Tag Archives: College

Humility…

Humility.

Not something I am particularly well acquainted with. Granted, I’m not a very proud (boastful) person either. However, when it comes to my writing skills, I have had occurrence over the last few years to recognize that I am not as horrible as I think that I am. There are times in my writing groups or in my classes where I will read peoples work and my immediate thought or critique is, “Seriously, give up. No, really. I hear accounting is a good career.”

And then I hear my wife’s voice nagging me, “Be nice.”

Now, let me just set one thing straight. Being nice is just not in my character. I’m brash, I’m curt, I’m honest. I’m kind of like the 2×4 that most people need to be hit with (or at least I’ve been told that (ok, I might be a bit proud of that aspect… just a bit)). So, when my wife tells me to be nice, I have to take a deep breath and remember that I am dealing with humans who have feelings… so much ugh.

And then…

Then it happens. That moment when I read Langston Hughes or Robert Frost of Dylan Thomas and I am reminded in a brutal fashion that I am not that great.

Oh, how the mighty do fall.

Where just a few seconds ago I stood high on a pedestal and sneered at the masses of the inadequate and doggerel, I now look up from the crater that has become my bed and I reach up, stretching forth my hand toward the gods of the written word and wonder when… when will be my moment to shine like the stars that they have become, twinkling in the heavens and haunting my thoughts like ghosts from a time I long to bring back.

How I long to walk amongst those stars and hear their stories. How I wish to sit for a while under the tutelage of those men and women who weave the words wistfully and without work.

Just to create something, anything, that will touch another soul the way that they have touched mine.

***

p.s. A is for alliteration

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I Hate This Feeling…

It’s Friday!

I would normally be ecstatic about this fact… ok, anyone who knows me knows I’m rarely ecstatic about the weekends (for multiple reasons). But this Friday has an especially demure aspect to it.

Week one of classes is coming to a close… and I can’t help but feel like I’ve missed something important.

I take all online classes and they all have a “check-in” kind of thing to make sure you are actually in the class. Most of the time it’s some sort of introduction where  you write a brief bio about yourself (most of mine are so filled with snark (shocker, right?)) and anything else that the professor has asked.

I did all those. I think. I’ve double checked and even triple checked…

And still…

I hate this feeling.

Not Dead Yet…

I’ve been absent. Probably not noticeably so. I’d like to think my voice has been missed by those who follow me, but I’m not so high on my own horse to believe that.

It’s been at least a month since I have posted anything, and quite a while since I have been doing any kind of regular… anything. Even over on my other site.

But, as a way of excuse, the summer semester just drained me. A literature class and a creative writing prereq class, crammed into 6-weeks each, are enough to cause any gray matter to liquefy fairly quickly.  In that time frame, I read so many stories and different critique styles. I read Stephen King’s On Writing (a book I highly recommend if nothing more than for reading a memoir (of sorts)), and also was introduced to Joyce Carol Oates (of who’s book, SourlandI read (or portions of it).

I also went away for vacation to Tennessee. A family vacation.

Oh, and I got A’s.

Which, come on, is really all that matters. Right?

I’m thinking I should probably write some of this stuff into its own posts. Maybe a book review or two, a vacation post with photos, and other stuff.

/shrug

Oh, and my brain finally started to solidify, finally.

Just in time to start Fall semester and the four classes I am currently taking.

Mental masochism, for the win!

 

 

My Sharpest Memory…

My sharpest memory is of the day I stopped being my daughter’s hero. I thought for sure I could wait until she was at least thirteen before that title would be stripped away. But at eighteen months old, I was becoming the monster that would fuel her nightmares for years to come.

An hour before, I was happily at work, going about my day. Then the panicked phone call, the drive home, and the drive to the hospital.

Now, her body wrapped up like a cocoon in a blanket to keep her arms down around her sides, I was the one who was forced to hold her down while the doctor and a nurse worked on putting stitches into her forehead. All she could do was look up at me with her big green eyes and plead with every ounce of energy she could, “Daddy, daddy, daddy…”

This is the part you never hear about while growing up. It’s one thing when they deserve correction. But no one prepares you for when you have to be the ‘bad guy’ for all the right reasons.

Truth be told, I’m not sure who suffers the nightmares of that moment more. Because the entire time, she stared into my eyes. The entire time she tried to get her arms loose and have me make it all go away. The entire time she wanted me to hug her. And because I couldn’t, the entire time, my heart broke just a bit more.