As my regular readers, friends, colleagues, and pretty much anyone who's ever met me knows by now, I have been taking a creative nonfiction writing class. This has been a lot of work, and I assure you that I'm behind. It made me admire folks who go to law school part-time: not only do they work all day but then they have several hours of homework/class after work each day. Frankly, I don't know how they do it. I do one hour of homework at night and I'm dead to the world and feel like I've accomplished something if I shower and brush my teeth.
Anyway.
One of the assignments is a longer piece, 10 pages or so, which gets critiqued by as many other writers as get the opportunity to do so, and by the instructor in some detail.
My longer piece was in a very early draft form. I decided not to tinker with it too much before the next draft and to wait for the feedback before launching into the inevitable major rewrite.
So far, having my work critiqued has not been particularly traumatic, so when this went up I asked folks to be honest and tell me what they thought worked, but also what they thought didn't work. The comments were very helpful, and honest, and I enjoyed the feedback as much as I had enjoyed playing around with a longer piece. How grown-up of me, I thought.
Until I read the instructor's notes. Taking me at my word, she really gave me detailed notes about what didn't work, and some suggestions of things I could do in my next draft. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't mean or rough or anything. She gave me very useful, specific feedback. But there was not much in the way of atta girl, at least not according to 12 year old Elena.
Because that's when the 12 year old took over. I was all, hey, wait, I've seen her comments on other people's stuff, she was much nicer to them than she was to me. (In all fairness, most of the other pieces had already undergone several rewrites.) I mean, I know I said be honest, but COME ON! What the heck! This means she hated it, couldn't stand it, it's garbage, I'm garbage, I can't write, who was I kidding with this? I might as well just give up right now this is so embarrassing, how could I have turned in such a bad piece of writing? Well, I'll tell you: I'm a lousy writer, that's how.
12 year old Elena has delusions of grandeur, or the typical teen fantasy of suddenly being discovered as the talent of our ages: to be recognized at last, at long last, as the shining beacon of something or other. Heck, if I can't be a beauty, I'll be a genius writer. Elizabeth Gilbert, shove over, this town ain't big enough for the two of us. But now, my childish fantasy has been dashed against the rocks of cold, hard reality. My dream is over, crushed like the delicate violet that it is, under the stomping feet of the people who don't get me, who don't understand me.
The grown-up piped up just long enough to ask, "What was this dream that has been crushed?"
12 year old Elena, whining: I just want to be good at something, anything, really good at one thing. Why can't I be really great at one thing? I wanna be the best in the world at one thing, just one, that's not asking too much, is it?
Grown-up Elena: Ok, but did you in fact have some specific goal, or dream as you say?
12 year old Elena: Yes, I was going to be the next NYT best-selling memoirist. And now I can't be because I suck. [stomps foot, crosses arms and pouts]
Grown-up Elena: Really? Because last time I checked, you were completely satisfied tinkering around on your blog, which maybe 30 people read, if that.
12 year old Elena: Yeah, but I wanted to take this writing class and be discovered as a natural talent and suddenly be catapulted into the stratosphere of writers. [ok, so a 12 year old might not use the words catapult and stratophere in the same sentence, but you get the drift]
Grown-up Elena: I hate to break it to you, but most writers who are any good have been writing diligently and honing their craft for years, probably decades. 10% inspiration, 90% perspiration, and all that.
12 year old and now grown-up Elena: Damn it.
I spent a few hours pouting and moping and saying things like "I might as well just give up now" to myself. "I'll just slink away quietly, and then if anyone asks, I'll say I got really busy at work and had trials and hearings and all kinds of city emergencies." In other words, if anyone calls me on it, I'll lie. In my defense, I have strong cowardly tendencies.
After a good night's sleep my delusions of grandeur took on their true form: delusions, period. Grown-up Elena had reasserted herself. She reminded me that the reason I took the class was not to win a Pulitzer but to be a marginally better writer, and that if I was a genius writer I would not be taking the class, I'd be teaching it. I got over myself and sent the instructor an email to ask if I can submit a new draft. I might have to switch to a grade, which would virtually guarantee me nothing higher than a C (trust me!), but I'd get more feedback. I call that a win-win.
