Hercules's Letter Jacket
Last night I got an e-mail from a former student, who was in the only creative writing class I’ve taught in the classroom, asking for a letter of recommendation to get into college; i.e. a more substantial college than Raritan Valley Community College. He also reiterated that my class was his favorite of all he had at the college. Flattery is nice sometimes.
Now I have a writing assignment. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a writing assignment outside of work correspondence and occasional here-write-up-a-quick-announcement. I did put together a presentation for a colloquium (I hate that bitchy word, mainly because of the bitchy stiffs I’ve heard use it; otherwise it’s kind of nice, now that I’m looking at it, the Latin formation and all), to enlighten the English department and whomever else about my philosophy on teaching creative writing. I was the English department’s creative representative.
Center stage has never been a comfortable place for me. However, I have to toot the horn and say it was the best presentation I ever gave. I wrote this thing out and practiced it. I wasn’t going to look like a fool in front of the English department, for my own dignity and self-satisfaction, and also because there were a few haughty ones in the department who had let me know in various ways they didn’t deem me worth much, particularly the department chair. I was the fourth of five to present. While I spouted my thoughts and then read a few of my poems, the people in the room showed interest with nods, turns of the mouth, dilations of the eye, and they laughed at appropriate times. I even saw people taking notes. I felt like a rock star. At the completion of the colloquium, people lined up to talk to me, including the department chair who made a point to let everyone know how smart she was for hiring me.
Anyway, I haven’t had a writing assignment in a while. The presentation I wrote out but altered ad-lib-wise when I delivered it aloud. I didn’t have to perfect it into impressive granite print. This request for a letter of recommendation got me thinking about my spontaneous writing ritual. As per the Flaming Lips, "I feel happy but nervous". When I know I have to write something I want it to be perfect. This desire causes my brain to begin to separate. My brain runs highly nonlinear.
Before I begin writing I beat myself down for being hopelessly incoherent and for being a failure. I tell myself: you will never get this done, and if you do, it will be only sub-par, your thoughts are a mediocre mess and you’ll never be able to sort and order them. I put my face in my hand, I yank at my hair, I change clothes, I write a big bang of notes, I step outside, I smoke a cigarette, I listen to a CD on repeat, I holler, I lie down, I write, I type, I draw maps, maybe have a beer, I delete, I write more, I draw more maps, and then when it’s all in order I print it out (for the thousandth time) and see that the sentences in each paragraph need to be in reverse order, and the paragraphs of the whole beast need to be in reverse order. I cut, I paste, I edit, I step outside, I try to unclench my jaw, I dance, I holler, I print again. This goes on in varying rhythms and melodies. Finally I print again, staple and cast the product onto the seat of a leather chair, and I feel like Hercules come back from Hades, worn and raw, uncertainly valiant.
And it still stands that I love writing, I love the process of writing. I even love the pre-writing self-abuse, I even love the hating of the loving of the pre-writing self-abuse. It’s part of the game. I look forward to writing this letter. I may rent a cabin in the woods for this episode and during the turmoil ride deer, with a whip in the pen-hand.
Onward, ho. I have work to do, besides going on about myself and then attempting to excuse it. It occurs to me that the above splatter might suggest that I think I'm some kind of writer so necessary that mythological upheavals must happen to achieve my goods. Ho ho ha he hi huh uh. Neurosis. I'm really hopelessly fucking tired today.
The math:
insomnia x basement noise x MNOTS = Sara feels like falling rock
Now I have a writing assignment. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a writing assignment outside of work correspondence and occasional here-write-up-a-quick-announcement. I did put together a presentation for a colloquium (I hate that bitchy word, mainly because of the bitchy stiffs I’ve heard use it; otherwise it’s kind of nice, now that I’m looking at it, the Latin formation and all), to enlighten the English department and whomever else about my philosophy on teaching creative writing. I was the English department’s creative representative.
