Exposure

I've been all about the writing so far this year in a way I haven't been in my entire life. But I've never asked myself the question, Why do I write?

As I struggled with it last semester, the only thing I felt was that it was the only I felt I could express myself adequately. I can't act, sing, or dance, so it is with writing that I let out any emotion I may have or any stories I may want to tell. But something strange has been happening this week, and I didn't anticipate its effects on me. I've been exposed in a way that I'm not used to and sitting in it is a feeling that I am trying to negotiate.

The hard-copy version of my essay came out this week. I've had people come up to me, as I've mentioned, and tell me they like it. Because I've been removed from the essay for about a month, I haven't said "thank you" from an authentic position. I haven't stepped back into the contents of the piece. I'm not feeling it anymore. I like it. But it's done. Laid out. Published. Move on.

I want feedback about it, because (as I know and as I was reminded tonight) it will help me grow. Whereas I feel that it lacks enough emotion, others have told me it's full of emotion. I even heard today that a colleague got a tear in his eye on the subway. I was also told by a good friend who is also a writing coach that I should be writing books. It all means a lot to me. And none of it is making me settle.

It just makes me want to get better, something that I know is a life-long process. But I can still struggle, can't I? Remain dissatisfied. Like it's never good enough.Continuing with the feedback, I had my thesis class tonight. The pages I submitted before heading to California contained one of three or four gender anecdotes that I will be (trying to) incorporate in my analysis of the film. I hadn't thought too much about the class leading up to 4 p.m., but as I sat next to Miller, I felt my heart start to pound. I would have to wait an hour before they got to me.

And I would have to sit next to Jim, who had in front of him my paper with his writing on it. I tried to read it, but I couldn't. And I worked myself up. I was prepared to hear that it fell short. That I would have to start all over, scrapping the 37 pages I had already written for something more worthy. I anticipated an angry train-ride home, where feelings of inferiority would creep in. I would ask myself, again, What the hell did I go back to school for? Why did I immerse myself in an environment full of people who think better, write better, and talk better? And why in the hell am I writing about this topic? What do I know about gender or identity?

I sat there waiting. I peered into the eyes of my classmates and friends, wondering what advice they would have, wondering if they would impart it gingerly. What did they think about my audacity to identify with a gender-bending rock-star who looks much better in a wig than I do. What would they think about my stories? My narrative? And Jim? My heart pounded harder. I hated being in that room.

And finally, my time came. And overall, it wasn't that bad. In fact, I got a lot of positive feedback about the writing in general, about my narrative. They wanted more autobiography. More integration of it into my film analysis. Less description. More analysis. And, perhaps, most importantly, why do I like this film so much? That question came from Jim. And I realized that my introduction has to be spectacular.

One person disagreed with my reading of the film. I'm not sure how I feel about that. But I had immediately come up with a way to put that out there immediately. I will start with my feelings about the last scene of the film, admitting freely my narcissistic association with it. And I will scrap much of the 37 pages I have written thus far. I will take what I can from tonight and incorporate it in a way that makes me feel comfortable. And that's that.

So how do I feel? I don't know. I'm feeling very vulnerable right now. Like there are people who know a lot about me. Which is strange because I consider myself to be an open book. I'm just not used to this kind of public availability. It's interesting how this mirrors my every day life. Jim suggested that I dress this way for a reason. Well, we all do, don't we? I didn't tell him that I've been dressing "this way" my entire life. That's beside the point. But that is the scrutiny I have opened myself up to. I think I feel ok. Ready to resume tomorrow evening. Ready to finally make some progress. Argue my point. I hate the bind we're under because of the identity structure we're beholden to. And I think the subject can do something to affect that.

I just now have to argue this clearly and concisely. Time will tell. About seven weeks' worth. And one more submission. I think they'll get my introduction next. I applied for a job today. I came across a copy editor position at Popular Science magazine. Whatever. It was a knee-jerk reaction. My experience for such a position is ample and I need a paycheck.   I'm gonna go find something else to write in.