And Then I Was Done

My friend Monkey has officially moved out.  Last Tuesday, (two days before it was even due!) I turned in my final project, took my final exam, and sent him packing.  Then, almost immediately after hitting the final "submit" button, and before Monkey was even out the door, I received my electronic "Certificate of Completion."  Now that's efficiency!

Digital, Electronic, or Virtual--Call it what you want,
I was pretty proud of myself :) 

As I sat basking in the glory of my electronic achievement, however, I was already thinking ahead; asking myself, now what?  Should I sign up for another class?  I could, certainly, benefit from further instruction, more practice.  But is this what I really want to do?  I started this class on February 21st--on a whim--after receiving a pamphlet in the mail, from Tacoma Community College.  I scanned their list of upcoming classes, found this one, and thought why not?  I signed up.  I didn't even hesitate.  Which is a complete break from the usual.  Spontaneity is not my default mode.

But, apparently, this was a new me. So, after enrolling, I introduced myself, (it was an assignment) and after two lessons, started working on the final project. I continued to work on it for five weeks; something I haven't done since my college days. I literally lived with it, breathed it.  It kept me up at night. It entered my consciousness all throughout the day.  Of course, this could also be due to my obsessive personality disorder (unofficially diagnosed, of course) that just keeps getting stronger with age.  

Or, it could be, that, at forty-five, I am more focused, more mature, have a longer attention span. My drive, my commitment, definitely seem stronger than they did in my twenties.  Some things, however, haven't changed at all in that time.  I'm still not one of the more outspoken students. You know the type.  The kids that are always confident.  Always ready to raise their hand.  Always ready to share something insightful, something deep and profound.  

I have never been that type.  I was, and still am, happy to be the listener, the observer.  My brain doesn't process my thoughts fast enough to allow me entry into that other group. My ideas need time to develop.  I have to live with them for a while; jiggle them around in my head, bounce them off one another, until I get a good grasp of them.  In short, I have to write about them first.  Until I know exactly what I want to say, rather than the other way around.    (This could explain why I'm not the most consistent, or frequent, blogger)

I did, however, offer up some encouraging words from time to time.  These comments weren't required,  but since I know how nice it feels to hear someone say good job, I couldn't let some of my classmates' pieces go without a little validation. Ironically, this same "greatness" is what kept me from "speaking out" as much as I would have liked.  For, sometimes, after reading their stories, or poems, or even a simple exercise designed to clarify point of view, my confidence waned.  Their words seemed so carefully chosen, their ideas so original, they made me question my ability, my sense of belonging.  I decided the best way to deal with these feelings of inadequacy was simply to avoid entering the discussion forum altogether.  Instead, I did my own thing.  Quietly, from the back of the class.  So much for bravery.  So much for a "new me."

On days like these, I  questioned what I was doing in this class.  What I was getting from this class, this project.  After all, silly as it sounds, five weeks is a long time to dedicate yourself to something.  Despite all of these mixed feelings, though, I never once thought about dropping out. I did think about changing topics, but never dropping out. Even on the night, a few weeks ago, when I was completely overwhelmed with the enormity of my task: creating a coherent, readable, valuable essay from the myriad of rough drafts, free writes, ideas scribbled upon sticky notes (not the ones I lost) that were completely covering my dining room table.  Even then, I forged ahead.  And it was at that moment, with orange highlighter in hand, ready to begin my Circling and Slashing, that Dave walked into the room and declared, "wow, you look like you're studying for finals!"  And he was right.  I felt very much like a stressed-out college student.  But there was more to my stress than just pressure to finish.  I was also putting on myself the pressure to be good, or at least as good as my peers.  

Thankfully, I didn't quit. Or change topics even.  For if I did, I wouldn't be the holder of the afore-mentioned, certificate.  (And we know how valuable that is!) Instead, with the help of my orange highlighter, and my computer's delete button, I managed to cut and slash and rewrite just enough to come up with a piece totalling 1500 words!

My limit was 500.

I remember reading in the course material, that writers love the sound of their own words.  (Well, ya!) But getting these words to matter to others, to readers, is not easy. So the goal for writers is to "steal (them) out of their present lives and send them into the reality that you conjure with your words."* I thought this was a difficult thing to accomplish in only 500 words.  My teacher believed otherwise.  Fortunately, she also said we could turn in an excerpt.  So that is what I did. A 615 word excerpt. A pretty good compromise, I thought.  

So here I am, one week later, feeling like a little kid the day after Christmas.   The rush is over.  The cookies have all been eaten. The presents all unwrapped.  I've read the lovely comments from my classmates and my teacher, bless her heart, did not go crazy with that cyber-red-pen of hers.  So, now what?

Now I do what I always do:  I carry on.

And then I write about it.

S-

P.S.  I think now would also be a good time to thank my family for letting me have such a great time these last six weeks.  So here goes:

Thank you Dave for not minding, or at least ignoring, the dog hair and the dust bunnies that have mated, spawned, claimed our place as their own. And for picking up dinner on your way home from WORK because I let my homework keep me at the computer and away from the stove.

Thank you Anna for reading some of my pieces (from afar) then sending back your compliments (complete with a smiley face :)

Thank you Jack for keeping me company late at night when everyone else was asleep.

Thank you Monkey for keeping me on track.  I'm going to miss you :(  Who knew?

And, finally, thank you Nora Jane for doing your homework, while sitting next to me at the computer, so I didn't have to leave what I was working on to walk all the way over to the dining table to check your math sheet.  And for laughing at my silly sticky-notes poem.  And for leaving me a writing prompt today, so I'd know exactly what to do when I asked myself, Now What?

(Is this child REALLY only eight-years-old?... Not really, she'll be nine in six days!)