If anyone has ever seen my notebook I use at school they'll know how bad my writing is. It's not even that I have sloppy handwriting, it's just that I get so carried away sometimes when I write that I start to write outside the lines. A note here, a sentence there. It all culminates into a scribbled mess on the page. From a distance it looks sloppy and unintelligent, but if you take the time to sit and read it it all comes together to make a bigger picture. Just like that painting by Georges whoever in Liar & Spy. Stipple art. Nothing more than a huge mess of dots up close but the bigger picture is a work of art. I haven't had the time to blog since I've been here really but here I am, in my plot workshop of my second semester at VCFA, thinking about my terrible handwriting in my notebook. Ridiculous, right? Maybe slightly, but it makes perfect sense to me. I'm rambling. I've been working on the same story for almost a year now. That's the longest commitment to any piece of writing I've ever had. I have eight rough chapters and a basic skeleton of where the rest of the story will go from here. Sometimes, though, it feels like the only real thing I have are these little scraps of thoughts written outside the lines and in the margins of this notebook. This notebook that contains more information and more work and more knowledge of craft than anything I've ever owned. Hidden gems mixed in with notes from fantastic lectures that I wish you all got to read and experience. Sometimes it feels like real magic, like I got whisked away to Hogwarts in a flying car after missing my train. Tomorrow I'll learn to fly on the Nimbus 2015, the latest and greatest model in the line of brooms. Okay maybe that was a bit too far into my fandom. Sorry. It is weird being back though. Only six months and I feel like so much has changed. I'm no longer afraid of everyone who looks at me. I feel more comfortable speaking up and offering my opinion. I feel that sense of belonging I was afraid would never come. I guess I feel like a writer among writers. The best thing about being here is feeling like I'm on a working vacation. Some people escape through reading, some escape through work. I'm lucky enough to do both. It's been stressful back home (and I'm sure it'll be stressful again, both personally and professionally,) but being here makes it seem like everything is going to be okay, like maybe I can find a way to become a real grown up after this. It's like being filled with hope, and peace, and the feeling that maybe, actually, life really is about to begin. It's the weight of possibility. It's the weight of living. Does this even make sense anymore? Goodnight. Well, it's official. My last packet of my first semester of grad school is sent in. Done. Finished. Well, kind of. To be honest I'm kind of disappointed in it. In myself mostly. It was a struggle, sure, but I did it. I thought I did it well but in retrospect I guess it could have been better. I'm trying to learn from my mistakes and call it a lesson but it just made me sad. I feel like I let my advisor, and myself, down. The novel is coming together but I keep missing things when I go back to edit. Something isn't connecting between my brain and my fingers. And my essays, bah humbug. In my mind I always think damn that was a good idea. Only it wasn't. Or maybe it was, it just didn't turn out great. I sometimes think that I actually know what I'm doing but most of the time I am wrong. I just feel so young. It's been a long while. I didn't blog at all in April, and for that I apologize. School, while busy, is fantastic. I enjoy it so much. It is challenging and every day I learn something new. I've grown so much since January, and I have to thank my adviser for it. Heaven knows that sometimes the exercises I have to do drive me crazy, but in the end it's for the best. My adviser clearly knows what she's doing, though. VCFA and it's faculty, as well as its students, make me excited to write. It's been said that if you love what you do you'll never work a day in your life. Every day might not be that perfect but for the most part it is true. Sometimes I sit at work and hold books written by people I've met and befriended through VCFA. It's weird to think that one day MY book will be sliding across this desk into the hands of some eager teenager (or adult like myself.) Last week was a strange week. I was sick, got a little sad, then my dad got his hand caught in a snow blower. But really. My mother woke me up on Valentine's Day by yelling "put some pants on, your father is bleeding!" Uhhh? So I scrambled around, half awake and totally clueless. I wanted to call an ambulance but all my dad wanted was for someone to shut off the snow blower. He cried, repeatedly saying how dumb he was. Yeah, it was a dumb move, but at least he didn't lose any fingers. My grandfather drove over to get my dad because we were all still snowed in. My nephew still had to get to school, my mother needed to get to the doctor and I needed help. Sarah, ever the saving grace, came over and took Tommy to school and my mom to the doctor. My dad was getting stitched up so it seemed like we were all clear. So we ran some errands. But then my mom called and said she had to go to the hospital for her chest pains. It's official: I have submitted my first packet of work for grad school, and man was it hard. Enjoyable, but hard. I had a lot of trouble with focusing on the critical essays. I'm hoping that when I get feedback it won't be so bad, but who knows? We'll see. I find that I'm a little bit confused in my non-writing life, too. It just feels like something has changed since my trip to Vermont. I'm not sure if it's me that's changed or the people I surround myself with. Or maybe it's just how I feel about real life now that I see a future outside of my small town. Or maybe it's the impending holiday making me miserable. Probably a combination of everything. I imagine that my world will be different when it isn't blanketed in white. Actually, my world is already different and will continue to change drastically. I just left a graduate with some wild thoughts in my head. First is this: It's almost over. My very first residency is almost over. It's been a hectic whirlwind but it's been so magical. I've met some famous authors. Hell, I've been taught by some famous authors. I've been floating in this fangirl dream haze for days now. But that's it as well, isn't it? The faculty are published authors. The students are published authors. Everyone here is so talented that I should have assumed they would be published and/or well known individuals in the world of books, and yet it still blows my mind every day. Yes, this post will be related to Theta Phi and VCFA. Why, you ask? It's my blog, that's why. I make the rules. So grad school is different than undergrad, new experience blah blah blah. What I've recently discovered is how similar it is to being in a sorority. For instance, we had loads and loads of meetings and orientations in our first few days here. You walk into a room filled with people you don't know, plaster on a smile and circulate. For those of you with sorority experience what does this sound like? RECRUITMENT. Aka the most stressful week of the semester for me. I can't even tell you how much I hate meeting new people. I am so painfully awkward that I immediately feel bad for whoever gets stuck with me. The thing is, though, I learned how to be a better speaker. I'm still shy and awkward but I now know how to relate to people. I've made so many friends in five days it's ridiculous. Not just students, either. Mary Quattlebaum is the nicest woman I've ever had a conversation with and as an added bonus she loves Doctor Who. Actually, there are a lot of Whovians here, but that's another blog post. I have to take a moment to talk about how much I love my class. There are 24 of us, an even mix of seasoned writers and relative newbies. I met a few of them in the airport and even more at our millions of orientations. I've had my fair share of paranoia and immature panic attacks but they don't judge me for it. In fact, they have been nothing but supportive. Tonight, we had our second class reading, and I volunteered to read my workshop piece. In the middle of reading, however, I noticed that a block my text was missing. This was my workshop piece I'm talking about. As in my teachers as well as older students have read it and critiqued it. And it's screwed up. I stopped, not sure of what exactly the words said now and how I should proceed. My classmates didn't miss a beat though, and instantly urged me to continue. And I did. And it was freeing. Terrifying, but freeing. That's not to say that my workshop group won't tear it to pieces, but I already faced my fears. My class has already patted my back. |
AlexisMaster of Fine Arts from Vermont College of Fine Arts, Rowan University alumna, sister of Theta Phi Alpha, and future YA author extraordinaire. Archives
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Bear with me while I blog for the first time ever.