While rummaging through things in my dead grandmother's basement the other day, I stumbled upon a box of stuff I left behind more than ten years ago. And inside I found a recommendation letter from one of my college professor's that I'd never read before.
Now that I've read it, I feel both devastated and happy. Basically, she praised me and said in her 40+ years as the head of the writing department, that I was one of the strongest writers she'd ever met. I knew when I was in school that she thought highly of me; it was no secret. She edited a novel I wrote and we had very close contact during my college career.
I was basically on track to become successful back then. I remember doing a dramatic reading from my work and seeing how deeply it affected professors and students who were attending. That was one of the best moments in my life. But back then, I had so many things to say. And I'm not sure if I do anymore? Maybe I've stuffed it all down too far to get it back out.
I didn't use that recommendation letter. I got into one of the best writing programs in the world for graduate school (they select 10 out of several thousand applicants), and I didn't go.
There are myriad reasons for that, but now that I'm 32 and looking back, I wish I had not given up writing. (I technically didn't fully give it up -- I went into journalism. But that's not quite the same).
At the time, I saw writing as a sham. Quite rightly, I thought a 22 year old should not be writing about profound topics from the comfort of a university library or lecture hall. A writer should push herself to get outside of herself, far beyond her comfort zone. That is exactly what I did. And sure, I had a whole hell of a lot of adventures. But I stopped writing from the place that I used to write from.
I don't know if it's too late to start again. I don't know if I'd even have the mental energy or time required for it. I also don't really know what I want from posting this. Just consider it a vent, I guess.
Now that I've read it, I feel both devastated and happy. Basically, she praised me and said in her 40+ years as the head of the writing department, that I was one of the strongest writers she'd ever met. I knew when I was in school that she thought highly of me; it was no secret. She edited a novel I wrote and we had very close contact during my college career.
I was basically on track to become successful back then. I remember doing a dramatic reading from my work and seeing how deeply it affected professors and students who were attending. That was one of the best moments in my life. But back then, I had so many things to say. And I'm not sure if I do anymore? Maybe I've stuffed it all down too far to get it back out.
I didn't use that recommendation letter. I got into one of the best writing programs in the world for graduate school (they select 10 out of several thousand applicants), and I didn't go.
There are myriad reasons for that, but now that I'm 32 and looking back, I wish I had not given up writing. (I technically didn't fully give it up -- I went into journalism. But that's not quite the same).
At the time, I saw writing as a sham. Quite rightly, I thought a 22 year old should not be writing about profound topics from the comfort of a university library or lecture hall. A writer should push herself to get outside of herself, far beyond her comfort zone. That is exactly what I did. And sure, I had a whole hell of a lot of adventures. But I stopped writing from the place that I used to write from.
I don't know if it's too late to start again. I don't know if I'd even have the mental energy or time required for it. I also don't really know what I want from posting this. Just consider it a vent, I guess.