Center stage has never been a comfortable place for me. However, I have to toot the horn and say it was the best presentation I ever gave. I wrote this thing out and practiced it. I wasn’t going to look like a fool in front of the English department, for my own dignity and self-satisfaction, and also because there were a few haughty ones in the department who had let me know in various ways they didn’t deem me worth much, particularly the department chair. I was the fourth of five to present. While I spouted my thoughts and then read a few of my poems, the people in the room showed interest with nods, turns of the mouth, dilations of the eye, and they laughed at appropriate times. I even saw people taking notes. I felt like a rock star. At the completion of the colloquium, people lined up to talk to me, including the department chair who made a point to let everyone know how smart she was for hiring me.
Anyway, I haven’t had a writing assignment in a while. The presentation I wrote out but altered ad-lib-wise when I delivered it aloud. I didn’t have to perfect it into impressive granite print. This request for a letter of recommendation got me thinking about my spontaneous writing ritual. As per the Flaming Lips, "I feel happy but nervous". When I know I have to write something I want it to be perfect. This desire causes my brain to begin to separate. My brain runs highly nonlinear.
Before I begin writing I beat myself down for being hopelessly incoherent and for being a failure. I tell myself: you will never get this done, and if you do, it will be only sub-par, your thoughts are a mediocre mess and you’ll never be able to sort and order them. I put my face in my hand, I yank at my hair, I change clothes, I write a big bang of notes, I step outside, I smoke a cigarette, I listen to a CD on repeat, I holler, I lie down, I write, I type, I draw maps, maybe have a beer, I delete, I write more, I draw more maps, and then when it’s all in order I print it out (for the thousandth time) and see that the sentences in each paragraph need to be in reverse order, and the paragraphs of the whole beast need to be in reverse order. I cut, I paste, I edit, I step outside, I try to unclench my jaw, I dance, I holler, I print again. This goes on in varying rhythms and melodies. Finally I print again, staple and cast the product onto the seat of a leather chair, and I feel like Hercules come back from Hades, worn and raw, uncertainly valiant.
And it still stands that I love writing, I love the process of writing. I even love the pre-writing self-abuse, I even love the hating of the loving of the pre-writing self-abuse. It’s part of the game. I look forward to writing this letter. I may rent a cabin in the woods for this episode and during the turmoil ride deer, with a whip in the pen-hand.
Onward, ho. I have work to do, besides going on about myself and then attempting to excuse it. It occurs to me that the above splatter might suggest that I think I'm some kind of writer so necessary that mythological upheavals must happen to achieve my goods. Ho ho ha he hi huh uh. Neurosis. I'm really hopelessly fucking tired today.
The math:
insomnia x basement noise x MNOTS = Sara feels like falling rock
9 Comments:
This former student better be appreciative of the effort!
you are made of sterner stuff than i.
i don't love the hating or the object of said hating.
sigh
doomed
I do believe this student appreciates it. He keeps thanking me profusely. I feel like Miss America, flowers and tiara.
Sterner stuff, eh? You're not doomed, O Unique One.
Kate, pay no attention to the above maelstrom. Onward, ho.
You write like a fucking demon, Sara. Like a demon.
Shucks. A fucking demon...that's awesome. I'm blushin'.
I must confess, Sara, that it was rather late my time (Spain) when I wrote that extensive, compare-and-contrast commentary on your writing abilities. No. I am not taking lithium as anti-psychophant medicine. I therefore concur with myself. But you didn’t ask: how does a demon write? Well? How does a demon write?
Alberto
No, I didn't ask. However, I do plan to launch a series of experiments today. The demons and the others are lined up on a table in my office right now, ready to go.
Ok, that isn't true, though it would be fun. I accepted the simile because I've used it before and I like it.
I noted the Eduardo connection on your blog. The infinite blog web infinitely fascinates me.
Oh, and, Spain also fascinates me. I’ve never been there. For some reason when I think of Spain, I see rubies in my head. This has been going on for years.
When I kick it, will you write my eulogy?
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