The Thought to Begin All Other Thoughts

Classes began Tuesday this week. But, though I have plenty to say about classes (which I’m sure I’ll talk with you about some time later), I want to talk about Sooner Stakes.

Some of you know that I took Expository Writing: Variants of Radical Dissent (or something like that) last semester. It was a fantastic course and I have seen a clear improvement in my writing since finishing it. The last week of class, my professor handed out a flier for Sooner Stakes, an essay contest run in the EXPO department to give a chance for that group of classes to display some of the best writing. After briefly mentioning I wasn’t sure if I should participate to my professor, he strongly encouraged me to submit an essay.

Which brings me essentially to this week. I spoke with my professor last Saturday about some possible changes before I submitted my essay. Much to my devastation, he tore the paper to pieces. As much as I wanted him to be hypercritical, it was still painful to see how easy it was for him to find flaws in my writing. Which leads me to a much bigger problem: I love to write, but I hate letting other people read my writing. Even if they are not critiquing it, they make comments about it. Usually, I do not enjoy their comments. Even if they are positive, they may not have seen things the way I wanted them to see it. I’m a controlling writer; I want my reader to respond only the way I want them to.

I finally turned my essay in this Wednesday, and I’m not entirely sure how things will shake out in the end as far as actually winning or not. (If you would like to read my essay, I would be happy to e-mail you a copy of it. I don’t want to post it on here for fear of others plagiarizing it. Damn cheaters.) And it doesn’t really matter. I enjoyed going back through it and reaching a point where I felt satisfied enough with it to turn it in. I sent a note to my professor to tell him I had turned it in and to tell him I appreciated his criticism. While I was typing the e-mail, I remembered an event that occurred while waiting in line at the Bursar’s Office. I prepared myself for a long wait, so I brought my essay with me to do some light editing. I looked up for a moment to see the girl standing in front of me staring at me with intent concern.
"It's the first week of class," she began, softly, "and you already have an essay due?"
"No, no, no," I assured her, with a smile, "this is something from last semester." For me, this resolved the situation, but for her, it exacerbated the injustice.
"Are they allowed to do that to you?" she asked, her mouth dropping in disgust. I laughed and then explained that it was a contest and I wanted to do it and so on.

It took me a little while to type up the story and order the words as I thought would best express the situation, but didn’t mind taking the time, because I thought my professor would enjoy the story. After sent this story in the note to him, he responded he liked the story and said, “For many, writing will always remain a burden.” I had told the story because I thought it was funny, but had no connection to this idea that the girl in line thought writing was a burden. Somehow, that statement seemed much more applicable to my own situation. I will write, and write well enough, but I get so frustrated writing. I can see flaws, others see more flaws I didn’t see, and then it becomes this never-ending cycle of revisions. I am never satisfied.

But, my professor continued his note by moving into another story about him browsing books in Borders and seeing a situation that displayed this sort of general idea that more intellectual activities are something that should be stressful. He finished the note by saying that he’d write me if he ever got the chance to put that in one of his poems. I was so enthused that my simple story, which had meant to be amusing, had somehow been a starting point to a larger idea he had been thinking about and was now able to share with me. And it was something reached, not through heavy writing and revision (though I’m sure he will have to do that with his poem), but through conversation over e-mail.

It finally occurred to me that I get so frustrated because, perhaps, I take my writing too seriously and I am too demanding about how others should respond to it. I am now determined that I will write what I believe is pertinent and interesting to me and find pleasure when others find things in my writing that help them with their own lives. This is my first stab at it. I find this little thought in my life to be significant. If others are critical of the idea and insist my writing is failing, I will listen and take for their comments what I will, but at the same time, judge them for failing to make the writing meaningful to him/herself. I think I will find myself a happier person because of it.