I Am Not Afraid

I have spent too many days of my life saying no and things like I can't, I won't and I have  never....In doing this,  I have missed out on so many things that would have enriched my life and made me whole. I was afraid to try so many things because of my fears and insecurities. Yes...a few short years ago...and for many years before that,  things were much more difficult. I was stumbling through life with "a dead body" on my back.There was a point where I weighed 528 pounds.  Everything I did was difficult. To walk to my car was a chore. Day by day, I watched as my world became smaller and smaller as I became bigger and bigger. I really felt the world closing in on me as I slowly began to accept the fact that I probably wouldn't be around long enough to grow old. Even the few things that gave me hope in my life slipped away...and I stood by and let them go. I did not feel like I deserved  to be happy and worked hard at making myself and those around me miserable. I built a wall and pushed away those I loved and shut out a couple of beautiful souls, either of which  I could have built a real life with. Instead I found myself in a "relationship" with food and alcohol...neither of which had any love for me.

I woke up one day at 4 in the afternoon...and it all  hit me. I laid there and cried...until not a single teardrop was left. That was the day I decided to take my life back.  January 16, 2011, My NEW LIFE BEGAN. I spent the rest of that  year learning discipline and  restraint. I began this incessant journey by giving up and letting go (something I had already proven myself to be quite good at) only this time I let go of the things that were stealing my life.

Today, Almost  three  years,  later I find myself at a different place. A place of Hope and promise. Every single day I feel stronger...healthier...and more ALIVE. I have lost over 200 pounds and have been alcohol free. Every pound I continue to shed gives me greater freedom....the freedom to stop saying no and instead scream out yes...Yes...YES!. Every day I have promised myself to try something new, go somewhere I have never gone and say yes to something I would not have even "been able" to do just one short year ago. Deciding to join the Creative writing program is one of those things.

I am not going to sit and watch life pass me by....sitting in a chair with a 25 year old spirit  imprisoned inside of an  80 year old body. I intend to start Living my BUCKET LIST NOW.... before I am ready to kick  the bucket. There are regrets I have for things I did or DID NOT do in my past.  I have realized that it is not to late to make things right. I know what I want and where I am going. I am not afraid anymore

Reinvigorated

     I was quite encouraged by our discussion in class this afternoon. Listening to the students that you brought in to speak, helped me to better understand the Creative Writing Program here at Eastern. I was indeed one of those people who thought this curriculum would be an advanced version of my first Creative Writing class. I had visions of writing countless stories and immersing myself in writer workshops where I would eventually amass a diverse portfolio crammed with imaginative poems and short stories. I am beginning to see that this first year here will be about researching and analyzing the precedents of past and current famous writers. I see where this will help me develop and hone my own personal writing skills.
    On another note, the aspiring writers who spoke to our class today provided a bit of solace to the overwhelming  aggravation that I found myself drowning in last night. Frank O'Hara had me quite discouraged in trying to interpret his poem Second Avenue. After speaking to my classmates today, I must selfishly say that I was quite pleased to find that I was not the only student who had a difficult time comprehending Frank's vision. It seems that everyone found dissecting the poem problematic. With that being said and more importantly, realized, I find myself eager to discuss this piece in class next week!

Bemused and Bewildered

     Frank O'Hara, I cannot even pretend to understand what you were trying to say to the world when you wrote Second Avenue. I sat in complete silence reading the words you put down on paper so many years ago. I read them once, I read them twice and then I came back to read the passages I had highlighted just one more time.  Now, while I must respect you as a writer, because well, you are revered and famous in the world of literature, I do not have pretend that I enjoy or even comprehend your work. The entire poem is disjointed and wearisome. I am not a sophisticated reader or writer so while I find the whole thing incoherent and illogical, I am sure the "academic" types applaud it as innovative, fresh and enlightening.
     Second Avenue is much like a book filled with riddles, and in fact, riddles with absolutely no answers. In an attempt to grasp the significance and meaning behind reading this poem, I went on to do a bit of research on  both the writing and the writer. The only common thread that I could find was a general opinion that no one really understands it.  Nothing really makes sense until you stop and  realize that maybe  it is not supposed to. It's almost as if he wrote the poem on a dare from one of his colleagues who said, "Frank, you could probably publish anything...anything at all, and it will be worshiped and admired!" With that challenge, Mr. O'Hara set out to prove him right, and did.
     Reading the poem all but convinced me that I do not belong in such a class as CRTW 300. I cannot even fathom what three more months of reading poems and stories such as this will teach me. I joined this class with an ambition to become a good, maybe even a great writer one day. However, assignments like this one make me question my decision. I feel inadequate, even foolish attempting to discuss the value or merit of something that I do not even comprehend.

