Connecting
So I have this pair of jeans. I bought them to replace a pair I had from the 90s. It didn't occur to me then, how long clothes, especially jeans, can last, and how important it is to get the correct size and preferable fit. At the time I was just tired. I had driven a long way only to find that they were a little long, and slightly too big. I paid without thinking; I paid for years because I didn't think. Fast forward to now, and they're starting to fall apart, because of wear and because they were too big to begin with. A large hole in the knee finally became too large to ignore, then when I did ignore it, it became even larger. A friend had access to sewing supplies, and gave me instruction on how patching works. I don't know what the fabric was for originally, but it was presented to me as durable and sturdy, and the white color was similar in hue to the faded denim of the thigh and what was left of the knee. I went to work, and after stabbing myself a dozen times, I reached a really quiet place where the universe kind of made sense. In and out, pull to tightness, mind the stitch, begin again. Somewhere in there I think I realized the difference between how I feel about writing, and how I feel about teaching.
Two older ladies, let's say gals, dropped in to one of my appointment slots. Non traditional students have vastly different qualities and expectations from students under 24, and they are differences I appreciate. I don't tend to mince my words, and I have a preternatural focus on fixing problems. The students before me had been given instruction and explanation that they didn't understand, and for one reason or another had sought clarification elsewhere. From what they said and how they said it, from looking at their materials and assignment sheets, I felt confident I knew what the problem was. I spoke to the issue, backtracking across the timeline of incidents, paying special care to cast some light on the dark spots where we all tend to fill in the blanks and assume. It was a lot like loosening a string of knots. This is what your professor meant. This is how you accomplish that. Here is where it started to go wrong. Answers led to more questions as they began to trust, and those answers produced the thoughtful humming that often accompanies understanding. One of them asked me where I was from, where I went to school, and why if I had majored in English why I wasn't ultimately seeking to be a teacher. "He likes words," the second one said to the first, thinking I might be bothered by the interrogation. "Or writing," and she looked at me for clarification. I nodded in affirmation. "Oh well, you'll have to let me know when your book is out," the first one said. She had fish bowl bifocals and hands like my mother. I told her I already had a book out, which is the kind of thing I say sometimes without thinking, like trying to catch a falling item, and only later am I aware that I did it without thinking. She produced a piece of paper and a pen. "Oh, what's it called?" I was glad that I hadn't lied to save my ego. I was embarrassed because I had been revealing.
All of that is to say I'm taking very, very small steps, like the footprints of needlework. Pushing it through, pulling it tight, then bringing it back out. Taking a moment to look at how far I've come, only to realize I have only traveled a quarter inch. But progress is progress. I told the woman the name, and spelled out my pen name. I did not tell her it might be hard to find, but I knew a physical copy could be purchased via Amazon. I knew because I've received several texts from friends that have them in hand, all across the country. I have certain reservations about the details of it, but it feels nice to be supported. I have doubts as to that sheet of paper with my title and name ever being used, but that was more about me being more confident, not reflexively, but squaring up to the social hurdle and consciously working to surmount it. Just like my pants, which I look upon lovingly now, not in spite of the strange, uneven patch but because of it. I know whose handiwork that is, and I know that when I don't feel a draft, it is because of my direct effort.
I enjoy teaching, and I think it's the same reaction some people get from volunteering. It feels good to help. I can still remembering floundering, paddling in circles, lost and frustrated. It makes me feel better to help someone in a similar position, or even better, helping out someone right before they sail off the waterfall.
But the phrase I came up with for writing is that when I write, it feels like my soul is aligned with the universe. There is nothing I'm happier doing, and it isn't even close. Nor am I very interested in finding something else that is close, which is often somewhat terrifying.
Anyway, another draft of the cover is in, but there were some things I wanted changed, so I think I'll be waiting until the next update to post. But I am inching along, a quarter inch at a time, even.
Two older ladies, let's say gals, dropped in to one of my appointment slots. Non traditional students have vastly different qualities and expectations from students under 24, and they are differences I appreciate. I don't tend to mince my words, and I have a preternatural focus on fixing problems. The students before me had been given instruction and explanation that they didn't understand, and for one reason or another had sought clarification elsewhere. From what they said and how they said it, from looking at their materials and assignment sheets, I felt confident I knew what the problem was. I spoke to the issue, backtracking across the timeline of incidents, paying special care to cast some light on the dark spots where we all tend to fill in the blanks and assume. It was a lot like loosening a string of knots. This is what your professor meant. This is how you accomplish that. Here is where it started to go wrong. Answers led to more questions as they began to trust, and those answers produced the thoughtful humming that often accompanies understanding. One of them asked me where I was from, where I went to school, and why if I had majored in English why I wasn't ultimately seeking to be a teacher. "He likes words," the second one said to the first, thinking I might be bothered by the interrogation. "Or writing," and she looked at me for clarification. I nodded in affirmation. "Oh well, you'll have to let me know when your book is out," the first one said. She had fish bowl bifocals and hands like my mother. I told her I already had a book out, which is the kind of thing I say sometimes without thinking, like trying to catch a falling item, and only later am I aware that I did it without thinking. She produced a piece of paper and a pen. "Oh, what's it called?" I was glad that I hadn't lied to save my ego. I was embarrassed because I had been revealing.
All of that is to say I'm taking very, very small steps, like the footprints of needlework. Pushing it through, pulling it tight, then bringing it back out. Taking a moment to look at how far I've come, only to realize I have only traveled a quarter inch. But progress is progress. I told the woman the name, and spelled out my pen name. I did not tell her it might be hard to find, but I knew a physical copy could be purchased via Amazon. I knew because I've received several texts from friends that have them in hand, all across the country. I have certain reservations about the details of it, but it feels nice to be supported. I have doubts as to that sheet of paper with my title and name ever being used, but that was more about me being more confident, not reflexively, but squaring up to the social hurdle and consciously working to surmount it. Just like my pants, which I look upon lovingly now, not in spite of the strange, uneven patch but because of it. I know whose handiwork that is, and I know that when I don't feel a draft, it is because of my direct effort.
I enjoy teaching, and I think it's the same reaction some people get from volunteering. It feels good to help. I can still remembering floundering, paddling in circles, lost and frustrated. It makes me feel better to help someone in a similar position, or even better, helping out someone right before they sail off the waterfall.
But the phrase I came up with for writing is that when I write, it feels like my soul is aligned with the universe. There is nothing I'm happier doing, and it isn't even close. Nor am I very interested in finding something else that is close, which is often somewhat terrifying.
Anyway, another draft of the cover is in, but there were some things I wanted changed, so I think I'll be waiting until the next update to post. But I am inching along, a quarter inch at a time, even.
Comments
Post a Comment