Linguaphile
I knew from the moment I started college that I wanted to major in Graphic Design--or at least I knew exactly what I wanted my major to look like, even though I didn't know that meant "graphic design," nor did I know that I would be getting a journalism degree. I absolutely love graphic design. I finally took my first GD class this past semester and I was in love from day one. The only thing I hated was that we only met twice a week (Mondays and Wednesdays)...even though each class period was 2 hours long. Ironically, I was the only graphic design major in the class of 20 or so students. There were other journalism majors, though none was as serious about this particular class as I was. The downside to having so many non-journalism majors in the class was the mindless chatter about sorority semi formals and barbecues and engagements that constantly surrounded me. I was completely serious about my design endeavors even as my classmates were not. I looked forward to Fridays when the classroom was empty and I could come in and work in silence. I spent the entire semester knowing I was in the right place.
However--and this is where my conflict begins--while exploring class options in electives as we in a liberal arts university are encouraged to do, I decided to take introduction to fiction writing last fall. It was magnificent. It awakened that passion for writing that I used to possess that was somewhat smothered by Menasche's lack of enthusiasm and only slightly resurrected by Ford's contrasting abundance of it. I decided to allow my professor to include my story in the pool used to determine which students would advance into Intermediate Fiction Writing. Forty-five students were chosen and I was one of them. Needless to say, I was thrilled. Thus, last spring I took Intermediate Fiction Writing. Now in order to pursue a creative writing minor, one must then be selected for Advanced Fiction Writing. (Have I lost anyone? I apologize if I have.)
My experience in Intermediate wasn't nearly as thrilling. My professor was a condescending [for lack of a better word] jerk who chose favorites early on and I assume only awarded A's to those "lucky" few. Still, I was determined to be chosen for Advanced Fiction Writing, knowing that only 15 students would be. Fifteen out of the 45 current students in Intermediate, along with all of those students previously rejected, and those who were abroad for the current semester. I don't know what that number is, but the task of writing a story that would make the selection committee say "this one" was a daunting one to say the least. So what did I do? I wrote about what I knew best: my life. Not mine exactly, but my mom's. I wanted people--particularly my audience, almost all of which (at least the 16 in my class) were American-born southerners--to understand a little bit about what Americans like to call "The Immigrant Experience." I wanted to open their eyes and force them to realize that immigrant is not synonymous with Mexican, and that we don't come to the United States to mow lawns and live off of welfare, "stealing from the government." Truth be told, undocumented workers, "Mexicans," can't even apply for welfare...but that is an entirely different discussion. So I wrote. I received a B for my first draft and more criticism than praise from my professor. So I worked harder. And guess what? I made it into Advanced Fiction Writing. Receiving that email was an utterly incredible moment.
So why am I telling you all of this? I got an email from the Urban Outfitters newsletter this afternoon that was about a girl named Molly Young (mollyyoung.tumblr.com/) who lives in New York and is a freelance writer. I decided to look her up and read some of the articles she has published for various magazines. She is, in my opinion, brilliant. She is witty, she is opinionated, and she is real. I realized as I read her review on the movie Elegy in comparison to the book upon which it is based (The Dying Animal) that I could be truly satisfied doing what she does: writing for eight hours a day in her Chinatown apartment for a wide range of publications while simultaneously crafting her own novel. Whenever people ask me what I want to do with my life, I have an almost automatic response. "I want to work for the art department of Elle Magazine." But I am beginning to think that I may want to write full-time, and that is a scary thought simply because I've been so sure of what I want to do with my life for such a long time. But isn't that what college is all about? Exploring all of your possible options and hopefully discovering your true passions? I thought so. And now I think I have discovered mine.
However--and this is where my conflict begins--while exploring class options in electives as we in a liberal arts university are encouraged to do, I decided to take introduction to fiction writing last fall. It was magnificent. It awakened that passion for writing that I used to possess that was somewhat smothered by Menasche's lack of enthusiasm and only slightly resurrected by Ford's contrasting abundance of it. I decided to allow my professor to include my story in the pool used to determine which students would advance into Intermediate Fiction Writing. Forty-five students were chosen and I was one of them. Needless to say, I was thrilled. Thus, last spring I took Intermediate Fiction Writing. Now in order to pursue a creative writing minor, one must then be selected for Advanced Fiction Writing. (Have I lost anyone? I apologize if I have.)
My experience in Intermediate wasn't nearly as thrilling. My professor was a condescending [for lack of a better word] jerk who chose favorites early on and I assume only awarded A's to those "lucky" few. Still, I was determined to be chosen for Advanced Fiction Writing, knowing that only 15 students would be. Fifteen out of the 45 current students in Intermediate, along with all of those students previously rejected, and those who were abroad for the current semester. I don't know what that number is, but the task of writing a story that would make the selection committee say "this one" was a daunting one to say the least. So what did I do? I wrote about what I knew best: my life. Not mine exactly, but my mom's. I wanted people--particularly my audience, almost all of which (at least the 16 in my class) were American-born southerners--to understand a little bit about what Americans like to call "The Immigrant Experience." I wanted to open their eyes and force them to realize that immigrant is not synonymous with Mexican, and that we don't come to the United States to mow lawns and live off of welfare, "stealing from the government." Truth be told, undocumented workers, "Mexicans," can't even apply for welfare...but that is an entirely different discussion. So I wrote. I received a B for my first draft and more criticism than praise from my professor. So I worked harder. And guess what? I made it into Advanced Fiction Writing. Receiving that email was an utterly incredible moment.
So why am I telling you all of this? I got an email from the Urban Outfitters newsletter this afternoon that was about a girl named Molly Young (mollyyoung.tumblr.com/) who lives in New York and is a freelance writer. I decided to look her up and read some of the articles she has published for various magazines. She is, in my opinion, brilliant. She is witty, she is opinionated, and she is real. I realized as I read her review on the movie Elegy in comparison to the book upon which it is based (The Dying Animal) that I could be truly satisfied doing what she does: writing for eight hours a day in her Chinatown apartment for a wide range of publications while simultaneously crafting her own novel. Whenever people ask me what I want to do with my life, I have an almost automatic response. "I want to work for the art department of Elle Magazine." But I am beginning to think that I may want to write full-time, and that is a scary thought simply because I've been so sure of what I want to do with my life for such a long time. But isn't that what college is all about? Exploring all of your possible options and hopefully discovering your true passions? I thought so. And now I think I have discovered mine.