The last few days have been sadly empty of yoga and writing mostly because I have been PACKING LIKE A MADWOMAN. I didn’t realize how much shit I’d acquired over the years. Am slightly worried about becoming a hoarder.
But it’s okay, because the great thing now is I get to throw out all the crap, right? Well, sort of. In theory.
Call me sentimental, but I really have trouble letting things go. For example, I have boxes full of old drafts of my stories and novels, and boxes full of all the workshop feedback I have ever gotten EVER. That’s a LOT of paper.
I stopped packing for a solid half hour the other morning when I found notes from my undergrad teachers on my stories. They were a time capsule, and they really brought the nostalgia on. I flipped through the pages, read a few paragraphs of my writing, and, unsurprisingly, found myself cringing and laughing. I paused for a good long moment to remember the amazing support and mentorship I had.
What strikes me as incredible: I was probably just one of hundreds of mediocre writing students that my teachers had encountered. I wasn’t some beacon of prodigious talent. I had a computer and a hunger and a lot of ideas — the same uniform as any other young and aspiring writer. But my teachers made me feel like their doors and inboxes were always open. They lit some sort of fire for me and made sure it would never go out. It was like they could see that under the layers of crap instincts and inexperience there was the potential and discipline, and they knew that they could help me dig it up.
The classes themselves were amazing experiences, yes. But the most important thing I gained was that human connection to older and wiser artists, extending out their hands, saying Look, you can do this too.