January 31st, 2004: Ever since 7th grade, all I've ever wanted is a man who likes the same music that I do. And I've met two of them in my 22 years. And I was so, so happy with both of them. Because love sounds so much better with a Jump, Little Children soundtrack. But then they left me, and now all music is spoiled for me. XTC—ruined by Dave. The White Stripes—ruined by Eric. The Beatles—ruined by Dave. Coldplay—ruined by Eric.
(sarcasm) Thank God neither of them liked R&B or rap. (end sarcasm)
Kill me now.
January 17th, 2004:
Dear Ex-"Boyfriend"™,
I'm sorry about calling you a coward.
I will always love you, even if it's just because I know that we're going to be spending eternity in hell together. If there is a hell. As long as Jesus doesn't weasel his way into your heart before you die. If there is a Jesus.
I want us to stay friends. The type of friends that we used to be. Except without the things that make you uncomfortable with yourself. And I want you to feel like you don't have to pretend around me or be gentle with me. We know too much about each other.
And I really do love you.
¤ Katiett ¤
January 6th, 2004: I do believe that after 17 years of it, I’ve finally grown weary of school. It’s been a couple of quarters coming, really, beginning on that fateful day last July when one of my classmates called my work the potential “downfall of the creative nonfiction genre”. And it’s only been heightened recently by my meetings with one of the nonfiction professors at OSU, who really does his best to encourage me but only leaves me with more questions and uncertainties.
I first requested a meeting with him in order to sniff him out as a potential thesis advisor under the guise of needing assurance that my writing really isn’t as misdirected as my classmate claimed this summer. I honestly didn’t have any questions about the quality of my work, though I suppose that I was seeking his vindication just to spite the classmate in my mind. But after three office discussions and a few e-mailed samples, he gave me exactly the sort of review that I hadn’t planned for: “It’s very clear that you’re creative, and it’s very clear that you can write, but you’re not writing creative nonfiction.”
My uber-articulate reply: “Huh?”
He informed me that creative nonfiction is basically just true fiction, meaning that it should be full of dialogue and description and should start at the most interesting part of the story and then flip from scene to scene like a movie does. And just like in the movies, a light bulb appeared above my head at that moment, though he couldn’t see it because he’s blind and I couldn’t see it because I was too busy plotting how I was going to rework this entire Journal of Self-Loathing™ into a colossal work of nonfiction, but we both heard the little microwave-esque “ding!” that accompanies all epiphanic light bulb appearances, so we both knew it was there.
But now that I’ve had time to mull over things, I’m both confused and annoyed. I don’t want to write pieces full of dialogue, you see; I don’t have the memory for it. (The professor tells me that people will appreciate it when I misquote them and make them sound much more clever than they really are, but I don’t entirely buy that.) And I definitely don’t want to write 12-page descriptions of the colour of the sky on the night when I met him wearing the red dress that drips off my hips and flows down my legs like cherry-flavoured cough syrup and blah, blah, blah. And sure, I agree with the poet Marvin Bell, who said, “One of the tests of a first line in a poem is probably, simply, do you want to read on, or do you want to go out for popcorn,” but I don’t think that a lot of novelty, wham-bam, glitz, and glam is necessary to a good story.
And so I’m left asking myself if it’s stupid to think that a bunch of classes are going to teach me to write in a way that both fits someone’s definition of what good writing is and fulfills my own desires for my work. But I also have to wonder if maybe I really do lack and am trying to keep from admitting it to myself by sucking in my breath, sticking out my chest, and bellowing, “I REFUSE TO CONFORM!” This writing, the writing that you’re reading right now, is spelled out here on the page exactly as it sounds in my head with regard for neither poetic language nor knowledge of “what sells”. And darnit, why isn’t that good enough?
Even my dad is unsure if he should be supporting me at this point. My dad, who encouraged me when I wanted to be a doctor, who encourage me to switch majors when I later wanted to be a lawyer, and who encouraged me again when I decided to become a professor, is now saying things to me like, “Either you can write or you can’t. It’s like in basketball: a person without any ability isn’t going to be good no matter how much he practices.” Sports analogies, Dad!? What did I do to deserve this?
I thought that things might turn around this quarter, that I would either revive my love for literature in my class on James Joyce’s Ulysses or that my faith in my writing ability would be renewed in my nonfiction writing workshop. But after the first day of class today, I’m not so sure.
My Ulysses class is full of honours students. And I hate honours students. Yes, I’m aware that I am an honours student, but that’s just the problem. We’re all the same person. We’re all the same outgoing, obnoxious, competitive person. And I hate all of us.
There’s the same problem with my writing class. Funny, extroverted attention-stealers, all of us. When I take poetry-writing classes, I justify everything by telling myself that I’m a nonfiction writer, not a poetry writer, and therefore have an excuse to write stinking, burping sappiness. But now that I’m supposedly writing “in my element”, what I know and love and feel inside of me, I suddenly have all of these intense fears that what my nonfiction classmate this summer said is true, that I really will be “downfall of the creative nonfiction genre”. I mean, I don’t really believe that, but it sure would be nice to have someone validate my existence for once.
I basically heard all of the same things today, though. My professor came strutting into class in her knee-high boots with their three-inch heel and her little wool skirt and her “I’ve been published in The Washington Post” smarminess. I hated her, of course, but only because I want to be exactly like her. She and I definitely had a “discussion” about what makes a good piece of nonfiction, and I definitely walked away from it feeling as if there’s no possibility of my passing the class. Her claim is that all writing must have a greater human significance and a huge epiphany of some sort. And, of course, there has to be dialogue. Because God and the rest of the world hate me.
I argued that anything I write is going to have meaning just because I’m writing it and because it’s going to reveal something about me and since I’m a human—voila!—greater human significance. My professor’s response was somewhere along the lines of, “We’ll just see what kind of grade you get on your first piece.” And then she began to laugh. “Mwahaha. MWAhahahaha. MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
So I’m definitely going to fail the class. And then I’m going to have to drop out of school, start drinking heavily, and become a super-famous writer. Because that’s always how it happens.
Notes from My Roommate Esther Over Instant Messenger Following the Writing of This Entry:
dreamfuzie: 1. You are right. Some people do not like to be misquoted. And by some people, I mean me.
dreamfuzie: 2. If you could singlehandedly be the downfall of the creative nonfiction genre, doesn't that mean that your writing is potentially really powerful? Like the A-bomb? Or Weapons of Mass Destruction? It's kind of a backhanded compliment, isn't it?
dreamfuzie: 3. Cherry-flavored cough syrup makes me vomit.