Cacoethes Scribendi
Felt like a stud Thursday because I received a copy of the book that my essay was published in. It’s not really that big of a deal ’cause it’s just a school publication but someone did think it was good enough to be included so it’s still exciting. And it could possibly be a tiny step forward in my career as a writer. Everyone has to start somewhere!
What I assume was the writing department also held a book reading and I attended with excitement. I had never been to a book reading before so I felt very mature and cosmopolitan, which sounds pretty lame in retrospect. Seems like it was a pretty big event too because the place was crowded. I wasn’t expecting as many people as there were.
When I walked into the student center, I immediately spotted the two girls from my writing classes hanging out in the corner. I walked over to them and they seemed exited to see me so that felt good. I was glad I saw them and not the Ambien hippie whore with whom I shared a writing class. They told me how I was lucky I dropped my writing class (which I still need to write about) because it was, as they said, the worst class they’ve ever taken at SCAD. Wow, I really dodged a bullet with that one! They proceeded to talk about the professor’s douchey ways which really made me feel better. it was validation, it was someone reassuring me that I’m not nutso and that this guy really was a giant penis.
I sat with them (because I didn’t know anyone else at the event) and we all grabbed a copy of Artemis, the book I’m published in. I found my story and excitedly read through it. Wow, me, in print. Pretty exciting, even if it is just for the school. As everyone started filling the seats, a lady went up to the microphone and announced that anyone who would like to read a selection of their work should come up to the front and sign up. There was a big part of me that wanted to go up there, to be able to share my story with everyone, to tell it in the sardonic style in which I hear it in my head. But, naturally, I was too shy and too scared. Scared I’d fumble on my words. Scared I’d burp or lose control of my bowels. Scared I’d suddenly become stricken with illiteracy. You know, the usual. So, I just sat down and watched as everyone else got up and read their stuff.
Most of it was in monotone. Another reason I didn’t want to read. I wouldn’t want to sound like a robot up there in front of everyone. There’s no better way to suck the life out of a story than by reciting it in the guise of an answering machine.
Sorry, Brannon is not in at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep and he will tell you the story of his floral flubs.
I was skimming through the book when one of the girls elbowed me. I turned to her and she said, "Look who’s up there now."
I turned my head to find the Ambien girl, all kinds of petite, with just her stringy brown hair and head band poking out over the podium.
"Oh, my gosh," I said, This was gonna be funny.
It actually wasn’t. In fact, she was probably the best reader up there. She read three of her poems and actually included inflection and character. Most surprisingly, she sounded lucid. Perhaps she had laid off the sleepy time pills just enough to get her act together to be able to read for those three minutes. She most likely celebrated later that night with a cocaine cocktail.
The girls bounced after an hour and I joined them because I was getting kind of bored. I walked them to their cars and all the while they provided more stories of how bad the writing class was. My suspicions of the professor’s douche-dom were definitely confirmed. They said he’d cancel class often or end the classes early so he could run off to yoga. One of the girls said he’d even Facebook her…while they were both in class. She said he would send her messages like, "Don’t play on your phone in class." Really creepy. First of all, don’t use Facebook in class, D-bag. Secondly, that just feels really inappropriate. They also watched tons of movies because he wouldn’t bother to actually teach them anything. At the end of the quarter, they all compared their grades and they all got Bs for their work, probably just a grade he slapped down for everyone. This, my lovelies, is what I’ve been paying a buttload of money for. They told me SCAD won’t fire him because he’s had a few books published and that looks good for the school. Oh my, SCAD only looking out for its reputation? Never.
One of the girls is also creating her own independent magazine and gave me her business card. She told me to e-mail her some of my stuff. She said I was a good writer and that made me feel really good. Is it sad that I constantly have to be reassured that I’m good at something? There have been amazing writers on OD who say I’m good. She’s a writing major (so she should know good writing) and she says I’m good. Heck, my writing professor, who also happens to be the head of the writing department, also said I was good, good enough to get published, in fact. At the end of the quarter, he even told me to keep it up. And yet I still don’t feel like I’m any good. What’s wrong with me?
Anyway!
I’m excited to send her some of my writing. I just don’t know what I want to send. Poetry? Fiction? More nonfiction essays? I suppose I have a lot of stuff to sort through. I like the idea of independent magazines and the like so her project sounds fun. Plus, it’s another way to get my stuff out there! I’ll be making connections and getting exposure. Who knows, this could lead to something wonderful. I really, really hope so!