him this gift, and if I’m lucky, I’ll one day find my own beautiful writing voice. But this, of course, is not remotely true. It takes work to write like that. Lots of writing and lots of failure. But failure is something I’m still terrified of. This is where I back down in my writing. All to often I find myself with some seed of writing in hand, but when it comes time to actually write, I freeze up. And, probably to a degree of detriment, I’ve been able to write technically proficient jumbles of words that get me by, even with the occasional A paper. I find that my regrets lie not in my failures, but in my fear of failure. It's easier to opt out of a challenge than to go after it at the risk of failure. So how do I overcome my petty self-consciousness and really write? Still working on that one. In everything I’ve written, I have never been completely content with any piece of writing I’ve turned in for a class. I do honestly try with each piece of writing to push myself into doing something I’m at least a little uncomfortable with, but I have yet to push myself to the level I’d like to be. Even when a paper is returned with the exquisite “A” on it, I feel undeserving. I like to see A’s on my transcript, so I will never argue with such an award, but there is almost always a sense of guilt in me that it could have been better, and that I will push myself even harder the next time. And that I will take that paper and keep working on it even after the grade is assigned. But I so often push the paper to the side with a sigh of relief that I’ve somehow tricked my teacher into giving me that A, and wait for my next academic challenge. When I actually do revisit a piece of writing, it is not uncommon that my mind goes blank and I don’t know what to do with such a piece of trash, so I file it away. Far away. Next time will be better.
ReplyDeleteI am keenly aware of the forceful push I need from others to really get any decent writing done. The pressure is uncomfortable, but the discomfort at the very least provokes contemplation on what it is I’m doing. I’ve never been in a class so intent on finding our voices as writers. It’s so starkly different from the writing classes set to emulate previous great writing, that I find myself a bit overwhelmed. But now I find myself wondering if the “Aha” moment of great writing will come. If I continue my current fallback of waiting for the next opportunity to do better, this does not seem likely. Today, after looking at my grade for the last paper (the grade was not the problem), I reopened the essay and skimmed through it, trying to figure out what I should change. All I could come up with was everything, and I slunk face down into my dingy couch. I have no trouble recognizing my shortcomings, it’s revising them that’s the problem. Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m afraid to. I’d sometimes rather hand in an essay I know is sub par, with the justification that, yeah, I know it’s shit, I just didn’t have time to fix it all. But I do have time to fix things; it’s my childish fear of fully putting myself into a project and still having it flop that has thus far prevented me from creating “me” in my writing. My grandma used to exclaim often, “muchachas descaradas!” traslation: shameless girls! I think if I could apply my descarada behavior to my writing, I would be far more courageous a writer, and the importance of this courage is becoming more apparent every moment.
I would like to think that I could push harder and become better as a writer. When looking over my written work from the past, I am nothing less than ashamed. With the exception of one work, I don’t feel that I have written anything that would be worthwhile for someone to take their time to read. The only reason, I must admit, for my writing most of the time is for the simple purpose of “getting a grade.” I become so caught up in my life, outside of writing, that I easily forget that writing should also be a huge part of my life.
ReplyDeleteAs a future teacher, I should want to be a better writer for my students. How can I expect them to put forth their best efforts in writing if I am not willing to do the same? I would have no right to ask them to push themselves in their writing if I have no intention of listening to my own instructions.
As a future mother, I should want to be a better writer for my children. If I do not push myself to be the best writer I can be, how can I encourage them to be the best writers that they can be?
I completely agree with Kristen Michelle in that most of the papers I have ever written are filled with meaningless words that are only used to take up space on a page. Never before have I pushed myself in my writing. Never before have I expected my writing to be something great. I have done what I was told to do in order to receive the grade I wanted. Now after several classes at Auburn, I am beginning to realize that meeting the requirements is not good enough. What do we get out of writing if what we write means nothing to us? I am now of the mind that we should treat every writing assignment as an opportunity to learn and grow as writers.
I like to read this blog from a certain teacher that I had a couple of years ago. This teacher inspired me from the moment she walked into the classroom. She was wearing the tight blue pencil skirt, a crisp white shirt and the most beautiful yellow peep-toe shoes that I had ever seen (Yes, I get passionate about clothes). She showed us the movie Big Fish and talked about how we tell stories in order to live. She had me from the very first moment I saw her. I think I may have even been in some kind of love with her. I hung on every word she said and knew that I wanted to write like she did. It turns out that she wasn’t that great of a teacher. But she sure could write. She writes things that are real and makes me believe them (I saw someone else’s post that said that they wanted to believe what they wrote). She writes with a real authenticity. So she wasn’t a very organized person, and she didn’t grade things on time but man, could she write (Do ya need me to say it again. She would write a new piece and bring it into class and read it out loud in a voice that made me fall even more in love with her. She even read other writing like it was her own, like she was the one who was in a slow painful labor with it before giving it birth. She made me fall in love with writing. And if I can ever be close to the real writer that she is, I will be happy.
