Ok, so here is the first of the school stuff we talked about yesterday. This was the very first assignment in my Creative Writing class. Assigned on our first day of class (a Tuesday), the finished product was due before the following class (Thursday).
I point that out because I think it speaks to the tempo of the class and why it has (so far) been both uncomfortable and beneficial. There is no “learn-until-you-are-competent-enough.” There are no weeks of time allotted to work and rework and (honestly) procrastinate. There is no get up into your head and freak yourself out. This class took care of all that when on the 12th we introduced ourselves and on the 14th we had both turned something in, and had it read out loud. Not the way I would have done it. I would have been wrong.
Anywho, here’s the assignment.
In this exercise, you’ll use three questions to stimulate creative thought. You want to answer the questions as quickly as you can, with whatever ideas pop into your mind. Write as much as you can, but allow the words to flow without pondering too much what you want to say.
– Who just snuck out the back window?
– What were they carrying?
– Where were they going?
Yup, that’s it. There were no other instructions provided. No word count, no focus, no expectation. This was it. My student brain exploded. How in the hell was I supposed to complete an assignment with no expectations, no rubric, no “right” answer?
I can literally HEAR you rolling your eyes. Judge. I don’t care. This college thing has created a whole new beast inside of me. If not created, at least unleashed. The sacrifices I and my family offer to make this happen are not small. The opportunity, for me, is a lifetime dream. The experience has been more than I have ever hoped for. And now that I am getting into major/minor specific classes, it is all that and exponentially more.
I give a shit – A BIG SHIT – about my performance. And, until I figure out how to gauge it differently, that reflects in my grades. I coddle and protect that GPA harder than my FICO – and I will cut you for that bitch.
Anyway, after I put the pieces of my skull back together with a bit of Johnny Walker, I did what I normally do in situations like this. I said, “Fuck it” and I sat down to write.
Let me tell you, taking a creative writing class in the middle of an academic environment has been the kind of juxtaposition that I don’t think I will be able to accurately explain until it’s over. Until then, it is suffice to say that it is jarring and restorative. That restorative part has been the most interesting. It’s like those days when you have been going 90 to nothing for what feels like forever and you still have a shit ton to do and you really can’t take a day off to just sit in a comfy chair wearing your favorite pjs drinking spiked coffee, but you do it anyway and it makes the following days SO much more productive and efficient. It just makes you better.
And while I can’t yet fully articulate that idea, I did finish the first assignment on time and without a hangover. You’re proud of me, I know. I am posting it here and welcome any ideas, critiques, whatever. Seriously, that’s what these blitz type pieces are for – to play, to suck, to expand, to nurture one small idea into something readable. I’ll take all the help I can get.
(No Title)
I’m tired. The kind of tired that has settled into the bones and you’re pretty sure sleep can’t help you anymore. I think the time has to be close to 5. I only know because the sun hasn’t broke but the coffee is fresh. That’s as good as I got. If you need to know anything else, I will be of no help.
I think the too skinny redhead waitress is trying to get my attention, but I have none. Her name has been given to me, but I haven’t bothered to remember it. I should have. There’s a time when I would have. I would have smiled broadly, said something meaningful about her hair, the color of her eyes, and employed some long-forgotten memory technique to store her name away. The next time I came in, I would call her by it as soon as I cross the threshold, long before the gesture could be explained by a name tag. She would smile. She would feel seen. And that would be my kindness for the day. If I had accomplished nothing else, there would be that.
It occurs to me she is shouting and waving her arms about. It occurs to me that it might be important.
Important. There’s a lost idea. When was the last time I found something important? A person needs a bit of important in their life to keep from becoming whatever this is I am becoming. I’m not so far gone as to not realize that.
She is some kind of excited. And she is definitely looking at me. Saying something to me.
The hope of important stirs something. Maybe it’s just the coffee starting to move in my head. Or maybe, today will stand out as a day when important showed back up. Except I can’t hear her. I mean I can hear her. Hell, she is screeching so loud the folks in the cemetery across the street can hear her. But my brain, the part that acknowledges the speech of another human as decodable into meaningful, important information, is offline. I have to concentrate. This is important.
“Police…goddamn asshole…fired…”
That’s all I get but it’s a start. I force my brain to consider the snatches. It’s like a puzzle in the air swirling around. I feel like I am running out of time, like it is going to be too late, like I am going to fail all over again and this is important. That can’t happen, not now, not again because what if.
Motherfucker. Is this chick serious? All this commotion over the homeless guy taking off with some bullshit diner groceries? He’s hungry and your dumbass just opens the back window instead of going outside to smoke. You think it’s too cold outside to smoke? Then it’s probably too cold outside to be hungry.
My puzzle falls from my brain and there is nothing important. She is standing next to me now, ridiculously close but the volume of her voice hasn’t changed. It’s gone back to non-words. It is easier to tune out. It is not important.
Bitch. I fucking hate her. I don’t say this out loud of course. But I am assuming my face does something because the sound of her voice stops, and she steps away. Maybe my face literally said, “Bitch, I fucking hate you.” But, unless I am further gone than I think, my face doesn’t really do that. It’s not a language it is versed in. Now disappointment. My face knows that entire lexicon. That’s probably what my face said. Folks can’t typically stand too long in the face of disappointment. They can’t handle it. And I am so horribly disappointed.
I am so fucking tired and all the universe can offer me is stolen bacon.
I can do relate to this! Love it..
Awwww thanks 🙂 I love you!!