Years ago, when I decided I might want to be a writer, I went back to school. I had been a college student in the sixties, and—always a slave to fashion—I had done what many in my generation did.
I dropped out.
It wasn’t much of a decision; I would have flunked out anyway. I was a terrible student.
If I liked a class, I attended. If not, not. For most of my terms, back then, the two choices were equally matched. Half of my grades: “A;” the other half: “F.” If you are more mathematically-adept than I was, then, you know that I had a perfect “C” average. Eventually, the balance shifted to the “F” end of the spectrum.
Out I went.
A couple of decades later, when the writing bug got me, I signed up with Empire State College (now “University”) to pursue a degree in “Writing and Design of Gastronomical Literature”—a degree that no one else has, or needs. I did earn my BS (and yes, I’m well aware that “BS” stands for other—less flattering—things than “Batchelor of Science”).
ESC, as it was called then, was part of the State University of New York. It was designed for adult students and had (as shown, above, by my degree program) great flexibility in one’s field of study. Each student is assigned a Mentor who guides them through the process. Mine was the poet/writer Steve Lewis.
Steve is smart, friendly, supportive, endlessly forgiving (as he needed to be, with me as a student), and—I was to learn—born exactly one day before I was. He’s like my older twin brother. I took full advantage of his vastly greater experience of life—and managed to eke out my degree a few months after my first book was published.
Why do I mention this?
Because, periodically, Steve hosts a group of writers at his home in the wilds just outside of New Paltz, NY. Each time he gives us an assignment (with a limit of 100 words), which we read aloud, sitting in a circle in his backyard. I just found two of mine. the first one was from 2016:
Micro-Jam
Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life as a child prodigy.
Sure, I screwed up back when I still had a shot, but I’ll get it right this time.
A couple of giant fake parents should make me look smaller.
An asthma inhaler of helium for my voice.
Some feigned shyness (who’d suspect a kid of faking that?).
I’ll have to shave, of course.
Maybe a daily bath in Nair.
Some hair dye for what’s left… perhaps a cow-lick toupee?
Finding some sort of talent might be tricky…
My second Micro-Jam was delivered a year later:
Sorry
“Sorry,” he said.
“Sorry? Sorry for what?” she asked.
“You don’t know?”
“No… what did you do?”
“Never mind then.”
“No, I can’t… what did you do?”
“It’s not important.”
“Not important to who?”
“Nobody, I guess.”
“I have my doubts. What did you do?”
“Really, it was nothing.”
“It sure as hell is something, now!”
“No, really…”
“If it’s nothing, why won’t you tell me?”
“Really, it was nothing to be concerned about.”
“Tell me what you’re sorry about!”
“I am sorry I brought it up.”
You can (& I highly recommend that you do) read some of Steve’s stuff at Poems from the Crag and at his general writing page.
If you think I write too much, and post entirely too often, go ahead and blame Steve.
He made me do it.
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