Am I a Writer?
The following is a journal entry of mine. Grammar does not count in journal entries. Structure, well that's gone too. This is a mere article on a class assignment I had based and influenced on the work of Theodore Roesthke and questioning if I'm a writer. Enjoy, or don't. I can't tell you what to do.
No matter which school it was; Merrimack College, Northern Essex Community College, or Emerson College, this is what a first day of school looks like. My typical response looks like this;
I'll first get to class early. The apartment I stay at is a five minute walk from campus but for some reason I always think it's a half hour, so I leave a half hour early, getting me to campus- through the crosswalks and street traffic and up the flight of stairs, twenty minutes early. I wait outside the classroom, not daring to be the first one in the room but also being weary of not stalking the classroom itself, so I'll look at the options in the vending machine then act like I forgot my wallet or something. If you haven't picked up, I am awkward in settings I am not comfortable in. School, is one of those settings.
Getting into the room I'll set my bags down three to four seats into the class. I try to pick a window in the second or third row. My goal is to choose a seat that will allow me not to share first when we go around the room, but securing I will not go last. Stay closer to the front of the class so my turn gets over with quicker. This will give me enough time to piggy back off of someone else's answer but still add something of my own originality. It's all strategy.
Currently, I am writing this before my classes - hence the jumbled thought process. Today is Ethics and Poetry. There's no reason for this writing yet - but there will be. A lesson maybe on writing. Maybe on Boston. No, maybe on being quiet when your thoughts are loud.
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I wrote that idea prior to class and since class times the topic changed. On my first day of poetry workshop (today) we read Theodore Roethke's Some Self Analysis, a piece from On the Poet and His Craft.
Fragments from the essay relate to where I was going with the quiet, different, abnormal, and writing topic. As a class discussion opened I found more comfort in being quiet, different abnormal, and writing. Our assignment was to take ten minutes and write our own self-analysis; what inspires us, what do we write about, are we a writer. ... My response will be shared after this essay.
In response to Roethke's work he writes lines that course my own cerebrum. Simple thoughts like;
Waiting for my man in tights and a cape to come to my rescue, I'll continue with the three thoughts that hit me most by Roethke;
Roethke mentions this passing thought, while going through a short memory of childhood writing successes but once he got older finding those little prizes and recognitions faded. In fact he couldn't get an A in his courses after once written something that was translated into twenty-six languages before high school! What a crippling thought.
"Passing thought "- what a stupid way to phrase that, like I did at the beginning. This is more of a thought that gets you caught in a web that you can't get out of. Nothing passing about it. An eight legged beast is coming towards you and you can't escape. You're whole life you knew how to fly; write. Now you're flying; writing, and you get caught, stuck in a situation where you don't know what to do. What if you can't fly; what if you can't write. What can you do?
I think about this often. Not that I won awards but I was always the more advanced writer. At fourteen I had my picture hanging in a museum in England for articles I had written on The Beatles, even getting a letter from Liverpool Officials. Movies with Dick Van Dyke and Angela Lansbury had asked me to do a write up on them that I declined. By college though, people were published. Classmates had already written novels, scripts, plays and working with authors while I was struggling for a next article to find me or time to write it and people to read them. I was always the straight A student, I had the pixie hair cut, the one who made all the one-liners; But that is now every student in Art School.
P.S I hated writing that last part. I hate writing essays sometimes. Writing personal stories is an ego thing. Lot's of "I"s. It's trying to separate the bragging, the humble brag, the talking too much about oneself, and differentiate that into taking what you know and your life and translating it into a story or a lesson. Something you want to pass to someone else. But I suppose as an author who wants to write about the truth and honesty, I know what I know which is me and my life so "I" is used. And I (there's that word again) apologize. Because it's not a word I like using. Know I cringe when I write it. Okay, let's continue.
Last quote.
His essay ends with this quote and show shall mine;
Name, major declared, one fun fact about yourself. Oh- and maybe where you're from.
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| Bathroom Stall. North Station. July 2019. |
I'll first get to class early. The apartment I stay at is a five minute walk from campus but for some reason I always think it's a half hour, so I leave a half hour early, getting me to campus- through the crosswalks and street traffic and up the flight of stairs, twenty minutes early. I wait outside the classroom, not daring to be the first one in the room but also being weary of not stalking the classroom itself, so I'll look at the options in the vending machine then act like I forgot my wallet or something. If you haven't picked up, I am awkward in settings I am not comfortable in. School, is one of those settings.
Getting into the room I'll set my bags down three to four seats into the class. I try to pick a window in the second or third row. My goal is to choose a seat that will allow me not to share first when we go around the room, but securing I will not go last. Stay closer to the front of the class so my turn gets over with quicker. This will give me enough time to piggy back off of someone else's answer but still add something of my own originality. It's all strategy.
