the first class I think I’ll enjoy in grad school…

…is unfortunately the last class I’ll ever take. It’s called Truth or Fiction, and it’s both a creative writing workshop and philosophical rumination on the lines between telling the truth and telling stories within factual writing. Which we call nonfiction, but which my professor prefers to call by the former title to give it positive content.

Last week we talked about truth as fact vs truth as a resonant emotion or atmosphere. For a reference point, we’d all read The Lifespan of a Fact: John D’Agastini, author, vs. Jim Finigal, factchecker. It’s basically a record of a series of communications between a stubborn essayist and his equally obstinate factchecker, who called the author out on every. single. inaccuracy in his “artwork” before it was to be published as nonfiction in The Believer literary magazine. The book invites readers to take sides between the men, and sides between the importance of representing events accurately and painting the heart of an emotional experience.

Some of the questions that came up in our discussion were: “Who are authors responsible to? Their subjects? Their muse? Their publishers? Their audience?” “What is truer, a fact or an impression?” and “Does the subject matter influence the ethics of its writing?”

And now, this week, we’re workshopping the first half of a rough draft I wrote on the experience of being introduced to the world of BDSM in New York. Should be interesting to see what kinds of questions my classmates have about the truth or fiction of that…

apologies + updates!

It feels like ages since I’ve posted because a LOT has gone down in my life since last week.

1. My computer broke. That was the big reason for not posting. But here I am, typing away on a brand new one! So thank God for that.

2. My housing situation is falling apart. That needs to be a post all on its own, but for now I’ll say this. I belong to an intentional Christian community where the leadership positions are being abused but the other members are wonderful. The leaders are also my landlords, and they have made my and my roommate’s living situations stressful and toxic to the point where we have all decided to move out in the coming months. However, news came just recently that they may decide to kick us out/ raise rent impossibly high in order to make more money off of our admittedly lovely home. So now I’m faced with several choices: get a place with the bf? stay with the bf in the short term while I seek a new place for myself? try to get a new place with some of my current roommates?

3. I had my first, final class of the semester last Thursday! It’s a creative writing class focusing on the distinction between truth and fiction in factual/ nonfiction writing. Of course, I’m the first one on the list to be workshopped, so I had to dash something out superfast over the weekend to send in for comments by today.

teachers.

Another timed write: 10 minutes.

First there was Miss– oh gosh! I can’t even remember her name. I do remember going back to my old kindergarten room when I was in high school and being surprised to find that her hairstyle hadn’t changed since I was five: highlighted, light brown, teased up in an 80’s crown. She was wearing blue eyeliner. She asked me if I had graduated from our elementary school yet. I said I had, four years ago.

Then there was Mrs. Bloom, and she let me write my first book report. It was on Sarah, Plain and Tall. That’s it for my time with her.

In second grade, I was cursed with having Mrs. Marchese, who hated second graders. Every morning she posted a math challenge that I could never figure out and handed out marshmallow peeps to anyone who could solve it. My best friend Ashley Erickson always got a peep. I maybe got one twice, and every morning I dug my pencil into the page and made very small, mean tears. She once got frustrated with our class and shoved all her papers off her desk onto the floor and made us pick them up. She also gave us timed multiplication tables every Friday. If we got 100% correct in a minute, the following Monday she’d buy us a slice of pizza. I felt so stupid in her class. I never did get my slice of pizza.

Third grade was much better, with Mrs. Alexander. She was black and thin and had very long fingernails. She let me sit with students who needed help with their reading.

But it was fourth grade that changed my life. Mrs. Glazeroff made me fall in love with learning through my imagination. She read us Harry Potter and The BFG, and we got to make 3-D maps of Stone Fox. I showed her the story I had written–the most delicious story I’ve ever written, in fact, at least in how it felt to write it–and she told me it was very, very good. When I won the district spelling bee, she hung a banner with my name on it over the classroom door. Mrs. Glazeroff suggested to my parents that I and my brother might benefit from private schooling, and then the next year moved to Texas to retire. I never heard from her again, and to this day I think she was the one who inspired me to teach.

Fifth grade was pretty good, too. Mrs. Larson was funny and attractive. One time a kid named Jovanni went into her desk without permission, and she said, “Jovanni, you’re not allowed to go into my drawers!” and then turned beet red and said something awkward and laughed a little. I had no idea what she was saying. In Mrs. Larson’s class we read Holes and we always groaned when we had to put our books away. She didn’t get mad at me when I read ahead and couldn’t place where the rest of the class was. I think it was also in her class when I developed a huge ego trip. I remember returning from a school music lesson, bursting through the classroom door, sighing loudly and exclaiming, “So, what are we up to?” The principal was sitting in the back of the class, doing an observation. She just looked at me. Mrs. Larson just looked at me. She told me to come sit down. I was totally mortified.