WWW: Writers' Workshop Wrap-Up

Six weeks have come and gone. Now that my writing class at Gotham is finally finished, I'm left with a number of afterthoughts.

1) My instructor, Cullen, was smart, witty, and likeable. This might not sound too impressive, but come on-- the guy spent three and a half years in a Korean prison for smuggling hasish when he wasn't much older than I am (and directly led to his 1st published memoir). He had stories to tell and a fun personality, which made it much easier to drag myself to class at 7 PM on a Monday night. (I had also been expecting an air of pretentiousness coming from these Gotham instructors, but I didn't get any of that from him.)

2) The class was a wee bit overpriced. The initial cost was $295, but they tack on a $25 "registration fee" which brings the grand total to $320. The good news is that if I ever want to take another class, I get $30 off as a returning student (and an additional $30 off if I were to sign up before a certain date). But yes, this was no minor investment for a recent college grad living on a budget.

3) The experience wasn't what I expected it to be. The class wasn't a true "workshop" such that our writing assignments weren't exactly, well, workshopped. Each week, a number of us read our pieces and listened to reactions from our classmates and instructor. But this feedback primarily consisted of comments that began with "Well, I liked it because..." or "It was good because..." etc, etc. In other words, everyone routinely refrained from saying overly negative things, and I wasn't going to go ahead and be the asshole to do it first. While it was definitely reassuring to hear praise about my work, more constructive criticism would have been beneficial. Then again, this was only a six-week-long intro level course, and from what I've seen on the website, it appears that it's the ten-week-long class that follows the traditional workshop format.

4) Attendance was choppy, which was disheartening. During the first three sessions, we had a full house of 12 students plus the teacher. For Week 4, only five of us showed, which I attributed to the Yankees/Phillies Word Series game going on that night. But Weeks 5 and 6 resulted in similarly low numbers, and that's when I knew that people had lost interest. I don't understand why anyone would fork over $300+ for a writing-intensive class and then not show up to half of the sessions. Then again, these people were older adults in their upper 20s, 30s, and 40s and clearly had money that they were willing to spend. Still, if I were in the same position I doubt I'd waste my own money like they did. (On the plus side, the small crowd did contribute to a more intimate setting.)

5) I don't regret taking the class. Overall, it did exactly what I initially wanted it to do: get me writing. The in-class prompts and weekly assignments forced me to pick up a pen and paper (or keyboard and monitor) and put my thoughts into words within a given amount of time. I also frequently read my work out loud, a huge confidence booster for somebody as painfully shy as I used to be. A lazy student I was not, coming to each class and completing all of the weekly home assignments. Because of this, I probably stuck out like crazy as an overeager recent grad still mentally trapped in a world of deadlines and homework. So what though? My education isn't over yet. I hope to be back in the classroom in the near future, getting a master's in who-knows-what-ology, so I've got no problem being in a school state of mind. Honestly, I refuse to let my brain waste away.

So that's the rundown. I've spoken with several friends who were either interested in or had some past experience with Gotham, so hopefully this assessment contributes to what current, former or future students have to say as well. And now that I've got my Monday nights back, I'm really hoping to devote more time and energy to this little blog of mine, because I think I've been neglecting it to a degree. Which means it's time to scoop up DTRW in my arms and take better care of this thing. Back to [dodging] reality for me.

Too Close for Comfort

It was a few minutes before 10:00 on Tuesday night. My parents, my brother and I were in the living room crowded around the TV finishing up an episode of Law & Order SVU. My brother had been sitting on the sofa closest to the window. He stood up and stretched, tilting his body to look outside. That's when he half-jumped back, and yelled "FIRE!"

The rest of us shrieked at the same time and bolted to the window. Huge, flickering orange flames were shooting up from an apartment window in the building just next door to us. Less than 100 feet away. On the second floor, facing us-- mirroring us.

