That’s the excuse I’d like to use for my absence; really, it does not. My classwork now is less demanding than it’s ever been. Whether that’s a testament to my mental capacity, my instructor’s lack thereof, or my consideration of laziness in architecting my senior year schedule, I’m not sure.
But while school does not consume me, my thoughts do. I wish I was experiencing writer’s block—instead I feel I am burdened with too many ideas and the crippling sense to perfect them all before my pen touches the page. Those around me wonder: “Why have you ceased working on your novel?” I haven’t—I just feel I need to mature as a writer before bearing my thoughts onto a page. Many don’t understand: “Why, you’re an excellent writer! You’re versed in grammar rules and how to use an adjective. Just write!” To refute this is a lost cause, ending in some assertion like: “You’re much too modest.” When I’m not—in fact I’m rather pompous. So instead I provide them with a variation of an indefatigable excuse: school consumes me.
But since you, my loyal (albeit probably—intentionally—imaginary) readers, know the real truth, I’ll let you in on a few of my inner discourses.
What is it that the literary minded possess that enables them to see the world differently? It’s a question that came to mind while I sat in literature class on Wednesday. I take a Women’s Literature course at the local community college. I intended this class, along with others I’ve taken at the college, to continue challenging myself despite having traveled as high as I can in the hierarchy of high school English. So far, I have been mostly disappointed. Mostly—not completely. The exceptions keep me in attendance.
Wednesday was not one of these exceptions. We were arranged in groups to discuss essay prompts regarding Charlotte Bronte and Virginia Woolf and, by the end of the class, present theses. Our prompt was (is, actually, as I haven’t yet completed the assignment—oops) some variation of “Does Bronte write like a woman, as Woolf claims?” A boy in my group was the first to speak, discussing character centric quotes he’d quite proudly pulled from Jane Eyre. Another girl mentioned that Bronte makes villains of the women characters. Their instincts were admirable; both chose selected some of the ‘right’ elements, but he didn’t know why they were right. That is, they couldn’t identify any sort of overlying theme from them. And so, they settled on a thesis that went something like: Bronte writes like a woman because she touches on the oppression and the internal and external struggles of women. Well, they would have happily settled on this, had I not intervened.
Any way I spin it, this reads to sound as if I feel superior to the group. Which is true to some degree—by standardized modes of determining intellect, I probably am. They never detract from my airs, maybe hoping to benefit as a part of my group, my responsibility. But in this case, I was just frustrated and genuinely curious. How could they not see what was wrong with this thesis? How could they deliberately allow something so vague and directionless to take form? How could they just discard the initial examples they spoke of, when they were so close?
And so I mettled. My voice shook as I spoke, though I was full of conviction. Conviction of what was wrong; the uneasiness came from determining what was right. And from the fact that no one in surrounding me was less than two years older—and yet I was commanding them. Years of conditioning tells me that’s impolite. But I continued until we—I, though I really would like to deem this a group effort—had an acceptable thesis, a sentence that knew what it wanted to achieve and how it was going to do so.
Of the theses scribbled on the whiteboard, ours was the only that received outright praise. Which would be nice, if anyone else in the class had any clue why. That’s what concerns me. Well, stirs me. They don’t have to understand, of course, and most will be quite successful without this ability; I just wish I knew, concretely, what it is that enabled me and the teacher to identify what the other students didn’t.
On second thought, maybe school does consume me.
More ramblings in a bit—I must devote my attention back to The Fountainhead, another topic of discussion that’s been plaguing—or maybe developing—my mind.
