Back to School (Again)

This year, for the first in a few, I went to Staples to buy school supplies. Granted, all I needed was a single notebook, a truth that barred me from the joy of color-coding by subject, but still… Because this year, September brought with it the most familiar of September joys: the beginning of a new school year. On precisely the first of the month, I returned to school in pursuit of my Master of Fine Arts in Fiction from The New School.

I always knew that I would return to school fairly soon after leaving. As someone whose passion lies in something that is technically an art, I knew that I would need to continue learning from others about the craft, in order to solidify my own practice, collect some reliable readers, and hear from those who have found a certain degree of success in my intended field.

Plus, I just love being in the classroom. I never feel as though I’ve learned enough (though one day I will have to accept that I have, and that everything further to learn comes from within myself). Especially with creative writing, it’s invaluable to have others’ opinions on your work, particularly from others who are just as concerned with “good” writing as you are. My first piece was workshopped this past week, and I left the class brimming with ideas as to how I can expand my short story into something greater and more exciting. This level of ideation is not always entirely possible within one’s own mind (except perhaps with the help of substances… just ask Lewis Carroll).

I had intended to return a year ago, but upon learning that all classes would be virtual, I deferred. I felt that it was important for me to meet new people face-to-face, especially if I was to be commenting on their writing and they on mine. I wanted the school experience to include arriving at a classroom, participating in awkward ice-breakers from around a physical table, and finding a seat to call my own. I am so tired of my little desk in my little room, where I go about the rest of my life, that I am forever grateful to have somewhere else to go.

The primary reason I returned to school is to develop a healthy, consistent writing practice. I’ve referred to myself as a “writer” in some conversations for years now but realize I have not much to show for that title, other than what had been assigned to me in classes through the years. True writers write whenever they can, just because they can. I worried for a while that my lack of production in my free time meant that this was not the true path for me, that I was kidding myself. In truth, I was just putting it off because I realized it was the most important to me, as one does with the heftiest school assignments and work projects. I worried that the sooner I started, the sooner I would realize I was less-than, or getting it all wrong. That’s scary.

But I have made it clear to my classmates, professors, and myself that I am in this program to become a full-fledged writer. Not necessarily published (though that would be a great bonus), but a writer enough to find time to do it every day and to enjoy that time. To have a ream of papers full of my own, imagined words, even if those words make no sense and will never see the light of another’s eyes.

As you’ve read in a recent entry here, I love routine, and The New School is adding some routine to my life so that certain things start to feel more natural, like carrying around a notebook to collect thoughts, or waking up at three am and whispering an interesting idea or sentence into the voice memos on my watch, or using my lunch break to bang out a couple of pages of utter gibberish.

Lack of this latter practice is what I believe has been holding me back for a while. Gibberish is better than nothing. All my life, I’ve striven for my absolute best, so as I am learning now that any sort of production is success, I’m working hard to accept this. I am learning that I am not wasting time by writing for an hour and having to show only a few paragraphs of the shittiest story on Earth. Being among other writers in class has introduced me to their philosophies and motivations and practices. It has taught me that I am not alone with these internal tensions. And it has taught me that you just. gotta. do it.

I’m going twice a week, at night, to school, so life has started filling up a bit more, which is great. Now I have plenty of reading and writing on top of work, contributing to the busy lifestyle I find suits me best. I get to read what others at my level of experience are writing and learn from them, as equals. I get to give my own opinion on their work in the hope that it will open new avenues or inspire a new scene. It’s all very exciting.

Lots of people my age return to school, because we realize that if now is not the time to pursue passions, then that time will never come. Acts of passion, like deciding to spend thousands of dollars on a degree program that has no promise of success, may seem brash, but that’s because they come from a place of great self-identification.

I can’t be in school forever (though one day I hope to teach), and I know that these two years will fly by faster than any have. Hopefully, by the end, I’ll have filled many notebooks with mostly nonsense and some things worth submitting for publication. Hopefully, by the end, I’ll find myself writing, even for ten minutes, every day of the week, getting into habits that will last well beyond my school years (however long those last).

And perhaps, one day, you will find my novel on the shelf at Barnes & Noble and say, “hey, I read her blog!” We all have to start somewhere. For me, this is just the next step of many. And with that, go Narwhals!