Inventing the Truth
I wrote this essay around 20 years ago...
I'm posting it today in memory of my friend... my inspiration... Jackie Sheeler
My life had disintegrated into a muddy puddle left over from a defrosted winter snowfall. With little work and no social life I would sit for hours with pen in hand staring at blank sheets of paper. Something had to give.
After procrastinating for a week or two I finally called The Writer's Voice and enrolled in a class titled “Inventing the Truth”and listed as a "level two" multi-genre workshop. I was terrified. I had never even taken a "level one" writing class, only a general workshop a year earlier and barely acknowledged myself as a writer. It was in that workshop I met Jackie. She was the only one in the class whose work I loved. Her writing was powerful, fascinating and hilarious. We tried to keep in touch and encourage each other to continue writing.
But instead of writing, I was sitting around with my half-baked ideas surrounding me like fallen loaves taken from the oven too soon while my creative muse nagged, begged and cajoled for a chance for expression. It occurred to me that what I needed to get going was the structure of time and place, assignments, and most significantly to go into debt for the opportunity. Paying for something always made them seem more important.
The first class began the Monday after the blizzard of '93. I decided I wouldn’t go. I’d been buried in my apartment all weekend and was loathe to brave the mountains of icy snow, freezing winds and slippery streets. Nope, wasn’t going anywhere, especially all the way to the upper west side from Park Slope. Besides, I'm no writer anyway, especially not "level two".
By late afternoon I changed my mind. After all, I charged the class on my well-worn Visa card and, what the hell, I'll go this once then drop out if I don't like it, or if it’s obvious everyone else is much more talented or advanced than I am. Or, maybe, I’d coast by, and no one would notice I am a beginner with limited talent and perseverance.
I threw on some clothes and slid out of my apartment, onto the subway, and into the McBurney YMCA. I was alone, and 45 minutes early for the class. Obviously, I allowed enough time to get there. I sat waiting and ruminating about what a mistake it was to venture out in the bitter cold to a class I was going to drop out of anyway... when who walks in but Jackie... my writing buddy! And in that moment I knew I'd give the class a real try.
It quickly became apparent the entire class was enormously talented, their stories compelling, moving, poignant, poetic, funny, real. I was surrounded by writers, "real" writers, even some who got paid to write: journalists, comics, writers of magazine articles and medical and dental literature; people working on books and memoirs.
All these enormously talented people turned out to be as insecure as I was. Everyone had that annoying voice inside nagging, sneering, whining "Who do you think you are? You have nothing to say!” and “No one wants to listen to that!” and “It's boring, why bother?” and last but not least “I really should be writing, but I’m too busy. Later.”
I was hooked. And although I still hear that annoying little voice like right now: "This piece stinks!" and "I'm hungry! hmmm...what should I have for dinner?" I'm still writing… thanks to Jackie, the teacher and all the talented people in that class.