ReplyDeleteThis is the last class I will take at Auburn before doing my internship. And I would like to say that I had given it my all, that I had put a lot of time into my writing. But that’s not the truth. While I do feel like I have grown a little over the past few weeks as a writer, I am nowhere near where I would like to be. I hope one day, when I am not so eager to be done with school, that I will take time to breath and really focus on my writing.
Wow. If I had only three weeks to live. Would I write like I never had? Yes. Would it be a novel? No. It would be a work compiled of all I ever wanted to say, and couldn't. All I ever hoped to display, but didn't. Letter by letter, person by person. I've written many letters in my lifetime. Many were sent. Most were not. But they were all truthful. They were all me. They were some of the only pieces of my work where I never backed down from the battle of writing. Here's one of those letters - it WAS sent. It hurt just as much to put it in the mail as it did to write it. But I'm sure proud of it. I can only hope to write this way n every piece of the future.
ReplyDeleteJames,
Tonight I sit in bed, unable to sleep, millions of anxious thoughts running through my head, and I can’t help it. I run back to the same questions - What are you doing? What are you thinking? Has a week and half of total disconnection from me changed your thought processes about us in any way? I’m wondering - How will your life turn out? How will mine turn out? (Of course this worry goes without saying.) And somewhere in the middle of it all, I feel compelled to write you this letter.
Some time ago, I was praying in my bed one night about guidance for us. I was begging for any sort of revelation, of whatever size or relevance, from scripture, and I found myself in Hebrews 11, a chapter about men of faith. In verses 17-19 particularly, Abraham is the man of interest, especially to me. The passage specifically reads:
(17) By faith Abraham, when God tested him, offered Issac as a sacrifice. He who had received the promises was about to sacrifice his one and only son, (18) even though God had said to him, “It is through Issac that your offspring will be reckoned.” Abraham reasoned that God could raise the dead, and figuratively speaking, he did receive Issac back from death.
I know what you’re thinking, “What does this have to do with us?,” right? And I am going to answer that as clearly as I possibly can. I assume you know the story of Abraham and Issac, but for clarity’s sake, I’ll rehash. In their old age, Abraham and Sarah were granted the gift of having a child together and named him Issac. God had already promised Abraham a great multitude of descendants and accomplishments through Issac, but one day, way before all these promises were close to fruition, God asked Abraham to sacrifice Issac as an offering to Him. Although deeply confused, Abraham was painfully obedient, and without question, gathered his tools and his son and prepared himself to give up the most precious gift he’d ever been given for the glory of the Lord. Upon laying the wood and binding Issac, God spoke to Abraham what I’m sure were the most treasured words he ever heard, “Do not lay a hand on the boy. Do not do anything to him. Now I know that you fear God because you have not withheld from me your son, your only son.” Just then Abraham saw a ram caught in a thicket nearby, and offered it as a sacrifice instead.
ReplyDeleteTo link this story with us quite simply, I’m Abraham, and you are my Issac. I feel that many years ago, God promised that you would be mine, just as he promised Abraham a significant lineage through Issac. For some reason, God asked me to give up what He had already promised me, just as he did Issac. But instead of being painfully obedient, I have been inexplicably confused and disobedient. And through my process of denying God’s promptings, I caused us both a great amount of unnecessary hurt and guilt. Although I was not immediately respondent, I did obey, and I gave up the most precious gift aside of salvation God ever presented me. God’s reason for asking me to give you up? – probably the fact that I valued you much higher than I valued Him, and that I turned a wonderful gift into and idol. But I’m positive that another just as important reason is that God wanted to test my faith, to see who I loved more, to see if I’d give up the one earthly thing that I centered my life around. And I did. Just like Abraham. But if you’ll remember, God gave Issac back to Abraham, and fulfilled his promise. At this point you’re probably saying, “But Abraham only had to give up Issac for a few hours, and that was only in his mind!” But as great as my despair over desperately longing for a life with you is, I imagine that Abraham’s pain over knowing that he would have to personally kill his own son, was much greater. So at this point, I’m striving for Abraham’s heart, giving you up for God’s glory in my life, so that I don’t have the option to make you the head of my life decisions and emotions. Because although to me you are incomparably wonderful, you are still unfit to reign there. And although I’m living a life of sacrifice and offering, I’m also praying that God is generous enough in his offerings of blessing to give you back as a gift of my obedience. Just like Issac. And somewhere in my soul, in my gut, in the very core of my being, I believe that He will.
I am not asking to live your life under the precedent that what I believe is true. On the contrary, I hope that you find your own hope and answers to cling to. But if the words and hopes you come to hold steadfastly resemble those on this page, then that would bring me great joy.
I love you dearly, and no one or nothing on this Earth compares to levels of emotional connection, physical intimacy, and whole-hearted love that our deep relationship affords me, but I need to love Jesus first. I do hope this letter lends you some clarity, or whatever it is you’re looking for from me that I have yet been able to give you. I’m forever missing you and forever clinging to the hope that you are unquestionably my very own Issac.
