School, Writing and Ego

One of my very best friends said that writers have the biggest egos. They feel their thoughts are so important that everyone should read them.  Something like that.  I found myself immediately defensive, but didn’t argue.  Because really when something ruffles you, you gotta ask why.  I spent a lot of time thinking about my writing.  I never looked at it as an ego trip.  It’s more like a compulsion.  It’s so personal and raw. Putting words down on a page makes me feel whole and cleansed.  The need to share is not something I completely understand.  But there is nothing more powerful than reading my work or having someone respond to my words.  So maybe it is ego, but I can’t stop, or apologize.  Or hide.

When I was going through cancer treatments, I made the proverbial “bucket list.”  See wild horses on the beach.  Ride in a hot air balloon.  Take my writing more seriously.  I started this blog, but then I realized that blogs are considered “already published material.”  And if I want to get paid one day, putting my stories on a blog like this might not be the best idea.  I considered going to school because I thought the structure and built in writing group would be of benefit. But I kept asking myself this nagging question–“Is school going to make me a better writer?”

After debating up until the last moment, last week I packed a backpack of notebooks and pens and a laptop and my favorite shorts and T-shirts and my bike and drove up to Western State University for a creative writing program.  I am living in the dorms and I have three groovy roommates.  Two of them I’m pretty sure are young enough to be my kids.  But age is a number right?  And these women are smart and confident and ready to take on the world.  Was I like that in my twenties?  I think I was an exhausted young mom, trying to keep my shit together.

Well, Gunnison is beautiful.  Wild flowers and cool temperatures and great places to eat and bike trails and all that.  But school has been a struggle.  First of all, three and a half hours of class.  Can I tell you how I’ve struggled staying awake during lectures?  At least I haven’t outright fallen asleep.  I don’t think.  We had a lesson on semicolons.  For real.  I wanted to FREAK OUT.  I think I did, but just in my head. I know how to use a semicolon, dammit. I won’t write anything negative about my instructors, who are accomplished writers in their own right.  But I realized I have expectations for what good teaching is and I have zero tolerance for anything that falls short of my expectations.  I realized that while I’m not too old to learn, I’m too old to tolerate shit.  And when I start swearing, I know I’m done.

I did get to write. Eventually. I was assigned to write a traditional Western short story.  I don’t hate Westerns and I actually think my story about a stagecoach driver and a nun has some potential. I am excited to drive out to Bent’s Fort and explore the Cherokee Trail and learn more about stage coach stations and finish the story.

But two nights ago I had a dream that Shayne was on the sidewalk outside my bedroom. He was off his meds and calling for me.  I actually got up and went to the window to look for him.  Then last night, I had a dream that Darian tried to call me and I picked up the phone and she couldn’t hear me.  I woke up and dialed her number, still all muddled from sleep and not making any sense.  She told me to go back to bed.  But I stayed awake, lying on the most uncomfortable mattress in the world thinking, “Why the hell am I here?”

The only thing that is going to make me a better writer is to write.  So I am going to take my moutain bike out this morning and take full advantage of the cool temperatures and amazing paths.  Then I’m going to go to my last class and cheer on my classmates–who by the way are amazing–strong and confident.  It makes me realize that I had to grow into my confidence and maybe I’m finally getting there.  Then I’m going home.  And I’m going to write.

Look for me on the page.