The Class
I have somehow managed to sneak my way into an advanced writing class (focused on short stories). I applied with high hopes and a sense of trepidation, no matter the outcome. I got in. Last night, I went.
The course is 8 weeks long, workshop format. This means you get your work torn apart by 10 people who know a lot about art and writing. Publicly.
The 8-week self-flagellation course was already full, so I chose this class.
No, no. I kid, I kid. Hard feedback is crucial to improving your story and writing. This I know.
On Tuesdays, then, I go to work. Instead of leaving at 5:00, I work late until 6:30 or so. Because it's our busy season and all. This has the downside of frying my brain before I even get to class, but the upside is that I'm fantastically productive.
The writing center--a very well-respected one that I am SO lucky to have so close to my work--is about 5 or 6 blocks away. I get home around 10:15. So, it's a long day.
The first class went well. Predictably, despite a pep talk to myself in the car, I felt niggling inferiority throughout the class. Like all such classes, we had to introduce ourselves. This is the point where everyone tells how many MFAs they have, their experience teaching literature at USC and UC Irvine, the novels they've written, the poetry they've published. The term "existentialism" came up, and what was worse, it was done ironically. Another told of the multiple Iowa Workshops (which are pretty much the best In The World) she had done.
Holy shit. Or, as Scooby Doo would say, ruh-roh.
When my turn came, for reasons I cannot say, because I DON'T KNOW WHY, I skipped telling about my job (acquisitions and development for a health/medical publisher, in case you care) and my education and writing experience and said . . . I was a mom of two young daughters. Like, that was it. That's all I told about my life. I hammered a couple more nails in my credibility coffin by admitting that writing short stories was new to me and (gasp!) I have written only two. Just. Two. And one of those is in first-draft form. (Obviously, it was the first story that got me into the class. I didn't have a whole lot to choose from.)
As people continued to introduce themselves, they told of the exotic places they had lived, the politics and wars and humanitarian efforts they had witnessed, the arrests they had undergone (Vietnam protests---somehow I didn't think my one and only participation in an idealistic march in 2003 on a sunny SoCal quad carried the same weight.) An older German woman told of growing up in Nazi and then postwar Germany. I listed my exotic place that I've visited as South Dakota, because really, how many people have been there? Like, the CENTER of a Dakota plain? Eh? But really, it was that or a cruise ship port.
So, I felt myself lacking not only in writing credibility but also in, like, experience. I mean, I know DC tends to attract a lot of expert-y, well-educated, world-traveled people, but good lord. I found myself believing their superiority. These were polite, non-snobby people. Truly, they were just stating facts about themselves, albeit it in a carefully intellectualized way. I simply found myself coming up short in comparison. And forgetting that we were all there for the same reason: we DON'T know everything.
It was a good class, though. I learned, which was the goal. After, as I was walking to the parking lot, a woman--probably the only one even close to me in age (though I'm always surprised when people I think of as OLD are actually, like, MY age) came to me. She had black-dyed hair, was from (or her parents?) Pakistan, and she revealed an ironic sense of humor during class that I found rather charming. "My kids are the same age as yours," she said brightly. "One just turned five, and the other is one-and-a-half. I was so interested when you said you had small children!" We chatted briefly as we walked, confessing that skipping the evening routine for a night was a relief, that NOW was the time to get serious about writing, little ones or not.
As I drove home (and it's a long-ass drive), I realized my shallowness. During class, I had been annoyed at myself for NOT bragging? Yes. For failing to let the whole room of people know that I, fancy pants that I am, had a master's degree! In English! From the University of Virginia! Which is a really good school! And I edit and judge writing, in one way or another, for a freaking living!
Because it doesn't matter. The strength of my writing is not in understanding existentialism, the nuances of foreign revolutions, or postmodern literature. I know the veins where I write best, and being a mom has hugely shaped how I write, think, process. Mommyhood also means I have to snatch time to write my sentences, short spurts early in the morning, or longer ones past midnight. This is the bargain I made: I know the sweetness of an unexpected tight morning hug from a cozy-warm toddler, I know the distraction and lack of focus from a trillion little demands. I understand love and fear and vulnerability through the little girls grown in and birthed by my body. I understand that these girls are the reason I only have two short stories to my name.
