I am not a classic hoarder. You don’t have to navigate through narrow alleyways of towering books, magazines and newspapers to find my bathroom, or my kitchen, or me. I do love books and have far more than I will ever read, and I keep them properly in bookcases (for the most part).
I also love paper. Especially paper that has my writing on it. Even if that writing is from my sophomore year in high school.
I recall that my teacher for this class was impressed with my short story and wanted me to submit it somewhere. Of course, I didn’t.
Especially when my movement forward as a writer involved the mimeograph machine and a weird imagination that usually centered on angst. Really, a story titled “The Stone”?
I advanced in my writing to some degree, eventually turning out a story that seemed a little more grounded in reality, albeit with two lesbians who, in my writer’s mind, were really just two halves of the same soul.
Then I went to grad school. I’m still not sure if that helped or hindered my writing. I know for sure studying for a doctorate in Social Work almost made me give up writing altogether. (Not finishing the doctoral program was one of the best things I’ve ever done.) But first I obtained a bachelor’s and a master’s in English. The difference between the two is that with the bachelor’s, I could focus on writing …
as well as politics …
With my master’s, it was all English (and American) literature all the time. There were a couple of creative writing classes, however, which disturbed the slumbering writer. But that’s for another blog post.