This is the very first of a year long commitment to blog every day. Blog fest if you will. A means to an end. A way to force, cajole, weedle and trick my sad self into birthing a writerly life where I actually write, not just wish I would write. Or had time to write.
This is the first day on the journey. I was accepted into the English program, concentration in Creative Writing almost a month ago. The only reason I applied is because I didn’t get into the big-kid’s MFA program so I’m settling for the undergraduate version so I can gain access to the upper division writing classes. Why? Why would I do that, a woman with two degrees? Why not just write? Well, the sad, sad truth of it is that I hate writing. I love it. And I hate it. It’s a conundrum. It’s rather unfortunate that I find myself being the kind of writer that doesn’t function well without a deadline. Or threat of a grade. I write every day, but not meaningfully. I jot notes. I start stuff. Loads of stuff. I finish not a thing. And worst of all, I don’t share any of it. Not unless I’m forced to. the class thing you know. I’m the member (really, not joking) in the writing group that never shares writing. Never reads at the readings. I’ll read other people’s stuff all day long and write long, thoughtful responses. I’m a killer editor. I’m a good writer. I’d rather switch that up a bit.
I’ve wanted to write for a living since I was in 7th grade and got my very first, ‘you write really well’ from Mr. John Kinghorn, writing teacher extraordinaire. Also the one who introduced me to Ray Bradbury and the Martian Chronicles. I still have the battered, yellow, brittle copy, stamped ‘Property of Evergreen Junior High School,’ that I stole, er, failed to return. But really it was because I loved it so much I couldn’t. Between John and Mr. Joseph Knight, an English teacher I had in high school, I was smitten with the idea of being a writer very early on. I even loved the surly alcoholic literature teacher I had who introduced me to Hemingway. I hated then loved a teacher I had in 9th grade who I swore then followed me to the high school as an English teacher just for the pleasure of continuing her torture campaign against me. Mrs. Aldridge … I forget her first name now. Mrs. Aldridge, who holds a very dear place in my heart because she’s the one who introduced me to Harper Lee and To Kill a Mockingbird.
I want to create places that draw people in and hold them near, beloved, because they love the place and the people too. Right now I’m thinking Louise Penny. I want to live in Three Pines with the Gamaches, Gabri and Olivier. Clara and Myrna. Even Ruth. I want to breathe life into something that special. So here we go.
Categories: Short story