Stuck in colder weather,
Rachel
Push myself to write better. Deja Vu. This is what was asked of me about two years ago when I first came to Auburn in Rhetoric and Composition. We wrote endless pages for those “golden lines,” the pieces of beauty amongst our collective crap of writing. But of coarse there are always those gifted writers that make you want to rip your own work up and vomit on it. But those same people have always made me want to try harder, to push my writing. So thank you gifted writers because if it weren't for you, I wouldn't strive for a better me.
ReplyDeleteThat sounds hokey, but I feel enlightened and looser when I write. Like my skin can breathe. That class let me peek in at the type of writer I want to be: Harriet the Spy. She wrote honestly and carried a notebook with her everywhere and she sure as hell didn't care what anyone thought of her. And that's tough to do in middle school, let alone real life. So I also want to thank Harriet and all the other wonderful writers in the world that push me to be better. I just need to remind myself to keep pushing. Not just because I want the A (which I do), but because I want to captivate others and whisk them away with my words. And if I have a passion and love for such things, then perhaps it will rub off on my future students making the world a less darker place.
Dear Writing,
ReplyDeleteI’ve been seeing other people.
Before you get upset, trust me, Writing, you’re my baby. You’re my true love. We’re soul mates. Chemistry just came along before you. We have history. Come to think of it, I have history with History as well- who could say no to the daring of Pancho Villa or the cunning and bravery of the Kamikazes? And don’t look at Biology that way, what did you think I would be like coming from a school of Math and Science anyhow? I can’t help it, Writing, I’m a slut. My legs spread for knowledge, you know that, that’s how you got me to fall for you that night at the party a couple of months ago.
I’m not saying I want to break up, anything but that. I think you’re wonderful. Fucking great. You make me feel alive and strong and loved. But you don’t do it all the time. Sometimes you hurt me. Sometimes you lead me to the humpty dumpty pieces of my heart and then you leave me there.
I’ve got something I know I can work on if you’ll give me the chance. I bet you’ve noticed when we’re on the little loveseat together. You know. Just you and me. I’ve been leaning back, letting you do all the work. I haven’t been pleasing you right and for that I’m sorry. I’m just so tired after work and I’ve been exhausted after classes; I’m not giving you all I’ve got to give. My mind has been elsewhere. You’ve gotta stop cutting me with your nails when we go at it though, hun. Really. Quit leaving scars. I’m down for all the slapping and choking and spanking and twisting and twirling you can think of. But digging your nails in is for special occassions only and you don’t have to bite to break skin everytime.
Please don’t blame me for fooling around behind your back. I’ll always love you more than I will ever love breeding plants or painting on canvas. I’ll always love you more than I could ever love the culinary arts, film, or animation.
Writing, just trust me. I might get nervous and start to over analyze your words. I might yell at you when I find out the little ways in which you’re not who I once thought you were. I might get scared and run away to Las Vegas and marry a beat up old Anatomy textbook. But I swear, no matter what, I’ll always come back.
Love,
Andrej
I was kidding about the nails and biting. Make me bleed.
Honestly, I have never really seriously considered being a writer. Don’t get me wrong, I really love writing and I’ve come to like the way I write throughout the years, but I’ve just never really thought that I was good enough for it to be an option for me. All my friends in high school would write all the time and be just plain good at it, but I just never took to it. And now reading this blog, I feel like I’m somehow cheating someone from fulfilling their dreams by being in this class and writing not being my numero uno.
ReplyDeleteIn the back of my mind I would love to be a writer – I think somewhere in their mind everyone wants to be a writer. Being able to do something their passionate about and making a living out of it (SCORE!). And believe me I’ve thought about pursuing that path. Last year about this time I was stressing over what I wanted to do with my life – take the English route or the music route. In the end I chose music. I felt like I could always come back to writing. But with piano, I couldn’t come back to it – I had to do it now or fear giving it up forever.
Of course in any skill based class/career there is always room for improvement. Am I giving it my all? Right now, probably not, but it’s not for lack of wanting. At this moment it’s more like lack of energy geared towards school and just really wanting to graduate already. This doesn’t necessarily mean I’m slacking off, but I am just trying to get by and of course I could do better. But I would dare to say everyone can always do better. It’s the people that acknowledge this and eventually do it that make the difference between success and failure.
I would say that I’ve grown more so in this class than in any of the four million literature classes I’ve taken in my four years at Auburn. I’ve come to believe that I should do the best I can in every class, and I do, but the expectation for difference in this class is mind blowing and so it forces me to work harder in than I would in a literature class - a class that we know what to expect. So in the end I’m glad I’m here in this class growing as a writer, and if I happen to be taking someone’s chance who feels like writing is their Godsend, well then sucks for them.