Well, hey. Like all parents say, I'll travel when the kids are gone.
The course is 8 weeks long, workshop format. This means you get your work torn apart by 10 people who know a lot about art and writing. Publicly.
The 8-week self-flagellation course was already full, so I chose this class.
No, no. I kid, I kid. Hard feedback is crucial to improving your story and writing. This I know.
On Tuesdays, then, I go to work. Instead of leaving at 5:00, I work late until 6:30 or so. Because it's our busy season and all. This has the downside of frying my brain before I even get to class, but the upside is that I'm fantastically productive.
The writing center--a very well-respected one that I am SO lucky to have so close to my work--is about 5 or 6 blocks away. I get home around 10:15. So, it's a long day.
The first class went well. Predictably, despite a pep talk to myself in the car, I felt niggling inferiority throughout the class. Like all such classes, we had to introduce ourselves. This is the point where everyone tells how many MFAs they have, their experience teaching literature at USC and UC Irvine, the novels they've written, the poetry they've published. The term "existentialism" came up, and what was worse, it was done ironically. Another told of the multiple Iowa Workshops (which are pretty much the best In The World) she had done.
Holy shit. Or, as Scooby Doo would say, ruh-roh.
When my turn came, for reasons I cannot say, because I DON'T KNOW WHY, I skipped telling about my job (acquisitions and development for a health/medical publisher, in case you care) and my education and writing experience and said . . . I was a mom of two young daughters. Like, that was it. That's all I told about my life. I hammered a couple more nails in my credibility coffin by admitting that writing short stories was new to me and (gasp!) I have written only two. Just. Two. And one of those is in first-draft form. (Obviously, it was the first story that got me into the class. I didn't have a whole lot to choose from.)
As people continued to introduce themselves, they told of the exotic places they had lived, the politics and wars and humanitarian efforts they had witnessed, the arrests they had undergone (Vietnam protests---somehow I didn't think my one and only participation in an idealistic march in 2003 on a sunny SoCal quad carried the same weight.) An older German woman told of growing up in Nazi and then postwar Germany. I listed my exotic place that I've visited as South Dakota, because really, how many people have been there? Like, the CENTER of a Dakota plain? Eh? But really, it was that or a cruise ship port.
So, I felt myself lacking not only in writing credibility but also in, like, experience. I mean, I know DC tends to attract a lot of expert-y, well-educated, world-traveled people, but good lord. I found myself believing their superiority. These were polite, non-snobby people. Truly, they were just stating facts about themselves, albeit it in a carefully intellectualized way. I simply found myself coming up short in comparison. And forgetting that we were all there for the same reason: we DON'T know everything.
It was a good class, though. I learned, which was the goal. After, as I was walking to the parking lot, a woman--probably the only one even close to me in age (though I'm always surprised when people I think of as OLD are actually, like, MY age) came to me. She had black-dyed hair, was from (or her parents?) Pakistan, and she revealed an ironic sense of humor during class that I found rather charming. "My kids are the same age as yours," she said brightly. "One just turned five, and the other is one-and-a-half. I was so interested when you said you had small children!" We chatted briefly as we walked, confessing that skipping the evening routine for a night was a relief, that NOW was the time to get serious about writing, little ones or not.
As I drove home (and it's a long-ass drive), I realized my shallowness. During class, I had been annoyed at myself for NOT bragging? Yes. For failing to let the whole room of people know that I, fancy pants that I am, had a master's degree! In English! From the University of Virginia! Which is a really good school! And I edit and judge writing, in one way or another, for a freaking living!
Because it doesn't matter. The strength of my writing is not in understanding existentialism, the nuances of foreign revolutions, or postmodern literature. I know the veins where I write best, and being a mom has hugely shaped how I write, think, process. Mommyhood also means I have to snatch time to write my sentences, short spurts early in the morning, or longer ones past midnight. This is the bargain I made: I know the sweetness of an unexpected tight morning hug from a cozy-warm toddler, I know the distraction and lack of focus from a trillion little demands. I understand love and fear and vulnerability through the little girls grown in and birthed by my body. I understand that these girls are the reason I only have two short stories to my name.
Well, hey. Like all parents say, I'll travel when the kids are gone.
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