so i'm taking this writing class, something i haven't done in about six years, and it's saving me from so many things right now: job woes, winter weariness, the gaping black hole between football and baseball season... i had this (really nerdy) moment last night when i was on my way home from class. i was walking through the tunnels at 14th Street, from the 2 train to the F train. i had a pile of Xeroxed packets in my arm (stories that had been passed out by the other writers in class), was gnawing on a stale Twizzler from a package i'd just bought at the subground newsstand (dinner) and something good (can't remember what) was playing on my iPod. i was wearing my black Converse lo-tops, my long green grandma coat, my old ratty scarf from the Gap - and i felt completely content. i just had this moment where i thought, "this is me."(god, am i the only one who ever thinks these things? probably.)
anyway, i think this class is the best one i've ever taken, if only for the cast of characters who show up every week. i'd never taken a creative writing class before college. then sophomore year i took the intro course and my life was literally changed. for starters, i developed a ridiculous and enduring crush on my (very married) professor, Zach. but (more importantly) it was also the first time i got any substantial objective feedback on my fiction writing. it was through those classes that i discovered Lorrie Moore (Zach told me that my writing reminded him of her work - and if that's not considered a come-on, i don't know what is) and Alice Munro and why to avoid adverbs like the plague and how to get out of the passive voice... i was never happier during college than when i was in my dorm room, with my Lisa Loeb CDs blaring (might as well lay it all out there), creating and rewriting and reworking my stories.
that's probably why i sought out classes after college, even though i couldn't really afford them. Zach recommended i try a workshop taught by a friend of his (hmmmm, meeting his friends? it was getting serious) in the Village. so once a week i'd trek down to MacDougal Street and sit in the teeniest studio you can imagine, on old wooden folding chairs with four or five other writers - and Denver. he was the teacher. youngish, dark haired, brooding. i, of course, developed a pretty substantial crush on him, too (though he was also married - whatever) but i also learned a lot in those classes, like how to make my stories less "perfect" and when to take more risks. having my Wednesday night workshops to look forward to also kept me afloat during my rough transition to post-college life.
and now this class, at a Jewish community center on the Upper West Side - this one may take the cake. it's taught by a funny guy named Jon (i don't think he's married - i must be losing my touch!) and we sit in a nursery school classroom one night a week for two and a half hours, surrounded by finger-painted artwork and lessons about letters and numbers and baby dolls and toy kitchen sets. (although, if you think about it, you really can't find more fertile ground for creativity and imagination than a nursery school.) there are eleven of us in the class, the age range is approximately 25 to 65 and oh, what a mix of personalities. there's a hippie feminist with long gray hair who doesn't shave her armpits (i know this because she was sitting with her arms behind her head last night) and a young guy with an eye patch who had brain surgery last year and a smart ass middle-aged woman right out of a Woody Allen movie. there's a father of two young kids, a middle school teacher from the Midwest, a twentysomething girl from Montreal who has an awesome Coach scarf and an MFA, and this completely wacky older guy with unruly white hair who asks inane questions and peppers the class with ridiculous non sequiturs. i mean, it's crazy. mostly because i feel such affection for all these nuts already.
there's something about a writing class - when you're serious about writing - that bonds people instantly. you're forced to hand over your precious words to these virtual strangers (who are these people?) trusting them not to beat you down and judge you mercilessly and break your spirit. of course, you're all kindred spirits. the truth is, you're all after the same thing - just a glimmer of hope that you might actually be decent at this!
anyway, my point is: i love writing classes. i stopped taking them for so long because i thought it wasn't worth all the money. but last night, feeling in my bones that i was right where i should be, that i actually knew who i was - that, my friends, is a Mastercard commercial. priceless.
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