Britney and I shared the class that cultivated our love for writing. I remember the teacher's clothes too. ;) Reading Britney's post reminded me of how good of a writing teacher I thought that woman was. She was so emotionally invested in her writing unlike a other things which I think is what made her writing so special. If I cared that much about my writing, then maybe I can write like her.
ReplyDeleteAlyFronk - ditto. Don't we all struggle with this love-hate relationship? I know I do. I get weighed down with assignment after assignment and I reach a point where I don't want to care. But I always do. I always care. Why? Because writing is a part of me, and I can't let it go. I'm not willing to make that sacrifice. A toe, a finger maybe. But not that.
ReplyDeleteAs I was reading through other prompt and other blogs, I was thinking about how I feel about writing. My first response was that it's not something I love or do all the time. But as I thought about it... I realized how much writing influences my life, whether it's my own or not.
ReplyDeleteMusic is something I am absolutely in love with. I was once asked if songs capture me with their music or their lyrics... I used to say both, but in reality it's always been the lyrics. See? I do love writing! It's not a paper or a novel, but it's writing nonetheless. It's something that moves and touches me. Something that inspires and makes me feel. Isn't that what writing should do?
As a kid I didn't like to read. My sister was always the bookworm. I guess you could say that once I became and English major it bit me in the ass. My sister is a phenomenal writer. I have often wished I could write the way she does. I have all of these thoughts and experiences that I feel could be good on paper, but when I try to get them out.... they never reach the bar. I used to want to write a book, but have always felt that I am not a good enough writer. I get comfortable in my research paper bubble. That's my comfort zone... researching something, and then putting other people's ideas and theories on paper in an organized manor, and then adding my opinion of their thoughts. See the theme? The thoughts aren't mine. I guess it's like what Dr. P said in class today. Something about when we write about ourselves it's never good to us. That's how I feel. I feel like I fall short when it comes to writing creatively, or writing about myself. It's like I have all of this passion built up about things that have happened in my life that I want to share with others, but it's locked away so deep that I can't even reach it to let it out the way I want to. Maybe I don't know how to push. That could be the problem... where do I even start?
Writing and I have been close pals since my first diary. You know, the one that held daily activities of a five year old. Tea parties with barbies, playing doctor with the neighbor (yes, we did check patients in and out of the hospital a.k.a. dad's garage), and the occasional "I like this boy because he sits by me in Mrs. Dews room" entry.
ReplyDeleteIt wasn't until my junior year of college that we became really close. I had signed up for a creative writing course and I wasn't exactly sure how to approach it. All I had ever known was term papers and essays. I didn't know how to embark on such a personal journey.
Ah, but the lightbulb had arrived! The teacher introduced the class and gave us instructions to keep a journal. In this journal we had write a page every day about what we saw, felt, tasted, heard. Anything that came to mind we had to write it. Of Course, I thought. I've done this a million times, only I was much smaller and not so great with the grammar.
The journal of my junior year of college taught me that writing isn't just about precision. It's about soul, wanting more from yourself. Growing as a writer helps you grow as a person. You learn things about yourself that you never thought you could possibly learn.
I learned that when writer's block occurs, go outside and watch the neighbors. Observe their facial expressions. What do you think they feel everyday? Get into their world and become a part of their lives.
As a writer now, I tend to take risks, but I do feel like I could push harder to get to that piece that screams perfection. Perfection I might add comes with the mess. I will constantly rip out pages of garbage writing and I will most likely cuss myself for everything I'm worth, but eventually it will lead to a victory.
I’ve got a dirty confession.
ReplyDeleteI didn’t push.
On the Velveteen Writer blog, I didn’t push.
I sat there and stared at my computer screen, overwhelmed.
I knew what I wanted to write about… that night.
And I felt it start to grow like a baby inside me, wiggling, squirming, kicking my ribs, punching my stomach, and using my bladder as a pillow. Nine months in 30 minutes, man, what a growth spurt that baby had and it wanted to come out.
But I was scared.
And so, when the contractions started, I attempted to let it out but each false start on that blank page was like a false contraction. I wasn’t ready to start pushing yet. That baby was ready, but I wasn’t.
And so I stopped pushing and those damn false contractions stopped. Maybe the baby was there, and maybe it was ready to come out and grace that blank page, maybe it was time to start pushing... but I wasn’t ready. I could feel it waiting, absolutely still for the first time since it’s conception. Just waiting.
But I wasn’t ready to give birth to THAT night, not yet. To let what happened THAT night out into the world. No way in hell.
So I didn’t push.
And now I feel it sitting in the pit of my stomach, still waiting, just sitting there, sapping my energy.
And as I sit here the contractions starting again. Real ones this time. Yep, there’s that little nudge from a tiny little fist, right in the bladder, “Hey mom, you ready for me this time?”
