Ep. 1: Intimidation Factor; Ep. 2: The Creative Process

Well, I’m here!

I’m in the middle of the second week of classes at CGU, and so far, everything is as I expected. My roommates are friendly and chill, my teachers are amiable and reasonable enough, my classes are interesting and challenging, but not too challenging. It’s warm and sunny most days. I start at a nearby Starbucks next week. Every moment of my new life is great and wonderful.

Wait, no. Everything except that last part. My only surprise in moving down here is my reaction. I have never been homesick my whole life…until now. Adventure I wanted, adventure I got. Only it didn’t taste like I thought it would. Don’t misunderstand: I don’t regret moving down here. I don’t want to be anywhere else. But the last two weeks have reminded me that above all, we are relational creatures, and perhaps I more than most.

I have missed Corban so much these past few days. Yeah, it was school, and it was hard sometimes, but more than learning, we were there to grow and support one another. Here is different. After class we scatter and go our separate ways without a goodbye or even a smile. It’s not an unfriendly environment…but it’s not a warm and inviting one either. Perhaps I am being ridiculous and sentimental and should just concentrate on learning. But then again, what good is learning if we only do it for ourselves?

I don’t fear any inadequacy in my academic abilities. It’s not that. But I am afraid of not having the heart for this endeavor. I cannot do this just for myself.

To add to all this, what was supposed to be my “fun” class — Short Story Writing — is turning out to be my most stressful, because of my response. For many years I’ve struggled with the tension of desiring with all my being to write, yet never having the courage/gumption/will/inspiration to do much beyond journaling and occasional blogging. To me, the fiction writing process is a mystical, otherworldly, and even terrifying creature. (And yes, Anne Lamott, I do sometimes think that successful writers “sit down at their desks every morning feeling like a million dollars, feeling great about who they are and how much talent they have and what a great story they have to tell,” etc., etc.)* I feel worse than a beginning writer in my class because I’ve studied so much about writing, yet my actual output seems to me miniscule and insignificant.

I know, I know, I KNOW. The only way to write is to just write. But does everybody have visions of throwing himself into the wall or smashing her head on the table because thinking of something to say is ten times more painful? I often imagine that my muse is either already dead, or at least severely crippled and perhaps even mute. Or maybe that she was assigned to me because no one else wanted her.

Just so you don’t get the impression that I spend all my time wallowing in self-pity, I have already enjoyed one random trip to Disneyland, and I hope to go again Friday! If all else fails me, I still have Mickey Mouse.

*If I haven’t quoted it previously, I will most likely in the future. The book is Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, and it’s a great one. If ever you’re discouraged about writing, pick it up. She knows it sucks too, but she’ll make you laugh about it.

Reading: Soul of the Fire (Sword of Truth #5), Terry Goodkind; War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy
Listening: Kaleidoscope Heart, Sara Bareilles (NEW ALBUM YAY! !)
Watching: Shutter Island, Ong-Bak: The Thai Warrior
Playing: Diablo II – pally Benjamin is now a level 49! I know I shouldn’t be playing…but then why is it so fun?

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