On my first day of creative writing at Camosun College, I stepped into the classroom and immediately knew that I belonged there. I’d been writing for years, but until that moment I hadn’t felt like I could really be a writer. Until I put myself in a classroom full of people like me and stared out of the eyes of a writing student, I hadn’t any tangible evidence that I was pursuing my goal of being an author with any conviction. At that moment, as I stood on the threshold of who I was and who I wanted to be, I proved to myself that I was walking the path of a writer. "There I was, about to become a real writer..." That day I chose a seat at the front of the class. As I sat right before the instructor’s desk – like the keener I am – I found myself mesmerized by the chalk dust swirls on the blackboard. These remnants of the last class were like whirlpools of untold truths. It struck me that soon, there would be information on that board that would change my life forever. There I was, about to become a real writer, and each mark on the chalkboard and each page in my notebook would bring me one step closer to becoming the writer I wanted to be. Before the end of the first semester, we were privileged enough to be visited by a successful local author. We made our way to the auditorium and sat down in disorganized rows to await this woman who represented everything most of us wanted to be. She was set to come in and grace us with the sacred knowledge of the professional. I felt convinced she would sit on that stage and bestow me with the kind of wisdom only a published author could provide. It was evident that she possessed the map that would lead me to the Writer's Treasure. Truthfully, she mainly discussed her book and talked about her writing process. It wasn’t until the end, when there seemed to be barely enough time to dig in, that we were able to plunder her secrets. As soon as they opened the floor to questions, I put up my hand. I’d been ruminating on my inquiry since the beginning of the talk. I was positive I had come up with the perfect question, and I was going to get the chance to ask it. "I suspected she was internally listing off all the ways that the program had changed her life." “Yes?” my instructor said, pointing at me. My heart throbbed in my ears. Suddenly I realized I would now have to speak to this holder of secrets, and I almost felt star-struck. I was afraid my voice would shake, but when I opened my mouth, I spoke with a confidence that I hadn’t previously thought I possessed. “I know you graduated from the University of Victoria's writing program,” I began. That was the program I was planning to attend the following year. She nodded, confirming my statement, so I continued. “Do you think that program made you a better writer?” She considered my question for what seemed like a long time. I suspected she was internally listing off all the ways that the program had changed her life. She was supposed to tell me that she didn’t know where she’d be without her time at university. Instead, she appeared ambivalent as her head bobbed from side to side and her eyebrows raised. It looked as if she was trying to find a way to be honest about her experience without discouraging anyone who might want to complete UVic’s writing program. “Not really,” she admitted. That wasn’t what I thought wanted to hear. “I don’t think it necessarily made me a better writer.” She paused. “But it did make me write. It forced me to produce work consistently, and it provided me with a community of writers to learn from. Do I think I’m a better writer for it? I don't know. But it definitely made me write.” At the time, I smiled and nodded and accepted her answer graciously, but inside I felt conflicted. I’d started my year with confidence that college courses were the next step in becoming a "real" writer. I felt so lost before college as if I was afloat on a sea of dreams and I couldn't dive in. I believed I needed a teacher - someone to guide me down beneath the waves and push me to dive deeper. I needed someone to encourage me to keep diving until I found the treasure in the depths. Now, a living, breathing, published author, one who had dove down to those depths and come back to tell the tale, was telling me I might not need anyone to teach me how to swim. I was both excited and confused by the experience. "I began to think of examples of writers I admired...I compared myself to them." That winter, as snow began to flood the sidewalk, and my school-free nights grew longer and more ripe for deep thought, I started to wonder if I was on the right path. Was I wasting my time in school? Maybe all I needed to do was keep writing on my own. Perhaps I’d be able to teach myself everything I needed to know. School might not make me a better writer – it wasn't a sure bet anymore – and I needed a backup plan. If I was motivated enough, and if I could make myself write, I didn't need school, right? What was I spending all this time and money for, if I was all I needed to be successful was myself? One night, I was sitting at my desk, staring at a blank document, willing it to be filled. I had been doing this for at least 45 minutes. During that time, all I had actually done was imagine what it would be like when my story was complete. I was in a fantasy loop. My thoughts spiralled round and round and soon turned belittling. "You're not a writer; you're an aspiring writer. You're not a writer; you're an aspiring writer." These thoughts had me convinced I needed to be someone else. I needed to be someone with more experience and knowledge. Then I could create the things I expected of myself. I began to think of writers I admired. Women who had paid their dues writing hundreds of bad short stories and lousy novel drafts. Writers who had taken 125 rejection letters on the chin. Writers who had been down to the depths of their ocean of dreams and came back changed. I compared myself to them. Why couldn’t I be like that? When would it be my turn? I sat there, stewing on these thoughts for a long time. I turned on some music, sat back in my chair, and had an honest to God self-pity fest. There were tears. "No amount of writing theory can make someone better at actually producing a story." It wasn’t until the end of winter break that I was able to find some answers. It took time, but eventually, I think I grew bored of beating myself up. It wasn't making me feel better, and it certainly wasn't writing any stories for me. I'd spent the better part of 6 weeks deprecating myself for not being Margaret-freaking-Atwood, and it didn't make sense to me anymore. It was self-defeating, and I wasn't going to indulge in it any longer. I picked myself up and re-framed my experience. The writer who came to speak to my class was correct when she said that writing school didn’t necessarily make people better writers. No amount of writing theory can make someone better at actually producing a story. The only thing that can make a writer better is to write. Being in a position where, even at their least motivated, a writer is forced to produce work is the best place a new writer can be. It isn’t always easy, and it certainly isn’t always fun, but if you’re passionate, and you want to be a professional, creating work even when you don’t want to is the only way to gain skill. Soon, I began to tell myself, "I’m allowed to write a bad story, a bad draft, then put that aside and write the next thing." I have to push myself to create even when inspiration hasn’t struck yet. I have to keep going even when it feels like I haven’t got anything to say. The more work I produce, the better I’ll get. The more things I complete, the more my confidence will rise like the tide. "...treat writing, not just like a passion project, or a pipe dream, but a career." As I move into my second year of creative writing at UVic, I feel much more optimistic. On the days when I feel least motivated, my university courses push me to create. More than that, my experience there allows me to see writing in a different way. Writing is not merely something that a writer does when they’re feeling passionately engrossed in their inspiration. It’s something we do daily. We live and breathe our stories. My university has taught me to look through my writer’s eyes, and I’ve learned to see the world as a story-ocean filled with opportunities to fish.
That writer in my first year of college didn’t give me the mystical, golden key to my Writer’s Treasure chest. She didn’t take my hand and lead me to it. Instead, she reminded me that the treasure I admire in others is also inside of me. She got me thinking that each story I produce is another chance for me to take a deep breath and dive into my ocean of stories. Every time I write something, I’m proving to myself that the magic I want to find is not something I need to learn, it’s something I’m discovering with each word I write. So, maybe I don’t need a university degree to be the writer I want to be. But my university is here to help me explore myself and my work. It's here to motivate me to treat writing, not just like a passion project, or a pipe dream, but a career. Something I do whether I feel that magic bubbling up to the surface, or I need to dive in and search for it. A degree isn’t going to make me a better writer, but my classes do make me write. And I have to wonder if that might be the same thing.
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What?The ramblings of a writer with her head in the clouds. When?
July 2019
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