And so I push:
“I will never forget the night he tried to kill himself. It was a warm fall night and he was surrounded by friends and he seemed happy, drunk but happy. Until he locked himself in his room with the shotgun. The doorframe crackled and splintered under Kenny’s momentum like the crust of snow on a snow bank. Crunch. The room was a mess, shattered glass everywhere. He had broken two windows, thrown an end table through one and a cymbal stand out the other. What a view, a beautiful starry night rimmed with jagged glass teeth.
And there he was. Sitting on the bed with the shotgun in his hand, loaded. I was too afraid to leave that room. Afraid that if I turned around and left I would hear the bang of the gun on my way out and the wet, pluppy sound of pellets ripping through flesh. Like a firecracker stuck in a tomato. I had this deluded thought, as Kenny and I inched our way towards him, murmuring sweet nothings, that he wouldn’t do it as long as I stayed. As long as I did take my eyes off him. Look at me, I thought, just look at me.
But his brown eyes were on the gun. Fingering the trigger like an old friend, no, more like an old lover. Familiar in its curves and I got jealous. I said his name and suddenly those eyes were on me, just an ocean’s depth of sadness reflecting back from the cold moon squirming its way through glass teeth.
And then my hand cringes away from the touch of cold metal. “Just give me the gun.” I didn’t recognize the voice, but it was mine. I was just drowning in brown sadness. I couldn’t breathe. The shotgun was suddenly in my arms, cradled like the lover he thought it was. My skin crawled where the cold metal touched it. It didn’t love anyone.
He still had my gaze though, still drowning me. He was dragging me down with him. Pulling me down. Those brown eyes a vice around my lungs. No air. The gun was gone, in the back of my mind I knew Chris had taken it from me, was taking it apart, piece by sensuous piece. That bitch couldn’t hurt him now. But that was the least of my worries. Those brown eyes told a truth as he sat there silent, a truth that didn’t set anyone free.
Air. There. Air. Breathe. I could breathe again, but I wasn’t free, I never would be. I loved him all the more for the brown sadness.”
And the baby’s first cry. I love it and I hate it. I start to regret pushing, wishing it was back in my belly, safe from the world, from prying eyes and well-meaning smiles and “isn’t it adorable”s. No, it’s ugly, wrinkled, red and screaming its bloody head off. But it’s mine, all mine.
Reading this blog really makes me have a lot of if's...
ReplyDeleteYou see, I am supposed to be graduated by now and have a job with a nice apartment and big, blazing wedding ring... or so that's what I have been told. My two best friends in the entire world are on this track and they seem to be the only ones telling me that I'm the smart one of the group. Stay in school as long as you can. Don't get married anytime soon. Don't be in a rush to grow up.
But with the southern society that I seem to be surrounded by I can't help but question what
IF I had picked the right major from day 1...
IF I had stayed with that loser of a boyfriend...
IF I had just worked a little harder...
IF I hadn't gone out so much...
I can't help but be burnt out from school. Hell, I have been doing it non stop since my freshman summer. That's right, I am the girl who will graduate with one degree yet, somehow have earned myself a whopping 189 hours of credit by the time I get that diploma.
This blog gives me a whole new perspective on the point in life that I'm at. Why not appreciate what I have? I'm the lucky bitch that doesn't have to pay bills, or go to work, or take care of anyone else but myself.
My point is that I have to treat these last few classes as my last. Because they truly are. I think about how fast the last four years have flown by and how fast I know this victory lap (5th year) will go. So why not go balls to the wall? I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. If I am lucky enough to be given the opportunity to push my writing and my skill to the absolute edge, then why not take advantage of it? Life is too short to play it safe, and come to find out the little rebel of the group (me, in case you didn't know) is the only one that is still having fun.
You ended on Mystic River, why? I love that quote, but really what is that movie about? Murder, violence, lying...and love? Heartache overshadowing beautiful lines and thoughts from those grieving and hiding. Thanks Clint for leaving a line like that in.
ReplyDeleteJust about love? Yes, but in horrible terms.
That's what I think that quote is talking about, that feeling, those lucky enough to know it at some point and those who never will.
It is almost like writing. I have it stuck in my head that it is a feeling that I may never truly feel. How do I get to the point where I am satisfied with my own work? Is that what it means to really have that feeling?
Pushing harder, I want that feeling so bad. Of course settling isn't an option, but time is never working with us. Time slides by. People slip away around me. Papers with so much potential and not enough effort sweep under offices. And they all have the same effect (or is it a feeling?) I don't know, I haven't been lucky enough to feel it yet. But I am trying.
If this was the last thing I wrote, damn it I would be pissed. I'm not feeling it. Give me some uncommonly used words or metaphors no one can catch on first run. Will that make it better? I'll give you a quote I think about everytime I feel it is never enough:
Sometimes, I guess there just aren't enough rocks. -Forrest Gump
I'll keep throwing, and eventually the building stopping me from getting further will fall the ground in agony. I want that feeling. I am pushing, throwing.
