I will probably be back to talk about the logistics of my first day
meaning I’ll add more metaphors about kittens, bunnies, and rainbows
but for right now I will just say that Steph Gibbs is in my modern fiction class and we didn’t plan it that way. It was the most welcome surprise of all.
Even more welcome than cookies.
I wouldn’t know, no one’s ever surprised me with cookies.
They should have. I’m a good ass person. I am worth your flour and sugar and baking powder and chocolate chips.
Don’t even think about putting raisins in that, you know I’m better than that. Puh-leez.
So anyway, we’ll be tearin’ up fiction of or relating to the present time like it’s nobody’s business.
And my creative writing class went well. It’s mostly poetry based which was another surprise but not exactly of the most welcomed variety. I take it to mean that the lord is testing me and by that I mean the inner machinations of my mind.
The thing I simultaneously like and dislike about poetry is the fact that I can never think of what’s important enough to make a poem. I’m guessing it’s because some people think in prose and some think in poetry (clearly my long-winded delights are more prose oriented, nobody would read my poems, I am no Homer or Milton) but it’s like…I’m given a prompt, I have a pen but I forget how it works.
We were assigned a prompt and I actually grabbed my pen so hastily once given the time limit that I dropped it on the floor.
It looked like I threw my pen on the ground in frustration and refused to do the assignment.
Then after all the ruckus, I had to ask if I heard her correctly because I’d forgotten. It was far too much excitement for my wee heart to handle.
The prompt was “Write a ten line poem. Each line has to be a lie.”
I kind of sat there, clutching my pen, expecting it to do something, but it didn’t. Many little blips came across the radar but I shook my head and said “No, that would be stupid” until finally the very first idea came back and asked if it was okay to come in because nobody else good had come yet.
I begrudgingly put it down on paper.
So, like, I’m putting a lot of thought into the stuff I write but it’s so much that I can’t actually write anything.
I’m thinking this change will probably be good for me in the long run; maybe it’ll teach me how to be more impulsive with my ideas and less paralyzed and crippled.
Or maybe I’ll write really dumb poems about feelings I don’t tend to talk about involving unresolved conflicts with a purposeful lack of detail which will always make the situation sound much worse than it actually was.
I wrote a poem today that sounded like it came out of House On Mango Street. The part where she talked about being molested but all she could focus on were clowns because she was at a carnival when it happened and I was sixteen and stupid so I didn’t understand what I was reading?
Yeah, my poem was a lot like that.
It sounded like there could have been a molestation taking place but who knows? This thing’s all over the place.
Note: I was not actually molested and I was merely talking about a memory of a couple summers ago in which I sat on a friend’s porch and noticed that we were growing apart.
See, it’s so much easier to put in prose. But equally as pitiful.
This class is going to make me talk about feelings and I’m not going down without a fight.
#that awkward moment when every class Danielle takes turns into a psychoanlysis for NO apparent reason
