The Death of Handwritten

Quitting my creative writing class was a really difficult decision for me.  I'd like to think I don't quit easily on things, particularly when school is involved.  But I had a few days before the withdrawal deadline and I believed that I had gleaned the most beneficial portions of the class.  I had photocopied the pages required in the syllabus and returned the textbook before the return deadline at the beginning of the semester (now that's how you do college for cheap, kids!)  I had finished the poetry section and the fiction section, and the rest of the semester held only essays and discussions.

I had been phoning in the homework for a while, literally copying and pasting from the blog at times when I needed material in a pinch.  Somewhere along the line I realized that my writing class was keeping me from really writing.

I haven't written here in far too long.  I've missed this, my sanctuary of words and thoughts.  My class required daily entries into a handwritten journal of sorts to keep us writing everyday.  But leaving my keyboard and my ability to more readily self-edit for the pencil smudgery that is handwriting for lefties felt like - well, like camping; sure I could do it and make it just fine, but why settle for a sleeping bag when you own the softy down of a queen mattress?  A cheap composition notebook just doesn't suit me or my purposes.  And typing is comfier, sue me.

My classmates were all there for different reasons and I was the only one from my academic background and the only non-English Major.  I felt out of place surrounded by people who thought in words and turns of phrases and screenplays.  I'm a storyteller, but in that class I felt distracted from that goal.  I'm sure many would, have and will find the exercises prescribed in that class and others like it useful, and I did gain some occasional insight at times.  But I was looking for an intensive focus to build upon the skill set I had rather than an exploration of different genres and styles.  I've found what styles work for me and what don't.  If I went to a music store to buy a piano they wouldn't make me learn trumpet first.  I can find what I'm looking for elsewhere.

I've looked back on my earliest posts and tried to rediscover the fire that got me writing to begin with. The purpose of this blog is more than just a more detailed series of facebook statuses.  There's more to this than mere therapeutic journaling, I think.  This is the memorial of our early years as a couple.  This is where I come to pen our struggles, our anxieties, and our triumphs.  This is where we immortalize our flaws, the ones we try to grow out of over time. 

These posts and pages are where our friends, family and readers can look back with us and marvel at how we made it through.  I don't know what I'll write next, I never have.  There is no plan.  If something is noteworthy, I note it.

This is our notebook.


S

The Four W's - A Weekend of Firsts

I did something for the very first time this weekend. A few things, actually.


Wakey-wakey, lunch and breaky

I've eaten at all times of the day or night.  But I don't think I've ever had a mid-morning meal and given enough thought to it to call it brunch. B. and I went to brunch at a friend's house and enjoyed an increasingly rare respite from our day-to-day, home-to-work-to-school-to-work-to-home lives.  We caught up with some old friends and enjoyed a great meal.  Our weekend felt more like a weekend somehow because of that brunch.


"Well, this might as well happen..."

I've just sort of accepted that God challenges great men to help them achieve greatness,

but He challenges me just cuz it's funny. 

I don't mean to say I'm destined for the biblical curses of Job, but if there is some sort of minor mishap that could effectively ruin my day or distract or divert me from getting anything done on time, it's bound to happen eventually.  And I always follow up with a humorous report later.  He  gives me great material, I guess.  You'll recall my long trek across town to right a foolish wrong.  This was less dramatic and even less time-consuming, but still frustrating.

I've developed a habit of locking the door on my way out in the mornings.  This is great for security, although I'm prone to lock the door even when I'm not going that far.  Like the mailbox.  I was pleased to get a check I had been expecting from a freelance client, but my joy was soon snuffed out by the realization that my keys were in fact not in my right pocket as they usually are, but sitting on the kitchen counter.  I had locked myself out. 

I had no keys.  No way inside the apartment.  No way into the car sitting parked in our driveway.  What I did have was a bike.  And a wife with keys at work.  Six miles later (uphill, against the wind) I borrowed B.'s keys, cooled down with a vitamin water and made the much smoother downhill downwind trip home.  Biking will always be preferable to walking in these sorts of situations.

I'm actually relieved to have done it now.  Finally it's happened.  Somehow there's less apprehension about it now that the deed is done. 


Withdrawals

Not the kind you're probably thinking of.  Unless you're thinking chocolate.  Then... you're still wrong.  Darn those girl scouts and their delicious boxes of minty chocolate temptation.  No, for the first time in my collegiate career, I'm quitting.  I dropped a class.  It had just gotten to the point where it was more of a burden than a help, and at this point, so close to graduation, I can't afford to be distracted by courses that don't pertain directly to my career.  I'll write more about this later but suffice it to say I much prefer to write creatively than take creative writing.


Wisdom(?) 

An impressive "behold my profundity!" aphorism escaped my lips in the middle of Barnes & Noble a few days ago. 

Folks, this NEVER happens.  Anything remotely impressive I've ever said - I didn't actually say.  I either memorized a quote from someone super-deep or I wrote it down beforehand.  I'm a writer, not a speaker.  I didn't even think it was all that great, but B. pointed it out as rather clever.  So with her praise being really my only goal in life, I'm happy to share what she deemed wisdom.

She expressed concern over the tests she would have to take before and during grad school.  Those tests are expensive and extremely difficult.  I tried to console her and tell her that price wasn't something to even factor in, and that not passing the first time is no big deal.  There's no shame in failing.

"There's a difference between failing and being a failure," I remarked sagely. "Once you've stopped failing, you've done it - you've become a true failure."

And I honestly believe that.  I downloaded a student version of Maya a few days ago.  This 3d modelling software has already reduced me to thumping the keyboard like an ape more than once.  Failure is exciting.  I'd rather frame my rejection letter to my BFA program than the acceptance letter I received later.  You learn so much less from success.  Keep trying, keep failing.



And with that, I'll leave you.  How was your weekend?  What were your W's?




S