Choosing Between Two Goods

New York

I have been woefully neglectful of this blog for the past two weeks. I can either write to you, dear readers, or write my short story. Both are good things but I cannot seem to do both at the same time. At least I can't for right now. Let me explain.

Several weeks ago, I was bemoaning the fact that I was not writing on a daily basis toward my goal of publishing a short story in some yet to be named journal. But, in order to be published, one must complete a story, submit it, and, finally, receive acknowledgment that it has been accepted for publication.

So, I decided to enroll in a course at Sarah Lawrence, the esteemed Seven Sisters school in Bronxville that has a reputation for having a fine writing faculty ( among a string of other "fine" attributes).

Two weeks ago, I began my first class. Those of you who have followed my blog for the past four years know that this is not the first writing workshop I have attended. Last year I attended Rosemont College's Writer's Retreat in June which opened up possibilities for me through working with other writers over a week's time. And I attended an NYU course a couple of years ago with alot of 20somethings who, when asked to write about their most exciting memory, wrote alot about sex in the backseat of the proverbial Ford.

However, this experience has been different from the very start. First of all, there is a substantial commute considering that it takes me 20 minutes to got to Columbia or, going the other direction, NYU. This commute includes the subway to 42nd Street; the Shuttle to Grand Central; then taking the Metro North for 35 minutes to Bronxville. Finally, walking the mile to the Sarah Lawrence campus.

But how bad can it be emerging from the shuttle with the rest of the mass of humanity and walking up the ramp to the central hall of Grand Central Station. Every week, as I approach the massive room, the four sided art deco clock anchoring the center of the room, I stop to remember where I am. I stop to look up at the amazing green blue ceiling with all sorts of constellations, and silently thank Jackie Kennedy Onassis for throwing her considerable weight behind its rescue from decay and possibly the wrecking ball.

Even Metro North is different. The ticket taker actually answers questions, and, occasionally smiles as we zoom past stops at 125th Street in Harlem, Fordham, Botanical Gardens, and, finally Bronxville. Walking to Sarah Lawrence involves up and down gentle hills through residential neighborhoods that could be anytown USA ( except this town is pretty upscale). The shops and cafes near the station look like a scene from It's A Wonderful Life.

I must admit that before my first class, I was intimidated. What will I bring to read? Is it any good? Will everyone else have completed at least three short stories, with one already accepted for publication in 2009? Nevertheless, I read a couple of scenes from my story. I am happy to report that they did not throw things after I finished. Indeed, the encouragement that I got from both Sarah Goodyear, our (published) faculty, about what was working in the piece, inspired me to keep truckin'. Whew!

And there is more good news. I loved the other writers' work, too. All 11 writers are struggling to authentically communicate their voices, their point of view. At times, I could see the mental angst of one or the other as she tried to tell us why she used a particular phrase, a specific strategy to move the arc of the story along. I could learn something from every one of these writers--something I cannot say about the past experiences in these settings. This is a serious group of writers. Hooray!

And these stories are not about backseat Ford scenes ( although there's nothing wrong with that ). They are about siblings who are found dead in their beds on an ordinary school morning, or cross-cultural marriages that scream with conflict, or poignant stories in a mixture of Spanish and English of a Latina mother who simply cannot nurture her incredibly sensitive, lonely child. Or, in the case of the youngest writer ( who reminds me somehow of the author of the book about the pregnant girl who ends up living in, and delivering her baby at KMart ) whose scenes evoke young adulthood with absolute resonance.

So, do you see why I have not been posting? I have been living in a dreamworld, that space where only ideas live. Where the world is transformable into whatever I want it to be ( as long as it moves the story along, of course ); where there are no rules about what one can feel or think or believe. Where the challenge is to create a structure, a form to offer the story, a platform to present the words so that they can be understood.

And so, for the next week, I will stay in that ether of imagination, floating in and out of consciousness, solving the problems of plot, place, presentation until the protagonist in my story tells me she is finished whispering in my ear.

So, I'm busy talking to my imaginary friend.

I'll be back here in a week. See you in my dreams.
MC