Time as a Teacher

    Today in class, I listened to the classmate introductions we were asked to give in regards to one another. The people in the class are so young and naive. Many, still live at home with their parents, working part-time jobs at the local eatery. Their free time is spent in front of a TV screen immersed in the latest. greatest video game, where they sit wide eyed for hours upon hours punching buttons and twisting joysticks until the screen becomes a blur colors and explosions. I respectfully smiled and nodded as they eagerly conversed and compared the virtues and shortcomings of  Bioshock and Diablo II.
    After a time, bored with the discussion, I began to wonder, just what sort of tales this group had to tell? What life experiences do they have to draw on?  What do they know about love, loss and struggle? How will they show emotion  in their stories without having first experienced the pain and heartache of the "real" world.
     Watching their enthusiastic banter brought back memories of my first college classes, taken decades ago.Upon graduating high school,  I'd had visions of being a great journalist and author. Back then, I had so much heart and motivation. I was eager to write and create. I sat down, countless evenings, with my notebook and favorite pen, waiting for the words to come. Waiting for inspiration to strike. It did not. Instead, I  found myself taking courses that did not involve the actual process of writing. I began to avoid what I loved. Eventually, I dropped out of school. I had no idea that I was about to learn and live what has been referred to by many, as "the school of hard knocks". I did indeed receive an education in life. Through the years, I became a sponge, soaking up everything and everyone that I came into contact with. My brain became a journal, silently recording the constant ups and downs of my life. There came a point in 2013, where the journal of my mind, felt full. Exploding with material to write about and stories to tell. I have vowed to take this year to learn structure and organization. I will brush up on my English Composition skills and then.....I will open the floodgates and let the stories pour onto the page. Time is indeed a great teacher; and while it isn't always kind or patient or eloquent, it is honest, emotional and unrelenting.
    

Literary vs. Genre Fiction

     When I was much younger, I appreciated the predictability of genre fiction. In trying to escape the trials and tribulations of my dreadful teenage life, I took great solace in immersing myself in a book that promised me a happy ending. I enjoyed reading a story that tied everything up in a pretty little package, with a "feel good" ending.
     There came a time when reading these books became mundane. I could solve the mystery before the super sleuth and I knew who the love struck heroine would end up with half way through the book. I found myself  leaving countless books with dogeared pages sitting on the shelf unfinished. It was then that I started searching for novels and stories with that "not so happy" ending. I began writing that way as well. I would stop and consider the most unimaginable ending for my stories, often  writing without a particular conclusion in mind. I would let the story lead me to the finale.
     I truly enjoy writing a story that begins in the middle of a conflict and works both backwards and forward. I suppose that makes me more of a literary fiction author. I consider this type of writing much more challenging to both read and create. I do however, find that people who read my stories, often want more. They feel like the story is unfinished. They are unsatisfied when the things don't end they way they had hoped or imagined.
     In speaking in terms of poetry, fiction and nonfiction, I find the word genre to generic. To classify each of these as a "type" is very general. It does, however combine all forms of writing into categories that offer the promise of a more exciting journey.

The Journal

I don't often buy things for myself. Times are tough and I Don't have money to splurge on trinkets. However today, while picking out the books I shall be reading during my first semester at Eastern,  I spotted a beautiful leather bound journal sitting on the shelf at the back of the bookstore It smelled of cowhide and fresh paper. The edge of each crisp page was covered in gold foil and as I flipped through the empty pages.... I imagined the stories I could write to bring them to life. I couldn't resist and I smiled as I placed the little book upon the counter alongside Shakespeare's, King Lear and  Kipling's, The Man Who Would Be King.  The clerk looked at me, winked and said "so are you the next big writer to grace our shelves? " I looked at her smiled..... and said " I am....I am indeed. "

 I am a fifty three year old woman attempting to chase one last dream. I am on a journey that I began thirty six years ago as a graduating high school senior. At the urging of many of my teachers, friends and family, who had always described me as a talented and thoughtful writer,  I decided to pursue a career in Journalism.I applied and was accepted at CMU, otherwise know as Michigan's number one "party" school.  Growing up in a very small town had not prepared me for the vast experiences and temptations of campus life, in a booming college town. My attention was easily drawn away from my books as I focused more intently on the social life of a dorm dweller. My common sense guided me through the first few years as I successfully bounced my way through the "gravy" classes. Eventually, however, I crashed and burned when I was forced to face a semester filled with all of the courses I had artfully avoided so far. I basically flunked out of college and got trapped in menial paying management jobs until I opened my first nightclub almost twenty years ago. I still own that club and I have bought and sold several others through the years. For most intensive purposes, I have led an interesting life. I have seen and done things that many people  could not even imagine. There are days though, when I am asked about my biggest regret. I don't have to stop and think. It's there in the front of my mind, at the tip of my tongue and the top of my list. My biggest regret was the sudden, unexpected death of my writing career.

Three years ago, facing a mid-life crisis of sorts, I found it necessary to make some drastic changes in my life. I stopped drinking, lost over one hundred pounds and decided to go back to school. I took classes at Baker college in the Human services program for two years and then, for fun, I signed up for a creative writing class. That single class and it's passionate instructor, ignited something inside of me. It forced me to stop and realize what was missing in my life. So here I am, about to enter Eastern Michigan's  Creative Writing program. I have very little formal training to boast about. I do however, have heart and talent.  I have also been blessed with an amazing life filled with incredible experiences and very unique people. I have celebrated life at the top and struggled through hardships you can not even begin to imagine. I have a story to tell. It begins right here, right now. I am a writer.