Friday, June 22, 2007
For some reason I constantly expect to be loved and appreciated based solely on what I have accomplished. I don't know if this is odd. It only crossed my mind last night that it may be odd, and that it is certainly not accurate.
Summer poetry workshop began again last night, and it was exciting to see everyone again, and to be one of the old people this year instead of one of the new people. At the beginning of the first night we always do introductions, for the new people, but since everyone hates trying to sum themselves up in a few sentences, this year the teacher decided to go around and just say a little bit about each of us.
I really didn't know what she'd say about me since I haven't done anything notable since joining the workshop. I've brought in poems ranging from self-indulgently bad to uninspired to passably good. I cannot seem to stick to a particular style. I try lots of different things to get language to do what I want it to, and sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. When it does work I can't always get it to work the same way again later. I think I am learning, but it takes a long time, and in the meanwhile I am just a garden-variety student without much experience.
She told two anecdotes about me. She told everyone that I'd done something she'd never seen before -- I'd stopped bringing poems to workshop for a space of time last summer, but I still showed up every week and listened and learned. This is not something I'd thought of as unusual. I had writer's block, but I didn't want to miss out on workshop just for that. Apparently that is unique. She also talked about how, when her cat died last fall, I brought her homemade peanut-butter cookies.
It somehow made me gladder that she'd said those things than it would have if she'd said that I write perfect poems, or that I'm the most talented person she'd ever worked with, or if she'd given any of my typical biographical information. I'm relieved to not feel as though I have to achieve great things to be valued (which is how I think I must have unconsciously felt before), that there is something about me just doing what I do that is inherently valuable. It's as though before this I had secretly believed that I am made out of trophies and certificates and diplomas, and that without them I might fall away altogether and be nothing at all.
Summer poetry workshop began again last night, and it was exciting to see everyone again, and to be one of the old people this year instead of one of the new people. At the beginning of the first night we always do introductions, for the new people, but since everyone hates trying to sum themselves up in a few sentences, this year the teacher decided to go around and just say a little bit about each of us.
I really didn't know what she'd say about me since I haven't done anything notable since joining the workshop. I've brought in poems ranging from self-indulgently bad to uninspired to passably good. I cannot seem to stick to a particular style. I try lots of different things to get language to do what I want it to, and sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. When it does work I can't always get it to work the same way again later. I think I am learning, but it takes a long time, and in the meanwhile I am just a garden-variety student without much experience.
She told two anecdotes about me. She told everyone that I'd done something she'd never seen before -- I'd stopped bringing poems to workshop for a space of time last summer, but I still showed up every week and listened and learned. This is not something I'd thought of as unusual. I had writer's block, but I didn't want to miss out on workshop just for that. Apparently that is unique. She also talked about how, when her cat died last fall, I brought her homemade peanut-butter cookies.
It somehow made me gladder that she'd said those things than it would have if she'd said that I write perfect poems, or that I'm the most talented person she'd ever worked with, or if she'd given any of my typical biographical information. I'm relieved to not feel as though I have to achieve great things to be valued (which is how I think I must have unconsciously felt before), that there is something about me just doing what I do that is inherently valuable. It's as though before this I had secretly believed that I am made out of trophies and certificates and diplomas, and that without them I might fall away altogether and be nothing at all.