Listen, I’m the first to admit I’ve been dragging my feet on this writing class effort. When I set out in search of the next step, I assumed I’d be landing smack dab on a Gotham workshop. Then I did research and listened to you guys and my options grew from one to one too many. It overwhelmed me. It upset me. It made my stomach ache. So I let other things, more enjoyable things, fill my time. And by more enjoyable I mean getting my teeth cleaned and maintaining my Brazilian. Good times all around.
But yesterday I finally hit the fed-up-with-myself wall and picked a class. It wasn’t what I’d originally aimed for as my academic landing spot but it was the one that tickled my fancy the most. I adored the teacher for both her experience and her writing skills. I liked the timing of the class and the format and the idea of having two salable pieces at the close of the eight week session. I clicked the register button while reaching for my wallet. Then I stopped dead in my enrollment tracks.
You see, it turns out simply paying the $500 fee wasn’t enough to qualify me as a student. Yeah, no. I had to formally apply for admission to the class. I had to identify my writing experience (gulp) and my writing education (gasp) and submit a writing sample (silence). Standing by the theory that never trying is equal to always failing, I let out a sigh and just went for it. I dove into the application head first, spending no less than an hour constructing it all. And then I clicked send.
The next screen stated that once everything had been reviewed, I’d receive an email with their decision. Let’s be honest, I have no business in an intermediate writing class designed for people who are true writers. People with advanced degrees about words and salaries based on the ability to successfully place said words in sentences. I belong in Creative Writing 101 at the local community college. In a class taught by someone who’s never been published and totes around a beat up copy of Strunk & White. Someone who thinks knowing grammar and reading the New Yorker qualifies him as a writing teacher. I tucked all doubt to the back of my head and resumed my day. Before long, I completely forgot about the whole thing.
I got to the office this morning and quickly started a project I’d been shuffling to the side for a good two weeks. A few hours later, I fetched some soup and settled in at my desk for lunch. I first caught up on the news. Then caught up on the gossip. Lastly, I checked my personal email. There in the inbox was something from the writing class. And suddenly I was reliving that twelfth grade angst associated with college admission letters. If I learned anything that year, it was that the earlier the response arrived the worse the outcome. In other words, hearing within twenty-four hours couldn’t be a good sign.
Yeah, I’m wrong. Really wrong.
Holy fucking shit.
I think I'm going to be sick.