My eyes twitched. "Shut the windows!" my mom screamed. Black smoke was spilling from the burning apartment. We all rushed to our rooms and slammed shut every window, sealing off any open nook or space. This was the most we could do. We would've called 911, but the piercing wail of sirens was already fast approaching.

While we were technically out of harm's way at this point, I feverishly threw my wallet, phone, and keys into a bag anyway. I slipped into sneakers and pulled a sweatshirt over my head. By the time I reached the kitchen window to see a crowd of residents from both buildings (including my father) on the ground below-- looking upward, open-mouthed, some pulling out phones and taking pictures-- a team of firefighters was already halfway up the fire escape.

In a matter of seconds, the image of the vicious flames was replaced by gushing jets of water. There was something strangely beautiful about it. Maybe it's because I'd never seen a house fire extinguished right in front of me before. Or perhaps I interpreted the scene metaphorically as forces of good (cool, clean water) triumphing over evil (hot, harmful fire). Either way, I thought to myself, Thank God we're four blocks away from a firehouse.

After the fire was out, the firemen began to spray down the charred apartment from the inside-out. One of the jets briefly hit our window. Good thing we'd closed them. Firefighters were also airing out the apartment directly above the scene of the fire, talking and motioning to the older couple who lived there. Even from a distance I could see that their TV was still on, tuned into Game 6 of the World Series. The Yankees were winning.

My dad, a member of the co-op board, returned from outside. He'd gathered some fast facts-- the fire was contained to the one apartment, so it didn't spread to any other units or floors. And no one was home at the time, which meant that nobody died or got hurt. A true miracle, considering how many people-- senior citizens, families, children-- could have been affected.

Gradually the crowd dispersed, and I crawled into bed. I didn't fall asleep until two hours later.

When I first saw the blaze, I'd automatically assumed the worst: people must have been trapped inside, doomed to a horrible death. And although my dad reassured us that we were too far away for the fire to reach us shortly after my brother's discovery, I had panicked nevertheless. Truth be told, the mere visual of a human structure burning makes my stomach churn.

Is this my post-9/11 syndrome showing itself, nearly a decade later? My mother is convinced, but I'm just not sure. Whether or not I bore witness to terror much worse years ago, nothing like this has ever happened so close to home during the seven and a half years that my family has lived in our co-op. Freak accidents are perhaps even more invasive than organized attacks. Originating from no pre-planned, intentionally malicious actions, they render us totally vulnerable. Our lives become fragile as glass, breakable at any instant in the hands of circumstance and fate.

For the past few days, I've had to walk past the burn marks on the side of the building next door on my way to work. The jagged blackness managed to travel up the wall to the third and fourth floors. Such remnants are a constant reminder: It could've been anyone.

If that gives me some small sense of relief, the feeling is fleeting. It could've been us.

GWW Assignment #2: Personal Essay

For this assignment, one option is to pick a random object in your house that interests you. The exercise is to flex your writing voice, to feel it out. A second part of the assignment is to add a few interesting facts/ideas to your piece. Do five minutes of research online about something prominent in your essay, and blend the information in. Keep it to around 500 words.

Throughout my life, I've had a special fondness for piggy banks. What can I say? Dropping a coin into the slot on the back of a pudgy farm animal made saving up actually fun. I even enjoyed the story behind the object, which I read about on a box of Cheerios long ago: “pygg" was actually a type of clay used for making household objects such as jars. Thus, when people began storing money in these "pygg jars," the piggy bank prototype was born.

My most current piggy bank resides on a desk in my bedroom. Like a typical specimen of its kind, it’s plump and rosy-cheeked, complete with four legs, two ears, and a curly tail. It isn't pink, but a pure, porcelain white. (You might not realize it at first, but real-life pigs come in all kinds of colors-- brown, black, gray, spotted, speckled, etc.) The nose is small and delicate, and a coy smile can be found just below it. But most notably, the snowy swine is also covered in forest green four-leafed clovers on its face and body.

Yes, this piggy bank is Irish.