Though I wasn't in class monday I'm pretty sure I would have been one of the strugglers, but you haven't lost me, so dry those eyes. Anyway I'm not the kind of person who dwells on grades-- stressing to make good grades, beating myself up over bad ones, etc.-- and this is something I've considered in depth more recently. Because for me this isn't just a complete lack of interest or anything like that, I think it may be something more than that, and I can't put my finger on exactly what it is. Is it apathy? Benevolence? I know that something like grades should matter to a "full-time student" but to me as long as they are not too low the outcome remains the same as those who work their ass off-- the only exception is that they get a gold star, of sorts, on their diploma. So It seems the answer to the previous question would be yes, apathy and benevolence. But I still don't think it's that cut and dry, I am not completely phlegmatic. I ask myself "If a college degree didn't give me a leg up in the job market would I still go?" and I think the answer is yes, because I believe the more knowledge a person has a directly correlates that person's aptitude for success. I also believe that I learn more from the teacher, not necessarily work needed to be done for the class. For me a great class is one that I don't dread going to-- which by the account of my outlook so far seems all encompassing-- and those classes are usually the ones with the most social interaction (groups, discussion, etc.), and this is what I respond to; not sitting by myself hunched over books. This is why I learn more from the teachers themselves. Teachers that I'm able to get along with and relate to do more to motivate me in my pursuit of knowledge than any grades or college standards could-- motivation for me is the key because once motivated learning and expression comes easy-- after all, ten years after graduating college it's the professor who will be remembered not the specifics of their course syllabus (not that what they have to say has no effect because the opposite is true).
ReplyDeleteAnyway I'm rambling so I'll address the questions directly. Can you push harder, write better, be better? Absolutely yes. Everyone has room for self improvement in one aspect or another; and I don't believe that anyone (other than your run-of-the-mill ego-centric, narcissist) can say otherwise. And me just stating this is further proof disputing my apathetic tendencies. The real question is: what makes us want to be better? And as I was saying earlier it's finding that motivation that's my personal academic goal so I may avoid succumbing to such benevolence and falling into academic limbo, because I feel like there's spark of aspiration and ambition, that is at such a volatile state to where it could be extinguished completely as easily as it could be ignited.
My thoughts on the battle with writing are; fight the good fight. I have given up on many things in life, so many in fact that if I could say that I was skilled at anything it would probably be quitting (except for smoking). And the most important thing that I've learned about quitting is that it too is hard to commit to completely; if you really enjoy something or you feel like your supposed to something you won't be through with it for long, unless it was a job or something like that then you may be stuck. But as it remains for writing anyone can do it, some however can't express themselves otherwise, write for therapy, enjoyment, and a multitude of other reasons; so if this is a true source of enjoyment I would like to see them try to quit (I don't think there's a patch for writer's itch). As for me I find writing to be similar to golf in that it's rewarding and great fun for a time until I inevitably get irritated with myself, followed by a rapid descent, finally the declaration of, short-lived, retirement, and then it's "once more unto the breach, dear friends". So I don't think writing is something I can ever completely turn my back on. I do think, however, that writing absent of inspiration or passion is like fucking on coke, it's a lot of anxious overexertion towards an end you know you probably won't reach. Writing though is a true form of expression, one that I respect above all others, and is something I will undoubtedly continue to pursue and struggle with and improve over the remainder of my life; this is unavoidable, as is my ongoing struggle to remain motivated and avoid complacency and mediocrity.
ReplyDeleteThere is a theme of describing writing as lover. Just an interesting obervation. Examples are in AndreJ's and AlyFronk's blog post.
ReplyDeleteI love words. I love the feeling you can get from words. I love how words can become misconstrued. I love how they get into some deep shit and out of deep shit. They know our lies and our secrets and what scares us. They are our best friends and worst enemies, I’m willing to believe. I love words to the point where I stumble over them and love tem to the point they intimidate me.
ReplyDeleteI want to take this “fear” of sorts far, but I am struggling to put them together to make something pretty—or something scandalous or fearful. Its absolutely incredible how these things can take on so many different roles. Shape shifters. Little bastards. (I love the words that are deemed “bad” also—if you haven’t figured that out by now) ... my mother hates it, but it’s who I am, I’ve accepted it... I feel like the aggressive words are sometimes the only ones that can make a point and serve your purpose.
“I’m not ever going to feel that way again. You don’t get that twice” – I think it’s a beautiful quote and nice idea... but I don’t believe that. I think you can have variations of the same feeling... maybe its not the SAME feeling, but it’s the same idea and I think the idea is where you get the feeling from...
Holy cow, Rachel your letter was beautiful! I've written many of letter to x's about love and heartbreak along the same lines, but yours had an intimacy to it that was obviously so close to your heart, but speaking for myself, i understood it from the outside perspective as well. Beautiful
ReplyDeleteand Andrej...you get mad props too. Good stuff going on here!
