You know what's not cheap? College tuition, especially private liberal arts college. I found out recently that my student loans will not cover a decent-sized chunk of my tuition at Marylhurst. I will admit, I allowed myself to freak out about this for a few moments. I even considered chucking the whole plan and going back to PSU or maybe finding an entirely new school to finish my degree. Then last week I met with my academic advisor, one of the heads of the English department, and I knew beyond any doubt that I was finally in the right place.
I arrived a little early for my appointment, having come straight from work and experienced lighter traffic than usual. I waited out the extra time in my car, chatting with William on the phone and watching a man in a blue t-shirt and cutoffs kick around a soccer ball with his young son. This was only my second visit to the Marylhurst campus and I was relieved to find that it still inspired the same excitement and feeling of belonging as the first time. Four o'clock approached and I gathered my paperwork and strode into the lobby of Marian Hall, the home of my advisor's office. There were two other people waiting there, an older gentleman on the phone in the far corner and a man about my age who had clearly made himself at home. He had removed his suit coat and draped it over one of the available chairs. His briefcase was open on one end of the adjoining sofa and he was sprawled in such a way across the remainder of space that the only place left to sit was the final chair, which was awkwardly close to him. I sat, invading his personal bubble as he invaded mine. He didn't look up. He was reading something on his iPad that greatly amused him.
I found myself silently praying to the academic gods that this man not be my advisor, waiting for me in the lobby as he had mentioned in his email. Please let my advisor be someone who isn't so oblivious to the people around him, who wouldn't just sit there engrossed in something else when I'm sitting right in front of him. Let my advisor be someone who doesn't own an iPad (I don't know why...it's just a thing).
Moments later my prayers were answered when my advisor entered the lobby slightly sweaty, out of breath, and with a mop-headed child in tow. I immediately recognized the blue t-shirt and cutoffs. He flashed a delighted grin as he introduced himself and shook my hand, then we headed upstairs. Jay had an easy manner and a sweet confidence that I imagined made him a favorite among the Marylhurst coeds. He was already becoming a favorite of mine.
When we rounded the corner into his office, I was again surprised. Instead of the stuffy leather and dark wood I expected from my years at Wesleyan, Jay's office was an explosion of color. Almost every inch of every surface was covered with child art in some stage of completion. Scattered across the floor were markers, stacks of construction paper, glue and glitter. I picked my way to the office's only chair as Jay's son collapsed in a heap in the corner and resumed work on his latest masterpiece.
Jay and I talked for a bit about my transfer credits and which courses I should take in my first quarter. Since I've already taken almost all of my core classes it sounds like I'm going to be working mainly in my major. This could be a plus, that I won't be distracted by other subjects, but it also means a lot of fairly intense writing classes back to back. If Jay is correct about how easy it is for students to get the classes they want - which is a nice change from PCC where you have to be online immediately after registration opens to get into some of the more popular and required offerings - then I should be able to structure my schedule so I'm not hating life come September.
I left Jay's office with a list of classes that might work, some other new student information, and a business card with his cell number written on it. As I emerged from Marian Hall, content from the meeting and excited about my upcoming classes, one thought played repeatedly in my head: "Hey, it's only money."
note: I did end up deciding to take this semester off for financial reasons. I can't wait until I can finally start my classes at Marylhurst. Hopefully in the winter...
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
On Saturday
I went to a writing workshop this weekend, my first ever, at the central public library downtown. I had never actually been inside the library (I know, I'm slow. It took me three years of living here before I set foot inside Powell's) but man, it is one fantastic space. Exactly as a library should be, I think. Anyway, I found the workshop during a random google search for Tom Spanbauer, a writer and teacher beloved by many in Portland and elsewhere. The workshop was already full by the time I found it but I determinedly registered anyway, figuring someone or another would drop out. In the days before the workshop I debated with myself about not even going down to the library, because really who am I to walk into a public place and declare I want to learn how to write? I was nervous.
