Saddled with five English and Journalism courses, in addition to freelancing for a local newspaper, occasionally blogging, open mic poetry reading, and living with other writers as part of the school's writing program- I feel like Narcissus- knowing that I was over ambitious in planning my schedule and will eventually be overwhelmed, drowning in a pool of nouns and prepositions.
But I must to tell you, as much as the work is incessant, complex, and unforgiving, it is also freeing.
I am taking a fiction novel writing class, and for the last 15 minutes of class we disabled the projector, stopped speaking, and just wrote. At first the liberty of time and permission to invent caught me off guard, but then it just poured onto the page.
A woman. She's pregnant. She's telling her husband about the baby. tonight. He needs to tell her something too. He lost his job today. The rents due by the end of the week. They chew their Eggo waffle dinner. A storm. Losing power. A knock at the door. A mother in law. Suitcases in hand.
Freeze. 15 minutes are up.
Creative writers we're an enigma labeled "extra crunchy." My professors, they say things like "buttload," "shithead," and "F*$@ it." My fellow writing members write about meth, cannibalism, and intergalactic force-fields. They share open mic stories about masturbation- and getting caught.
Sometimes I feel like I shouldn't be classified with people that some may box-in as "freaks," but then I remember my own freakish habits.
I get drunk on verbs, high on metaphors, and shoot up Stephen King. I dream up novels about dinosaurs and the apocalypse and sometimes a dinosaur apocalypse, while I'm showering. The ultimate test if you're in English major is if you have a favorite word, a word that would make you hug your arch enemy at its recitation. Mine is "nincomoopery." That's validation enough.
So for now I'll read, write, revise, and repeat, because if I'm not a writer, then who the hell looking up at me from the pool?
Deep-end-ing on reflection