I don’t think I will ever be done growing in my writing, mostly because I will never be the same as I was 5 minutes ago ever again, but also because there is always something new to read and life always offers an endless wealth of knowledge (you just have to be willing to go after it). My thoughts will slowly evolve as the world changes around me, and, though my eyes will always look out of the same glass, they will continue change perspectives like changing clothes.
ReplyDeleteSometimes I feel like I’m a better writer than I can physically put on paper. There’s this thing that happens to me sometimes, and with all efforts not to sound insane I’m going to attempt to explain myself. My life has a narrator. I mean I think everyone has inside thoughts, but sometimes I look around, and I literally form paragraphs in my head that sound as polished as if I had written them months in advance and bullied them with my perfectionism till they could take no more. Only problem is that when I go to craft these ideas into physical words…it sounds more like a third grader wrote them than the soon-to-graduate-5th-year-senior of a writer that I consider myself. Problem. It happens when I have a paper due the next day, too. I’ll stare at a section, trying my hardest to come up with a different way to say things, and nothing comes to mind until I put my head on the pillow—except I’m normally too tired to boot the Macbook back up to type it out, and by morning it’s gone. Another problem.
There have literally been times when I wish I could always have a computer or journal at my fingertips to write this stuff down, but even then I don’t think it would come out. So that’s my first step in writer’s growth…learn to translate the cool sentences I form in my head on to paper. Followed by:
1) Read more. We’re all writers—it just depends on what side of the pen you’re on.
2) Open up. I’m starting to realize that I have nothing to lose with this. Everyone has emotions and wherever culture got the idea that emotions are a sign of weakness obviously was too weak and too fake to claim how they were actually feeling (probably a dude if I HAD to guess)
3)
4)
5)
I left the rest of the list blank because if I already knew all that I had to learn, then I would have told a lie to your face in the first sentence. I will always push to writer better, and I will always push to make people soar as well as sink atop my feelings by way of words. I think we’ve all seen the unpleasant beauty that arises from honesty, and hopefully we’ve learned to appreciate it and use it.
One last thing…I think there is always more to be learned beyond the constraints of rules (I mean who makes up rules anyway except control-freak weirdos that somehow got the notion of authority), and if there is anything this class has taught me it’s that where there is freedom there is growth.
Definitely. My abilities as a writer could improve tenfold. Why don’t they? Well, I think it’s because we, as students are expected to conform to a certain set of rules in writing, rule that limit us and cause us to be weary in our writing styles. You could say that academia has dulled some of the luster I’ve found in writing. There is always a topic for you to write on and a set of rules half a mile long that accompanies that topic. It’s so hard for me to really….really break away from what I’ve been accustomed to for so long.
ReplyDeleteIt’s become ingrained in our souls as writers to please our reader (the main reader being the teacher.) What does this mean? MLA formatting, one inch margins, TIMES NEW ROMAN (YUCK!!!) and don’t forget to choose the topic that your professor likes…..whether you feel the same as the professor, claim you do in your essay……or be doomed to a B at best. Can I push myself and become a better writer….hell yeah I can, but it’s tough to break away from all that I’ve known in such a short period.
If you asked me how I could improve my wiriting Id point to an A I got on a paper and laugh in your face while telling you that it is truly impossible. However, if you ask any of the people who have ever had the misfortune of reading or grading one of my papers, they would point to one of the hundreds of B's or C's Ive received and pull out a copy of "How to Not Write a Shitty English Paper: For Dummies" and then laugh in your face. Either way someone is going to laugh in your face. Its not worth it to ask. I, for one, think that I know the exact remedy for improving my writing but I never choose to impliment it. Almost every single paper that has been returned to me over the past four years has had the same notes at the end of the last page. So why dont I heed this advice? Mainly because Im pretty stupid. But also because Im stuck in my ways. My freshman comp teacher loved the way I wrote and rewarded me with blanket A's. Through my college career, I kept hoping that Id find another teacher who would smell what I was cooking without me having to adapt at all. Alas, to no avail. But you know what they say: "Fool me once shame on you fool me twice shame on me". Ive been shamed so many times its not funny. Im like the Pauly Shore of writing, I keep playing the same character that nobody has liked since his first appearance.
ReplyDeleteI don't thinking our writing is ever done improving. We constantly push ourselves to be better writers every time we write something new. Changing that one small mistake or idea or style we used in our last paper to sound better and spice things up. Our writing is never finished. Before coming to this class I knew that I was going to be asked to write a lot of things. And I knew I was going to have to push myself more to get my voice out. Sometimes I struggle to find my voice and push my writing, but I still try my best. I'm the kind of person that doesn't really stress over getting an A in a class...I'm just as perfectly happy with a B, but that doesn't mean I don't put in the same amount of effort or push myself in my writing less than I would have to get an A. Every teacher you'll encounter in college or in life is going to have a different preference of style and want you to write a certain way. It's up to you to push yourself and use each teacher's advice and style to make your writing the best it can possibly be. Step by step I push myself and hope to become that perfect writer someday that everyone can relate to and wants to read. I want to be real with myself and with others when it comes to writing, and I have to start by pushing my writing to the limits.