On the morning of the workshop I woke up early, planned out my route on the bus (which I hadn't ridden even once since I got my car...tsk), and did a bit of light dithering over whether I would go or not. Finally I decided I would hate myself too much for not taking advantage of the opportunity to meet and listen to Tom Freaking Spanbauer so I shoved my fear in a sack and dragged myself out the door.
When I got there, I joined the queue of nervously-waiting prospective writers outside the US Bank Room. There was a library employee at the door, granting access to the lucky registrants and shunning the poor bastards on the waiting list who had to sit outside and wait to be called in. After much hand-wringing about what to do about the waiting list, Tom himself came out to the lobby and just told them to add some more chairs, he would deal with the multitudes of us. We who were quietly freaking out about not being let in suddenly began freaking out about actually being let in and having to write something and potentially share with the class. We filed into the room and filled in the chairs. I noticed a chair at one of the tables that hadn't been claimed and sat myself in it, relieved to have something to hide at least partly behind.
Tom came around and introduced himself to each and every person in the room, though somehow I managed to just miss him when I ran to the back to get a notepad and pen. When he began to speak, though, it felt like he was talking just to me. He spoke for a while on writing and Dangerous Writing and building character by deconstructing sentences and some people asked questions and he answered them as graciously as possible and then...it was time for writing. Panic stabbed through my heart as he gave the writing prompt. What if I couldn't think of anything to write about? What if I wrote something but it was utter crap? What if I wrote something I thought was pretty good so I read it out loud and he said it was utter crap?
The prompt was "write about the moment that, after you were different". So yes, a life-changing moment. I could think of a few of those, but was I ready to write about them and/or read them out loud? I wasn't sure. Regardless, I put my pen to paper and started scratching out sentences. Once I got started the words just poured out of me without much actual thought, as if I had had this story tucked in my subconscious for exactly this type of occasion, just waiting for someone to ask for it.
Twenty minutes later, even though I had much much more to say, we had to stop writing. Tom asked if anyone wanted to read, several people read and got some good notes. I, meanwhile, found myself surreptitiously reading and editing my piece, willing it to be perfect. Remembering my earlier fear of thinking something was great and then reading it and having Tom and the room decide that it sucked, I struggled with myself to put down the pen and leave some errors in there to work with. Then began the inner conflict about whether I was going to read or not. See, I love praise and attention of all kinds, so part of me really longed to have everyone's eyes on me while I graced them with my brilliant prose. On the other hand, the part of myself acquainted with reality recognized that reading the piece out loud was a big risk, since I am just a beginning writer and the thing I wrote about was very personal, more than many of the others that had been read so far.
In the end it came down to an awkward silence. Everyone who wanted to read had read, and Tom was looking around the room and asking individual people if they wanted to read. My attention-loving side took over and volunteered, and in a voice that was only the tiniest bit shaky, I read my piece out loud to a room of strangers. It was exhilarating and terrifying, especially when he stopped me and started to critique.
Now some of you may not believe this, but I've never been one to take criticism well. My defensiveness has a hair trigger and if I had to name one thing I hate more than anything else in the world (except maybe Nazis), it would be the experience of being publicly wrong. With all that said, being critiqued by Tom Spanbauer was a genuine pleasure. Every note he had, every comment made so much sense and would so clearly improve the piece if I were to pursue it that I had nothing to offer at the end except a grin and a sincere "thank you".
Soon thereafter the class broke up and we all went our separate ways. As I walked to the bus stop I mulled over the workshop, relishing its significance, immersing myself in it just a few moments longer. Finally the bus came and it was back to the real world for me. As I rode home I realized that I would never really be the same after that experience, not as a writer or a person.
All because of a free writing workshop at the library. How divine....:)
On the morning of the workshop I woke up early, planned out my route on the bus (which I hadn't ridden even once since I got my car...tsk), and did a bit of light dithering over whether I would go or not. Finally I decided I would hate myself too much for not taking advantage of the opportunity to meet and listen to Tom Freaking Spanbauer so I shoved my fear in a sack and dragged myself out the door.