"I'm Lindsey"I rarely say "Hi" and I never say "Coye". I don't know why - Originality? "Hi" is already implied I feel. The professor is making us introduce ourselves. I have smiled at you all while looking distraught about not getting Cheetos from the vending machine and try not to come off unapproachable.
"I'm a __"Fill in the blank. My major has switched so many times I don't know where I lie or where my bed will be made. It was Health Sciences to be a doctor in Occupation Therapy, then the chair from the writing department at my first school, whom was my intro to writing professor at the time, persuaded me to a Literature major. Time off of school led me into Communications and Journalism when I decided to go back. Emerson enrolled me into Media Studies, but now I'm planning to graduate with a Degree in Fine Arts in the WPL Department with a Creative Writing Major. If I could do it all over again I think I would make prosthetics for animals. I just don't have the brains in this lifetime. Too many ambitions in this one though.
"Uhm.. I'm a twin..?"A twin? Is that a fun fact? The most interesting things about me don't seem to interest those around me, so maybe the fact that the quiet girl listening to Wynona Carr in the corner has a clone might intrigue people? Maybe I'll start using weird facts about me, like I don't dance at concerts but I'll dance at weddings, but only if it's Motown or Soul music. Or I once saw Bill Murray in concert. Perhaps I'll just take this opportunity to showcase a Kermit the Frog impression I've been working on. Fun, right? Annoyed. Because I am. I don't find these question get to know one and I don't really like writing about myself all that much, relating and sharing stories yes, but I find this right now to be very egotistical. Even for a journal entry.
"I'm from P(for purposes of a public forum, I'll keep the rest private. Thank you), New Hampshire".Always have been, but won't always be. P____ is the kind of town that was great to grow up in, as my street alone had eighteen kids graduate within a year of each other so there was always somebody to do something with. As I got older the town seemed to become home to more pharmacies, tire shops, and plagued memories.
Currently, I am writing this before my classes - hence the jumbled thought process. Today is Ethics and Poetry. There's no reason for this writing yet - but there will be. A lesson maybe on writing. Maybe on Boston. No, maybe on being quiet when your thoughts are loud.
--------------
I wrote that idea prior to class and since class times the topic changed. On my first day of poetry workshop (today) we read Theodore Roethke's Some Self Analysis, a piece from On the Poet and His Craft.
Fragments from the essay relate to where I was going with the quiet, different, abnormal, and writing topic. As a class discussion opened I found more comfort in being quiet, different abnormal, and writing. Our assignment was to take ten minutes and write our own self-analysis; what inspires us, what do we write about, are we a writer. ... My response will be shared after this essay.
In response to Roethke's work he writes lines that course my own cerebrum. Simple thoughts like;
"I have long wondered just what my strength was as a writer. I am often filled with tremendous enthusiasm for a subject, yet my writing about it will seem a sorry attempt."
"I am influenced too much by natural objects."Both ideas that are vague enough to be felt by anyone. Whenever I sit down to write anything, I am never proud of the end result. No matter the letter grade I get if it's for courses, no matter the praise I get if it's for free write, and no matter how many hours I put into writing the article or essay itself. My heart, soul, cavities will be splattered into an article or essays - leaving nothing left of me but a barren shell. Yet, still I feel as if I have given nothing to the article and justice had not been served. Superman, where are you? Fix my paper, God damn it. The world needs to learn how to take care of their own problems. Serve justice in helping me write something good.
Waiting for my man in tights and a cape to come to my rescue, I'll continue with the three thoughts that hit me most by Roethke;
"If I can't write, what can I do? I wonder."
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| Boston. 5 September, 2019. |
"Passing thought "- what a stupid way to phrase that, like I did at the beginning. This is more of a thought that gets you caught in a web that you can't get out of. Nothing passing about it. An eight legged beast is coming towards you and you can't escape. You're whole life you knew how to fly; write. Now you're flying; writing, and you get caught, stuck in a situation where you don't know what to do. What if you can't fly; what if you can't write. What can you do?
I think about this often. Not that I won awards but I was always the more advanced writer. At fourteen I had my picture hanging in a museum in England for articles I had written on The Beatles, even getting a letter from Liverpool Officials. Movies with Dick Van Dyke and Angela Lansbury had asked me to do a write up on them that I declined. By college though, people were published. Classmates had already written novels, scripts, plays and working with authors while I was struggling for a next article to find me or time to write it and people to read them. I was always the straight A student, I had the pixie hair cut, the one who made all the one-liners; But that is now every student in Art School.