If you don't believe me, just pop in a penny and an entire verse of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" squeaks out in a high-pitched whistle. As a child, this provided endless hours of entertainment for me and my brothers (as well as a lot of ear-covering for my parents). This highly musical, pigment-challenged piggy bank sat on my grandmother's nightstand for as long as I can remember her being alive.

When our time spent with her became confined to the paleness and sterility of hospital rooms, the weeks slipped into months. After what we had all been dreading eventually happened, I remember being back in her apartment with my mother. The bedroom looked like it usually did: clothes hanging up, bed made, rosary beads draped around the mirror. The clover-covered piggy bank was still there, resting on her dresser. I didn’t dare put a coin in.

My mom suggested that I keep the pig, but my first thought was how could I? One look at it and I was ripped back to childhood, eating Entenman’s banana crunch cake on Nana's sofa and watching The Lion King on VHS. But I took it anyway, accepting the accompanying tears as well.

Seven years later, the piggy bank sits on my desk, its Irish eyes as wide as ever. When I press my fingers against its smooth, cold surface, a wave of tenderness inundates me— a feeling that’s sometimes sad, sometimes happy. And yet, the smoothness soothes me. The cold brings comfort.

How natural these material possessions seem to us— they become such regular, constant parts of our lives that we often neglect their true significance. If you were to shake my piggy bank, the soft jingling noise would clearly indicate that it isn’t loaded with cash. It is, however, packed to the brim bursting with images and sounds of memories of a past stage of life, and of a life that passed.

I didn’t see it then, but I know now that people need those tangible objects— something to hold on to— because people just don’t last forever.

Gotham Writers' Workshop Assignment #1: Memoir

Each week, I'll be posting my latest writing assignment from the Nonfiction 101 class I'm currently taking at the GWW in NYC.
Feel free to comment; I value any and all reader feedback.

Prompt: Make a short list of three big realizations you’ve had in your life. Pick one and write 500 words about the event or events that led to that realization. Stretch your memory, draw out the telling details, and keep in mind the natural arc of a narrative (beginning, middle, end).

Have at it, and good writing to you.

I was five years old when I met Gina in Miss Jones's kindergarten class. We used to sit next to each other at lunch, picking the crusts off of our turkey sandwiches together. Gina could never seem to stay in her seat in class. Each time she had to use the girls' room, throw out a raggedy tissue, or claim the best easel for Art Time, she had to pass my desk on the way. And every so often, Gina would sneak up behind me and plant a tiny kiss on my cheek, breaking out into a fit of giggles before darting away quickly. I would wince and rub it off, shrieking "eww" in front of my tablemates. Why, then, did I look forward to it every day? Gina's family moved at the end of that school year. I don't remember her last name.

* * *

As I entered middle school, pool parties were all the rage if you were lucky enough to have a summer birthday. Getting invited to one felt like winning the golden ticket to a land of inflatable pool toys, infinite piles of cheeseburgers, and do-or-die chickenfights in the pool. But my eyes were not drawn towards these things. I recall standing aside from the pack, observing the swimsuits of my female friends hugging their bodies' subtle curves, my head feeling lighter than the inflatable inner tube I'd just been clinging to minutes earlier. When it was time to head inside the house to change out of dripping wet pool gear, the group always preferred to change in the same tiny, crowded bedroom. But I dissented, grabbing my clothes as fast as I could to retreat to separate chambers in search of solitude. Just before my mad dash at Laura Rogers's 11th birthday party, she and another girl came right up to me and asked “What’s the big deal? We’re all girls here!” I turned and bolted to the bathroom, locking the door shut and blocking it with my body, even though no one had followed me.

* * *

Throughout high school, I often spent hours at the riverside park just one block away after my grueling day was finally finished. One warm spring afternoon, Rebecca and I were sitting on a green bench right by the water. As we watched the shimmering crystals that danced upon the waves of the Hudson, Rebecca silently moved from the upright position to horizontal. She gently lowered her head onto my lap, stretched her legs out along the bench (one crossed over the other), and closed her eyes. I breathed short, choppy breaths, and stole a glance at her illuminated figure before continuing my steadfast gaze upon at the river.

