On becoming a writer, if I may be so bold
As I begin to contemplate just how it was that I learned to write, I find a great many gaps in my memory. To some extent, as my friends and husband will attest, this is because my memory is commonly flawed and occasionally altogether untrustworthy. The other explanation is that much of my writing instruction was simply unmemorable.
I attended a well-funded, suburban* school district where nearly all the teachers and students were white and middle-class. To put it plainly, I went to schools that epitomized normative American culture. It was in this remarkably standard environment that I was taught in rather standard ways, by which I mean no discredit to my teachers, many of whom I adored. They were generally energetic, friendly people who plied their trade deftly in the primary-colored rooms stocked with paste, paper, and affluent children. I remember feeling a sort of sweet relief when in my last year of elementary school, our district was redrawn to include poorer neighborhoods in town. Most students had no reaction, some made fun of this new, displaced crop of children in second-hand clothing, and I was suddenly able to blend in with greater ease.
Four years later, something typical but unsettling happened: I became a teenager. My age brought with it all the ups and downs of adolescence including a great deal of angst, intense curiosity, hormones, and a deep concern with what others thought of me and my work. In the depths of my awkwardness, I was sure I would be a writer, hob-nobbing with Vonnegut and coaxing Salinger out of his self-imposed sequester, but I was highly secretive about my writing endeavors, fearing judgment or worse - exposure.
I have long enjoyed writing and fantasized about a quiet, secluded life surrounded by nature where I churn out mountains of beautiful writing on an old type-writer. In this fantasy, I enjoy being alone for more than a few days at a time and talent spews forth from my fingertips with ease. Instead, I live in more realistic world where writing is hard work, where my dog consistently disturbs my focus, where I am driven to pursue a career as an educator. And so it is from this place- at my desk in my muggy office, pitiful dog panting at my feet, iced coffee sweating Olympian water rings into the varnish- that I begin to assess how exactly I learned to write.
*I use this term loosely as there was no urban area of which this town was sub-, but a neighboring city of comparable size with more arts, more minorities, and much less money.
I attended a well-funded, suburban* school district where nearly all the teachers and students were white and middle-class. To put it plainly, I went to schools that epitomized normative American culture. It was in this remarkably standard environment that I was taught in rather standard ways, by which I mean no discredit to my teachers, many of whom I adored. They were generally energetic, friendly people who plied their trade deftly in the primary-colored rooms stocked with paste, paper, and affluent children. I remember feeling a sort of sweet relief when in my last year of elementary school, our district was redrawn to include poorer neighborhoods in town. Most students had no reaction, some made fun of this new, displaced crop of children in second-hand clothing, and I was suddenly able to blend in with greater ease.
Four years later, something typical but unsettling happened: I became a teenager. My age brought with it all the ups and downs of adolescence including a great deal of angst, intense curiosity, hormones, and a deep concern with what others thought of me and my work. In the depths of my awkwardness, I was sure I would be a writer, hob-nobbing with Vonnegut and coaxing Salinger out of his self-imposed sequester, but I was highly secretive about my writing endeavors, fearing judgment or worse - exposure.
I have long enjoyed writing and fantasized about a quiet, secluded life surrounded by nature where I churn out mountains of beautiful writing on an old type-writer. In this fantasy, I enjoy being alone for more than a few days at a time and talent spews forth from my fingertips with ease. Instead, I live in more realistic world where writing is hard work, where my dog consistently disturbs my focus, where I am driven to pursue a career as an educator. And so it is from this place- at my desk in my muggy office, pitiful dog panting at my feet, iced coffee sweating Olympian water rings into the varnish- that I begin to assess how exactly I learned to write.
*I use this term loosely as there was no urban area of which this town was sub-, but a neighboring city of comparable size with more arts, more minorities, and much less money.