Wednesday, August 14, 2002
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Wednesday, August 14, 2002 |
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Red ink and bonsai
By JACKIE MORRIS
When a co-worker suggested that I write a column to fill in for a vacationing writer, I immediately said, "I don't think so," as visions of graded writing assignments with enough red ink on them to look like they were bleeding flashed in my brain. I had entered the creative writing class in my junior year of college all gung-ho and eager. My work would be read and judged by a real-live published author (of science fiction no less). My natural talent and enthusiasm would be recognized and appreciated by a seasoned professional. The class would be enthralled by the flow of my narratives and astounded at my ingenious plots. It would be known once and for all that I was a good writer. It would be lots of fun. It didn't happen. The first inkling that I was no Hemingway came with the first returned assignment. The red ink almost obliterated what it commented on. In fact, one entire passage had been marked out and re-written by the professor with a multitude of explanations as to why it was better that way. It never got any better. My short stories were too long and my long stories were too short. My metaphors were mixed and my similes were too simple. If I tried to write elegantly I was being pretentious. If I tried to write simply I was condescending. I just couldn't win. Picking through the rubble of my confidence, I found just enough to persevere and pass the class somehow. Incredibly, my final grade was an A with the qualification that it was out of the goodness of the professor's heart and that I should pass along the kindness someday. I did. By not signing up for any more of that professor's classes I figure I've saved him from the ethical dilemma of granting grades to undeserving yet desperate students. Let him rack up his karma points on someone else. (Not that I'm not appreciative of the grade you understand.) Anyway, when the co-worker asked me again, I decided not to let bygone traumas stop me from trying to do something I enjoy. I've never let bad experiences keep me down for long. If I had, I never would have learned to roller skate, swim, drive, play an instrument, gotten married again or gone back to school. We shouldn't let fear, disappointment, embarrassment or flat-out failure stop us from doing what we like to do. As long as it hurts no one why not do what we enjoy? I intend to jump out of an airplane someday. Okay, that might violate my hurting no one rule, but I figure a sprained ankle or throat strained from screaming might be worth the feeling of accomplishment that I would get from doing something that would take every ounce of determination and guts I have. Sometimes though, it's enough of a feeling of accomplishment to just get through the day. If, at the end of the day, everyone's alive, healthy, fed and relatively clean at my house I feel I've done my job well. If the house is relatively clean, well then, I've gone above and beyond the call of duty in my daily routine. I look at those people who seem to do everything effortlessly and I know they can't be real. It's all a facade designed to make the rest of us feel incompetent and small. Still, I dream of the immaculate house and exemplary children that only seem to belong to other people. I covet the ability to shine in my career, perfectly mold my children, elegantly decorate my home, and inspire my husband to new heights of home and garden maintenance all before 9:00 p.m. so I can still indulge in my hobbies of needlepoint and the cultivation of bonsai trees. Yeah, right. For now, I'll just settle for writing enough to fill the space left by the vacationing colleague and hope that old creative writing professor doesn't send it back with splotches of red ink. Maybe next week I'll plant that bonsai. |
