On Being a Writer
Some days I just despise my job. Today was one of those days. The students were okay, as they usually are. I'm almost caught up with the paper reading/responding, which means I'll have a short break before the next round of papers come in. So I'm not sure why I'm feeling I could very easily walk away from campus and never look back.
If I was reclining on a shrink's lounge and spilling my guts, I'd have to say teaching others how to write a decent sentence just isn't doing it for me any longer. At this stage of the game for the students, writing a sentence that makes sense shouldn't be an issue. But it is. Oh is it ever. You'd think I wouldn't be surprised any longer with the lack of skills some of the students bring into the classroom. After all, they went through 12 years of education before reaching us. Reason says the students should have a solid foundation from which to work. Not so. Not even close for many of the students I work with. Working with underprepared students becomes exhausting after awhile, and I think that's where I am. Exhausted.
While still on that shrink's lounge, I'd lament the fact that I have so little time to write my own stuff. Up until classes started in August, I was writing, writing, writing. I'm so close to having enough short stories to begin shopping around for an agent. I'm making progress, really, really slow progress, on the novel now since all the "other" stuff has interrupted, and this makes me angry. I'm on the verge of actually calling myself a writer, but the "other" stuff keeps getting in the way.
Where does all of this leave me? Sitting here venting. With a pile of unread papers at my left elbow. Papers that when I do read them will just make me shake my head in wonder at how some of the students made it through high school. My mind thinking more about the newest short story idea I have perculating and am eager to begin. A short story that excites me, makes the unease I've felt throughout the day fade.
That's why I write.
If I was reclining on a shrink's lounge and spilling my guts, I'd have to say teaching others how to write a decent sentence just isn't doing it for me any longer. At this stage of the game for the students, writing a sentence that makes sense shouldn't be an issue. But it is. Oh is it ever. You'd think I wouldn't be surprised any longer with the lack of skills some of the students bring into the classroom. After all, they went through 12 years of education before reaching us. Reason says the students should have a solid foundation from which to work. Not so. Not even close for many of the students I work with. Working with underprepared students becomes exhausting after awhile, and I think that's where I am. Exhausted.
While still on that shrink's lounge, I'd lament the fact that I have so little time to write my own stuff. Up until classes started in August, I was writing, writing, writing. I'm so close to having enough short stories to begin shopping around for an agent. I'm making progress, really, really slow progress, on the novel now since all the "other" stuff has interrupted, and this makes me angry. I'm on the verge of actually calling myself a writer, but the "other" stuff keeps getting in the way.
Where does all of this leave me? Sitting here venting. With a pile of unread papers at my left elbow. Papers that when I do read them will just make me shake my head in wonder at how some of the students made it through high school. My mind thinking more about the newest short story idea I have perculating and am eager to begin. A short story that excites me, makes the unease I've felt throughout the day fade.
That's why I write.
Comments