Perhaps it was then— when the still serenity of that moment washed over me— that I knew this was, and always would, be a part of me.

Writing About Writing

I've always found that writing about writing tends to fall into self-indulgence. Even as I just begin to compose this entry, a squawky little voice in my head is telling me: "don't try to sound like you know what you're talking about too much."

Such reservations most likely stem from my perpetual awareness of what an amateur I am. Why should anybody listen to what some 22-year-old-- just a kid, really, in the grand scheme of things-- has to say?

And yet, that very question is exactly what motivates me. What do I have to say? I'll prove it to you. If another human being can connect with or derive some kind of meaning from my written word, then I know I've succeeded... mostly. (I don't believe that anyone is ever 100%, fully, truly satisfied with what they've created. Even if you're 99.9% happy, there will always be that irking 0.1%, which leaves you with two choices: cast it aside, or let it eat at you. As much as I try to pick the former, the latter often wins out.)

So here I am. This is the period in my life where I'm aspiring, hoping, dreaming that I can one day turn an interest into a career. How does anyone even begin to do this?

There's only one way I know how: cultivate. It's like taking care of a plant: unless I nurture this passion, it won't grow and develop into something greater. Letting it die would be sad, but it would be even more pitiful. And just downright lazy. (I'm no botanist, but I'm pretty sure of this.)

Thus, with my college newspaper column gone (and a circulation of 5,000+), the first step was the very blog that you're looking at right now. These past few months, DTRS has been an adequate outlet for those sporadic bursts of inspiration that bubble up in my brain. When they threaten to spill over, that's when I take up the pen and paper (err, keyboard and monitor) and get to work. While I certainly don't write in it as much as I would like-- the daily 8:30-4:30 is more draining that I initially predicted-- I'm just glad that it didn't crash on the takeoff and fizzle quickly into a failed experiment. So far, so good.

The next step: I just began a six-week "Nonfiction 101" writing course with the Gotham Writers' Workshop in Midtown Manhattan. If you're a New Yorker, then you've probably seen their little yellow newspaper kiosks interspersed on street corners around the city at some point. After 3 months to the day (eep!) as a full-time working stiff, I've felt achingly inhibited both intellectually and creatively (the true nerd actually misses being in class-- that's me). So I signed up for a course with Gotham while I could still afford it (the student loan bills start rolling in next month-- I know nothing more terrifying at the moment).

The verdict is still out. I'm the youngest person in the class, and the only recent college graduate. The "students" include five lawyers or lawyers-in-training, two therapists, and several businesspersons. Oh, and our teacher is a published author who spent three years in a Korean prison when he wasn't much older than I am now. An intimidating environment? Pardon my language, but I almost shat myself.

And yet, it felt strangely familiar at the same time. All fourteen of us sat around a rectangular table facing one another. We did a series of writing exercises pertaining to memoir and shared some of them with the class. I forced myself to raise my hand and read, because I've done this before and can do it again. Spontaneous, in-class, timed freewriting-- an activity that many find natural and liberating-- is actually my Achilles heel. (I'm the nut who thinks too much and agonizes over each and every word. Ask my girlfriend; she's seen me at my worst.) All the more of a reason, then, that I should be working on it.

As jittery as I can be, I try to remind myself that if I had allowed fear to defeat me, then I honestly wouldn't have accomplished much of anything in my life. Coming out, giving Villanova a chance, and letting myself love and be happy-- none of these would have happened. I can't even fathom the thought of a universe in which I'm still trapped in my 17-year-old body. Repression and regret got me absolutely nowhere, and the same lesson can be applied to writing: as much as writing frustrates me to no end, I'm a thousand times more frustrated when I'm not writing.

Let that be my mantra. As much as life is so uncertain at this stage, at least I've found one thing I'm absolutely sure of.