When I got there, I joined the queue of nervously-waiting prospective writers outside the US Bank Room. There was a library employee at the door, granting access to the lucky registrants and shunning the poor bastards on the waiting list who had to sit outside and wait to be called in. After much hand-wringing about what to do about the waiting list, Tom himself came out to the lobby and just told them to add some more chairs, he would deal with the multitudes of us. We who were quietly freaking out about not being let in suddenly began freaking out about actually being let in and having to write something and potentially share with the class. We filed into the room and filled in the chairs. I noticed a chair at one of the tables that hadn't been claimed and sat myself in it, relieved to have something to hide at least partly behind.
Tom came around and introduced himself to each and every person in the room, though somehow I managed to just miss him when I ran to the back to get a notepad and pen. When he began to speak, though, it felt like he was talking just to me. He spoke for a while on writing and Dangerous Writing and building character by deconstructing sentences and some people asked questions and he answered them as graciously as possible and then...it was time for writing. Panic stabbed through my heart as he gave the writing prompt. What if I couldn't think of anything to write about? What if I wrote something but it was utter crap? What if I wrote something I thought was pretty good so I read it out loud and he said it was utter crap?
The prompt was "write about the moment that, after you were different". So yes, a life-changing moment. I could think of a few of those, but was I ready to write about them and/or read them out loud? I wasn't sure. Regardless, I put my pen to paper and started scratching out sentences. Once I got started the words just poured out of me without much actual thought, as if I had had this story tucked in my subconscious for exactly this type of occasion, just waiting for someone to ask for it.
Twenty minutes later, even though I had much much more to say, we had to stop writing. Tom asked if anyone wanted to read, several people read and got some good notes. I, meanwhile, found myself surreptitiously reading and editing my piece, willing it to be perfect. Remembering my earlier fear of thinking something was great and then reading it and having Tom and the room decide that it sucked, I struggled with myself to put down the pen and leave some errors in there to work with. Then began the inner conflict about whether I was going to read or not. See, I love praise and attention of all kinds, so part of me really longed to have everyone's eyes on me while I graced them with my brilliant prose. On the other hand, the part of myself acquainted with reality recognized that reading the piece out loud was a big risk, since I am just a beginning writer and the thing I wrote about was very personal, more than many of the others that had been read so far.
In the end it came down to an awkward silence. Everyone who wanted to read had read, and Tom was looking around the room and asking individual people if they wanted to read. My attention-loving side took over and volunteered, and in a voice that was only the tiniest bit shaky, I read my piece out loud to a room of strangers. It was exhilarating and terrifying, especially when he stopped me and started to critique.
Now some of you may not believe this, but I've never been one to take criticism well. My defensiveness has a hair trigger and if I had to name one thing I hate more than anything else in the world (except maybe Nazis), it would be the experience of being publicly wrong. With all that said, being critiqued by Tom Spanbauer was a genuine pleasure. Every note he had, every comment made so much sense and would so clearly improve the piece if I were to pursue it that I had nothing to offer at the end except a grin and a sincere "thank you".
Soon thereafter the class broke up and we all went our separate ways. As I walked to the bus stop I mulled over the workshop, relishing its significance, immersing myself in it just a few moments longer. Finally the bus came and it was back to the real world for me. As I rode home I realized that I would never really be the same after that experience, not as a writer or a person.
All because of a free writing workshop at the library. How divine....:)
Friday, June 18, 2010
Denouement
I fretted for weeks about my new boss. I kept hearing about project meetings I wasn't invited to and changes that were being made to our procedures and it was all very nerve-wracking. Then I finally had a chance to sit down and talk one-on-one with her and it changed everything. I got a chance to air my concerns about what would happen to my project and she listened and said she would endeavor to keep me in the loop. I got to discuss some ideas about our department and its culture and found that she and I shared several of the same intangible goals for our group, like focusing more on service than on call stats, working to regain the good will of my client, and forming a more cohesive team. In short, that meeting was the absolute perfect antidote for my stressed-out paranoia. In thirty short minutes of discussion, my inner voices of doubt quieted down and every last trace of worry was eradicated. Pretty amazing, huh?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)