I wish I wasn’t such a chickenshit. Today my big kid began a creative writing class through a youth arts company here in town. The course is titled Playwrights for Change. I’m not sure what needs changing–I mean I have some opinions, but I’m not eleven, so I would guess the theater company’s focus is more age-appropriate than geopolitical in nature.
While he was in class, I sauntered around downtown to find a spot to continue my literary journey through Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. Today is one of those days that answers the musical question why anyone would choose to live here. It is beee-yoo-tiful. I parked myself along the river, and continued reading this most peculiar story. I’m easily distracted as you know, so kayakers and Canada geese led my mind on a few field trips from my tome. It’s a straight-up weird, captivating story; I like it, but I can’t devour it. It’s too demanding to throw back quickly. What would it be like, the geese from the Great White North led me to wonder, to have such insane–and I mean that in a good way–ideas in one’s head? From where do they come, and how on earth does one select precisely the right words to tell the tale? How does a good author weave intricacies of human (or in this case, not exactly human) experiences, emotions, places in people over hundreds of pages? What an extraordinary gift that would be, to paint with prose.
Since I am not creative visually I say often, self-deprecatingly and maddeningly, that I’m not good at anything. I don’t have a talent, and for some reason lately this is under my skin more than usual. I’ve also discovered about myself that this frustration is defeating me somewhat. I started this post writing that I wished there were writing lessons or classes for adults, and how wouldn’t that be cool if my son and I could learn to write separately, but together. Then I Googled “writing classes Milwaukee adults,” and immediately found some. One is quite near where I live in fact and in the very near future, but instead of signing up, I slammed that webpage shut, metaphorically loudly, quickly, and metaphorically ran like hell back to my comfy little WordPress home. It’s much less threatening to post a pretty picture of downtown on a pristine fall day than to step out and actually do something! While I do want to write better, maybe even string together more than 800 words or so at a crack, I’m nervous to open that door. There. But wait, didn’t I write a post titled Brave not too long ago?
My big guy has his six month neurology appointment tomorrow, and that alone is cause enough for nerves for this week. Yeah, I’ll blame my inertness (pretty sure it’s not a word, you don’t have to get all grammar superior on me–that’s MY jam) on that. Keep your fingers crossed and send up your good intentions for my boy, would you please? And while you are doing that, I will work to make the tale I tell here a better read. It’ll take me some time to find my brave, so be patient, OK?