Writing Class

The assignment was to write a memory from childhood incorporating as much sensory detail as possible, calling on color and texture and smell. This followed a guided visualization during which I fell very nearly asleep, a not-surprising consequence of sleeping fewer than 6 hours the night before, the fifth night in a row of not sleeping enough, the usual drag of the week taking me under, under, under in the uncomfortable Arts & Crafts-style chair I sat in that offered, at least, the ability to sit crossed legged, knees wedged behind the arm rests, portable desk in my lap.

I wish I could say I loved that writing class, the writing class I paid for with a portion of the birthday check from my mother (the money I was admonished could not be spent on house things, but only on things For Me, which is my mother’s definition of gift, woe be to the person who gives her an appliance). I wish I could say I loved it, but since I say it that way, then you know I didn’t, much as I wanted to. And yet there were things to learn, there were experiences to be had, even though I was totally uncomfortable to be in someone’s strangely-stripped-down home – Do they not live in this part, I wondered, since this is where she teaches classes? Does that explain the lack of personal effects, the shelves empty of books and memories, walls bare of art? Or does it just point to a general state of being, a lack of decorativeness that puts me off, in which I feel ill at ease?  

Upon arrival that morning I’d filled my thermal mug with black tea (cream + sugar brought from home, just in case, as was the tea bag, a person can’t be too careful), and set myself up for the day. Looking around, I noticed that everyone else really had only brought the notebook and pens that the emailed instructions had mentioned. I’d thought to inquire re bringing my laptop, but then didn’t, brought it with me since it’s my usual tool for writing, the way that I am most comfortable. In the morning, I’d packed it into my bag, along with two notebooks and my brimming pencil case, and the portable keyboard and mouse. And the lap-desk. My strong preference would have been to sit at a table, but I had a feeling, or really it was probably just a fact from looking at photos on the website, that we’d be sitting around a living room all day, so I’d better bring my comfort with me.

With my knees crossed, the portable desk perched, the laptop, Moleskine, pencil at the ready, I was good to go. As the teacher started talking, I took notes quietly on my laptop, as quietly as I could, tapping lightly on the keys, aware that the Sikh woman in a turban seated to my right had glanced my way at the first sound of typing and was holding her body, just slightly, away, leaning right. When time came for the first exercise, the teacher stopped by my seat and let me know that for its purposes, a laptop wouldn’t do. So it was on to the notebook, writing furiously, my hand cramping, following the instructions to spin the paper or switch and write left handed. I did all this gamely, remaining open to the possibility that I could learn something, even in a situation where I was edging up so close to irritation.

There were people in that class who had never written a thing. Not one thing. Who produced their first work that day. Which is great for them. But which explains, partly, why I felt weird. Like I wanted something slightly, maybe more than slightly, different.

Still, though it might have been a poor choice on my part, still it was an experience. So I don’t regret it. Not entirely. I definitely liked some of the practices, which I may make my own, and I like what I produced following the guided visualization. Still, the whole thing was a little, I don’t know, old school in a way that didn’t work for me, that was a little too Boomer for me, by which I mean that it had this certain sensibility that makes me tired – which is something it would take me pages and pages to unpack. I'll just list some common words du jour: Sandinista, Nicaragua, Reagan.

Look, not everything works for everybody, right? I think the day was a success for many in the room (except the guy who left after lunch, claiming that he’d received a text and had to go). And I can Pollyanna all I want -- i.e., can extract some useful morsels, adopt some of the freewrite techniques, polish the story I started that day -- but bottom line: it just wasn't good. Not for me.

So, on to the next...  And tomorrow, the story I started that day.

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