Figuring Out My Feelings

I'm a slow learner. It takes me a long while to fully process information, and if the information is something that I am indifferent toward, it may take me years, or decades. This is especially the case with emotions.

I was mowing the lawn the other day. Mowing the lawn is a zen-like thing for me. I remember mowing the lawn when I was growing up in Holley. My parents purchased a five acre parcel that was field and we gradually tamed it to lawn, park actually. I would mow for hours every weekend all summer long.

When I mow the lawn, now like then, generally, I find it to be a peaceful activity that allows me time to let my mind wander; to think.

So I was mowing the lawn the other day and something popped into my head quite unexpectedly. A revelation nineteen years in the making, in fact. I was thinking about writing, specifically about writing in the third person omniscient and the effort involved in depicting a character's emotional state; how authors must have an incredible depth of understanding of emotional states in order to do this well.

I was contrasting this with how long it takes me to understand, to fully digest, my own emotional states. I am a logician, always have been. An analyzer of things that can be analyzed. I have often thought I would make a good lawyer, or a good accountant (boring). But emotions are a challenge, so writing a character to an emotional state is particularly difficult for me.

All this thinking about creative writing brought up memories of Indiana University and my creative writing experience there. IU unto itself is a whole other story, but specifically my mind wandered into the emotional state I felt while there. I did not produce particularly good writing at IU; I did much better at Lock Haven. I think this was because I felt particularly insecure and inferior at IU. I was not encouraged or made to feel comfortable.

Trucking along on my new mower, I recalled my first day in IU's creative writing workshop with instructor and poet David Wojahn. We were to submit a poem for group discussion prior to class. I had produced a number of poems over the summer, some of which would have gone well in the class, but I had moved all of my poems onto computer disks and was unable to print them from IU's computer systems (new student and all; also new to the world of computers, I guess). But I did have a paper printout of a very short allegorical piece I had written. Knowing it was quite out of the ordinary for typical workshop fodder, I threw it into the hat to see what I would get.

After reading the piece and receiving the usual non-comments (it's pretty short; it doesn't say much; there's no depth of character; and etc.) Mr. Wojahn spoke up and pointed out to everyone that it was an allegory, and that we wouldn't be writing allegories in this workshop. We would be writing personal narratives [a style common in contemporary American poetry].

I recall several reactions in the class. Several people felt defended, vindicated even, and while not saying anything they gave off an "emotional vibe" strong enough to melt ice cream. Several other people felt squashed and silenced. One student, a PhD candidate (Steve Woodbury, I believe), spoke out and stated his disagreement with the restriction. It was, after all, a creative writing workshop. After some half hearted debate on the topic, it was clear that we all would be submitting personal narrative poems.

At least one person dropped the course.

My insecurity and slow-on-the-uptake brain made me sit quietly and capitulate. I would not write short allegorical pieces. I would later learn that I would not, for Mr. Wojahn, write short pieces of any kind! But in that instance, when it was made clear to me, to all of us actually, what we were to be doing in this particular creative writing class, I did not know how I felt. Awkward. Weird. Uncomfortable. Inferior. All balled up into a single emotional state at odds with Indiana University's creative writing program, to which I was admitted certainly by luck or the goodness of a few people and the merits of the more interesting poetry I produced while at Lock Haven. This was day one.

It occurred to me, while mowing the lawn nineteen years later, that I felt the way Hermey must have felt upon announcing his aspirations. You know Hermey! In fact, I felt exactly like Hermey when the boss elf said "A dentist!? Now you listen, you! You're an elf and elves make toys. Now get to work!!"

OK. Maybe Mr. Wojahn didn't have quite the vigor in his tone, but the intent and the result were one and the same.

I envy Hermey's fortitude! Mostly I wrote what I wanted to write at IU, but also tried my best to fit in. Ultimately, I was different. I was a mis-fit at IU, and it wore on me for a long time. It was sad on a number of levels. I suffered through my tenure at IU from this starting point, feeling uncomfortable enough to not meet my creative potential. Mr. Wojahn suffered, albeit minutely—perhaps as a grain of sand stuck in the heal of his shoe—because I never again cared much for his poetry. To boot, his narrow arrogance made him unapproachable and not a particularly effective teacher. At least for me, the grain of sand.

Oops! Allegory again...

For Hermey, the boss elf eventually accepted him for who he was and let him stay and be a dentist. Of course, it required a tooth extraction to get him there.