Getting Off

Yesterday, I spoke something ugly into exsistence. I had just been informed by my professor that a flimsy first draft of a story I had hastily written on a Saturday afternoon was the skeleton of my first published book in the near future. I was floored by that statement, seeing as I had already carefully and ignorantly crafted my thesis project before I arrived there, and it had nothing to do with what this story was about. The exchange went like this:

Dan: I think what you have got here is the beginning of your memoir. I want to see much more of this trip to India than just being on the train. What were you doing there? How did you get around? What did you see?

Me: Well, the part about India is just a prop to tell the real story about me not feeling like I fit in back home or in a foreign land. I planned it to where the train represents the transition I was feeling at the time.

Dan: I didn't get that at all.

Me: Well, I would be glad to clarify that so I could communicate that feeling more obviously.

Dan: No, don't be more obvious. Just ditch the train.

Me: I can't! If I get off of the train, I will never stop writing about it. I have to focus on the train. I can handle the train. Please don't make me get off the train.

Dan: Do I have to beat you into submission? I am telling you that this is your big story. All you have to do is tell it.

What ugly thing is inside people that prevents them from doing important things? Why do I automatically duck out of windows of opportunity?

I told him that I was afraid to tell my story, but that sometimes the stories that I am the most afraid of telling sometimes feel as if they are going to leap out of my mouth at any moment. Like I will go crazy if I could never tell them. But, I am afraid of hurting others.

He said two things to me. He quoted Joan Didion, who said that nonfiction writers are always selling out somebody, and also said that there was a guy in his MFA program in Miami that was writing an unnecessarily complicated story, and when Dan asked him why he was doing that, he told him about a scandalous true family story that the complicated story was based upon and then replied, "I am writing it in a strange way because my grandma reads all of my stories, and she wouldn't like for me to tell that story the way it really happened." He told the guy that he would have to make a choice to write his story or not, and the guy left the program and got a degree in literature.

Dan looked at me and said, "Do you want to write for your grandma, or not? It's your choice."

Now, as I try to recall memories from my time in India, I realize that I must get off the train. Transitions are defined by the fact that they are not permanent and that they are leading you somewhere. I must get off of the train soon. The promise of another station is not always a reality.

A Whole New World

My experience so far of my newly reopened journey of academia is only three days in, but there is such a strong feeling of belonging and not belonging at the same time. I see it in the other students, and it reminds me of my trip to Ireland for a study abroad program.

When we all got to the airport to get on the Irish airline, there were groups forming already; some students already knew each other, others knew the professor well enough to comment on his Sunday night pork chops. I did not know anybody, and had only seen some of the faces once at a meeting about the trip. My friend, Lauren, didn't know anybody either, being from another school altogether, and we happened to be sitting next to each other on the flight from Savannah to Ireland. We became fast friends, but it took a couple of awkward hours of being right next to each other and not talking before the friendship could begin.

That is kind of how I feel now. I got a pep talk from the MFA director two nights ago, saying that he had noticed that I wasn't involving myself with the group very much and to try to at least go to the cafeteria with my homemade meal and join them. I notice other students doing a similar thing, and I have been trying to grapple with why that reaction occurs in some of the most defenseless situations.

But it isn't defenseless, is it? This is a world of competition, where only the best and brightest will show up on the radar, much less be remembered for any length of time. I had already formed opinions and ranked all of my classmates by talent before I got to class, and I can safely assume that they did the same after reading all of the writings that we had to submit before the semester began.

However, that same big question mark still perches on top of my skull everywhere I go: Am I good enough to be here? Does the faculty really see potential in me? Am I going to be able to hang with this group? Where do I rank amongst them?

Essentially, I walk around wondering, "Do I have enough value to be valued by others?" That question directly relates to the human condition, wondering if we are worthy of being the crown of God's creation. Are we meeting our full potential, and if so, are we anything more than ordinary? Sometimes that question is too threatening to know the answer to.

I feel another paradox by being here. I find myself shying away from the crowd, but when I get back to my lonely, essentially empty, rented apartment, there is a terrible fear that robs any solace of solitude and perverts the darkened closets and hallway into fearful seclusion. The gripping fear literally keeps me up at night. I have to listen to Orwell on audio book to find blissful, uneasy slumber.

I have sort of written myself into a corner, and I am not sure where I am going. However, a lady named Jill, a poetry student and a high school teacher back in California, was telling me about the sad state of high school students in her town.

"I only teach independent study in my high school. Students who have been diagnosed with anxiety can opt to take all of there high school classes as independent studies and pick up their assignments once a weeks and work on their own. They say that they are afraid of high school. I don't get it. What is the big deal?" she said.

I told her that I feel like parents are so busy that they don't spend enough time with their children, neglecting their emotional well-being that is supposed to foster their sense of self and confidence. If parents don't care enough to listen and motivate them to try scary and hard things, then why are these children expected to motivate themselves? There has to be a nudge from the parents to push these children out of their nest, easily, with guidance and a net underneath them, or children will never have the confidence to go out into the big world and try anything. The result is that they become the eternal victim, a sad and lonely state to be in.

So, where does this leave me? It leaves me with the responsibility to follow my own example and put my tuition money where my mouth is and jump out of the nest. Goodness knows how many sturdy nets I have underneath me. However, it is still scary and overwhelming, even during this stage of my life. My decisions to press on and be open to uncontrolled results are spurred from my own growing pains that I felt a few years ago when I outgrew my comfy nest. If I didn't try to succeed, I would never succeed. This is my new mantra, my emotional salve after a harsh, long day. So I press on, only carrying the fake stage presence of my early college training and a few flimsy opening lines as the components of my mental tool belt.

I can write, I do write, I must write.

I can succeed, I do succeed, I must succeed.