P.S I hated writing that last part. I hate writing essays sometimes. Writing personal stories is an ego thing. Lot's of "I"s. It's trying to separate the bragging, the humble brag, the talking too much about oneself, and differentiate that into taking what you know and your life and translating it into a story or a lesson. Something you want to pass to someone else. But I suppose as an author who wants to write about the truth and honesty, I know what I know which is me and my life so "I" is used. And I (there's that word again) apologize. Because it's not a word I like using. Know I cringe when I write it. Okay, let's continue.
"I write what I believe is the truth..."As a nonfiction writer this quote is a no brainer to me. However, I write my truth. Recently, I picked up and put down Johnny Cash's autobiography. He warns the reader at first that what they would endeavor in the next 300 or so pages would be his truth, his story from his memory. This was how The Man In Black remembered how everything happened and it will be spelt out that way in black ink. When I write article or research papers I use other sources, but sources I believe to be true as well. Going off of this quote, Roethke says by writing about the truth and people he knows he feels like he's more of a reporter than a writer. This I have to disagree with. I believe that he has become a mirror, a profession that delivers news, maybe not always in the way we want, but a mirror without bias or false precedent. A mirror reflects what is going on currently, in front of it. While a reporter can speak on the past, use bias and not speak the whole truth- which the goal is to rely the whole truth. I don't know. He also mentions he writes the truth because other people don't. His peers write about pain but have they felt it? It's all a mask. I think as writers we need to remove the mask, relate, be raw and allow yourself to be vulnerable to the text. How do you expect a reader to relate to your work if you can't even relate to it yourself. I'm not saying donate a kidney in your next piece of work, whether it be a poem, song, or essay. Think about spilling a little blood. Show us your eyes carry the burden you talk about. Let us, the readers, feel the pulse you have for your topic. Whether it be rapid in the talks of love or thrill- both the same, even in a horror in some cases. Or slow in the time of sorrow or complete serenity. Honesty is often the best tool for any piece of literature.
Last quote.
His essay ends with this quote and show shall mine;
"Nevertheless, I have faith in myself. I'm either going to be a good writer or a poor fool."----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My ten-minute self analysis writing assignment.
There are three things I carry with me everywhere I go - or try to at least. At this moment I am missing one as I loaned it but will have it back when I return home tonight. These artifacts are my Papa's prayer card, a magazine cut out of Chuck Berry, and my last Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers ticket. These inspire me.
My Papa represents my roots. My family, where I come from. It is the laughter and love. It also reflects an illness I had while living with him while he was battling his. I hold a lot of anger with this card because I didn't fight hard enough while he was alive. The card inspires me to be open about my past, pain, and the experience of death. The card reminds me that it's okay to be vulnerable, to be angry (because that's an okay emotion to have) but most importantly, it's taught me that no matter what path I take, a clear, paved road or a mudded up, ridge, I will always have family.
Chuck Berry, The Godfather of Rock and Roll. This was given to me by my twin sister who saw it after Mr. Berry passed away. I put it in my wallet the minute she gave it to me and it has moved wallet to wallet since. It symbolizes the internal flame for music in which I use to fill my lungs. Which kick started my writing both non-fiction and poetry. It's a level headed reminder as well, in times that not all those whom we perceive to be "The Best' or god-like are walking on water, for Chuck Berry, I can love his art but not the artist.
The Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers ticket is taped together, faded out, and stained with a lipstick smudge. The band was never my favorite. That surprises people when they talk to me. The group had came into my life when I needed shelter and was searching for some sanity that could only be found in not only the lyrics, but when I didn't relate to the lyrics, a drumming pattern or the keyboards may have spoken to me. They will always be both art, the artist, and the viewer for Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers just understood something more than I think other's did -and they look at you different, too.
WO. 2019. I write for those back east.
Now the question, Am I a writer? I hate how essayist ask questions, belittle themselves in the essay but for the purpose of the assignment, I trudge forward. Am I a writer? I like to believe I am. I put pen to paper, which is the verb, the action of writing. I have written. I am writing. I am not a Dorothy Parker, I am not a Bob Dylan. Nor am I Herman Melville. But neither is Puccini, Allen Ginsberg, or Oscar Wilde. But they're all writers.
I am a writer for those who read non-fiction articles on rock'n'roll series. I'm a writer for those who want to read into my mind, for I am vocally quiet but share my thoughts on my past battles, adventures, and observations in writing. I am a writer for those who want to read sketchy, no structure poetry that flows without thought. Just a stream of subconsciousness of aloof exercises or phrase I hear.
So if I'm your writer, then yes! I am a writer. '
