Music I listened to while writing this
I’m taking creative writing for the third time at the University of Guam. My previous experiences of this class really summoned my desire to be an author. The desire has always been there since I was nine; however, it has been dimming over the years after constant battles with stress and reality. But my first two creative writing instructors helped show me to not feel ashamed of my desire—they helped me wake up to my dream.
I’m taking creative writing for the third time at the University of Guam. My previous experiences of this class really summoned my desire to be an author. The desire has always been there since I was nine; however, it has been dimming over the years after constant battles with stress and reality. But my first two creative writing instructors helped show me to not feel ashamed of my desire—they helped me wake up to my dream.
It was pleasant to write about
things that I actually like rather than killing myself with technical essays on
dry, irrelevant topics. Though my poetry
is simple and immature, it was nice to take a break from the serious
stuff. That’s what creative writing is
mainly about—escaping analyses and critical essays to
write what you like. Don’t get me
wrong—it can be nice to analyze things that interest you, such as T.V. shows or
movies. What I mean to say is, I find it
enjoyable to invent a plot and characters—even with a small poem, I get a
strong pleasure by constructing meter and form so it can flow perfectly for my
ears. My ears. I write for me.
My current situation is sort of
different.
The genre this semester is
short fiction. After a six months
estrangement of creative writing (essays got in the way of my poetry and my
free time wanted nothing to do with writing, because I had enough writing at
school) I enthusiastically signed up for the class this semester. I tried to prepare over the break by outlining
some plot ideas and characters —nothing too serious, just things to get me back
into it. I knew that most of my stuff
wouldn’t be used in the class but I needed to get into creation mode.
On the first day I knew I was
entering trouble when my teacher mentioned analyzing human struggles and
whatnot. This class was supposed to be
my escape from reality and she immediately shoved the world right back into my
face. I know reality is unavoidable, but
it’d be great to just forget about our own problems and make believe—because
that’s what fiction is about, make believe.
I wasn’t planning on writing schmaltzy pieces about unrealistic beauty
and profound love. I intended to write
funny pieces about things that interest me.
But my teacher wanted us to speak for the oppressed and give them a
voice. This challenge is important in
literature—in all works really; however, I have no interest in this. I get enough depressing stories in my other
classes and this was supposed to be the class about me—me writing about things
that I haven’t gotten the chance to write about in other classes. Having no interest in what I’m writing makes
my writing boring and that’s not creative writing.
This creative writing’s genre
is supposed to be fiction. Yet my
teacher has defined fiction as whatever is written on paper, because once an
experience is on paper it is no longer the same experience—or something to that
extent. I wasn’t really paying
attention; all I was hearing was red. Her
definition is pretty radical and disagreeable.
She admitted it herself. And she
still wants us to conform to her definition and this irritates me.
But I will survive.
She is a challenge that I know
I’ll conquer. I’ll make it through.
This experience will make me a
better writer because she is helping me do things that I would never do on my
own. And that’s what learning is
about—the experience.
Although I thought I wrote for
me, who I really write for is my audience.
My audience is my teacher and I’ll make her happy.