ReplyDeleteYou pose the question do we believe we are good enough? I certainly hope none of us actually believe we are -EVER- in any endeavor. (like how that rhymed? purely accidental genius)
ReplyDeleteTo pull a quote from the great Shannon Hoon (R.I.P), "Keep on dreamin boy, because when you stop dreamin' it's time to die".
This is the exact attitude I think we should all take towards both our writing and our lives. If we become complacent we become stagnant. And if we arent "dreamin'" or striving for improvement then why even get out of bed, what's the fucking point?
THAT BEING SAID:
I know also, that we have all heard the expression our parents once told us when that sorry excuse for a kid at elementary school came in the day after we first debuted our new ninja turtles lunchbox with the exact same one.( Little bastard had to get the one with the exact same character too.) Your only consolation was your parent telling you, now sweety.. imitation is the highest form of flattery"
FUCK THAT, I THOUGHT.
THAT ALSO BEING SAID: Given a brief background into my history i would also like to note that I still harbor some anger towards this unoriginal lunchbox stealing turd.
I loathe imitators, or as the youngsters call them these days, "posers".
This one tragic event of lunchbox treachery and the disdain of imitators still haunts me,even today, and I have found those feelings resurfacing as I write.
Hemingway, Steinbeck, Barry Hannah, Larry Brown, Anthony Bourdain are a some of my favorite writers to name a few. There is something beautifully blunt and masculine in both Hemingway and Brown's dialogue and description. Barry Hannah can take one word and make it something more, or he can take a sentence and make it sound like a beautiful poem, he is truly a master of language.
Hannah is much like Almond, a scenical asshole who somewhat reluctantly reveals in his writing that he is actually in possession of a soul that borders what some might refer to as kind.
ILL GET TO THE POINT in regards to this "battle of writing". the battle is one of fear, fear of imitation.
I might be giving myself a compliment I dont deserve but I feel that many times when I write I am walking a tight rope. I worry that my admiration of these men will transform into inspiration spawning my most dreaded of fears, IMITATION.
For me, my proverbial dream or push is to continue finding my own voice, what makes me, sound like me and not my literary heroes. I want to channel these figures not merely echo them.
I wont stop writing though i will continue putting myself out there. I will fight the good fight in the hopes of finding my voice and not shaming (posing as) theirs.
Finally, I am so glad to see you in here kicking, Daniel. Even if you did cut class today :)
ReplyDeleteKristen: Love your post. Love those rocks.
ReplyDeleteCatherine Wright- Love your post, I can completely relate.
ReplyDeleteThinking of pushing, especially in writing, reminds me of the Almond essay about Vonnegut. When Almond tells about looking at Vonnegut's old notes and his misfires at attempting to write Slaughter House 5, but not being able to get it quite right. He attempted to tell the story as a straight war story and realized that got nowhere near to the heart of the reality of the situation. So he plays around with the formula and ends up writing a sci-fi/war commentary story that becomes classic literature and speaks to the inanity of war better than most, if not all war novels can ever get close to.
ReplyDeleteVonnegut pushed himself as a writer. Pushed himself straight into other worlds and literary genres, emerging with a masterpiece that captures a brief shot of humanity, in all its bewildered misdirection.
When I think of writing, I think of a little girl sitting on a stone pulling out flower petals. "He loves me, He loves me not. He loves me, He loves me not." He here is writing (clearly). I want to love writing. I always tell my friends I would rather write 100 pages than do one math problem. Writing is a freeing experience. When you do it for you it is cathartic and beautiful. But I don't know if I have it in me like "Susan." I dobut myself often. In my daily life, I am one of the most confident people that I know. But, as we all do, I have an Achilles Heel. I have those little insecurities that you can't see with the naked eye. But existing beyond them is what it is all about. This is what, I think, the push is about. There is a wall, a blockade, someone to tell you "No" and you ignore them all. Right now, I am pushing. In all honesty, I am ready to be finished. I feel as if there is a wall of vines, rosey thorn bushes sitting right in front of me. I would be content to sit on this side, safely smeling the roses. They look nice. They appeal to my asthetics. I don't want to push through. But I do. It's not an easy ride, the thorns push into my skin, they rip at my at my clothes and tear into every piece of me. I should come out to the other side, bruised, scathed, and bloddy as hell. The thing is, I'm still sitting in the rose bush. Too far in to go back, but paralyzed by the other side to push completely out. It is right here that I draw inspiration. It's here that I need to find the inner strength. Saying we are just good enough brings me back to a quote I once heard. I can't tell you who said it and I dont know where it is from but it goes something like "Simply saying I'll try gives us the excuse when we fail." There are so many momemnts in my life when I backed down. it was good enough, so why bother? But, reading Susan's story and taking in my own experiences, why not bother?
ReplyDelete