the most pretentious thing I've ever done

Wanna hear a joke?

I am writing a memoir. For class. It seems absurdly out of the question to be expected to produce a memoir in a semester's amount of time as an undergraduate creative writing student who is barely twenty one and a half years old but there you have it.

We've started writing them. I spit out four pages, without really thinking or concentrating about what it was going to be "about", which was my creative writing professor's best advice.

"Let the story come to you," he said.

It seemed silly at first. In an obtuse way, it makes sense, to write the story that wants to be told thumbing around in your head, but it's never been how I do things. I always seem to have to form a plan in my head before I write something. I always need to know what direction I'm going in before I start something new. Otherwise, I end up writing 12 pages and it's only around page 11 that I figure out what I'm REALLY writing about.

In my time at the University of Montana, I've learned how to make every single word I write count. I've learned to tell a story in 50 words. I've learned to obsessively nit pick over one word for twenty minutes until I find the right one. I've learned to cut out the 'fluff'. I've also learned how to write without thought, for pages and pages and pages, without editing because my professor believed firmly in the roughness of a 'first draft'. I've learned to get everything on paper before reading something twice. I've learned to write every day.

But this class has a different approach that isn't one method or the other. It's new to me. There is less instruction and fewer guidelines than I've ever used. Even though it took a week and a half, I think I finally am latching on. I'm not producing word vomit until I figure out what I mean but I'm also not reediting the same lines over and over again. I'm, as corny as it sounds, trying to find the words within my own voice to tell whatever story is in my brain that is bursting to get out. I've heard the best writers write stories they are obsessed with and I'm trying to embody this idea that my professor is forcefully shoving down our throats.

I thought this class would be a joke but now I sort of see that if I wasn't forced to do this, I probably wouldn't do it. Ever. 

I'm trying to embrace it. Trying, trying. Come at me, stories of my life. 

"you're better than you think you are"

Long time no blog!

I know, I know. I suck an enormous amount. And I'm not apologizing to those who read my blog, but rather my future self who will have no record of what happened between October 18th and October 23rd. I even neglected my journal so quite seriously no written documentation of my life was recorded for a solid week minus two pathetic blog posts that really just kind of scratched the surface.

And now I'm going to mostly ignore everything that happened minus one thing, because all of those other things do have photo evidence of happening and deserve to be accompanied by pictures because I can't do them justice with only my words.

Last week, just before I hopped on a plane to Virginia, I finished my midterms and applied to creative writing workshops. And I realized mid way through revising my pieces I chose to submit that I was applying to 400 level workshops. Which are the last creative writing workshops I can take.

I remember the first time I ever took a workshop. I needed some writing in my life. I needed to be forced to write so that I would write something other than lab reports and complaints about people that were annoying me in my journal. I didn't really know at the time, though I think unconsciously I knew I also wasn't just taking "one workshop for the heck of it" like I told myself I was, that it would result in changing my major. I know now that what I was doing was trying it out to see if I was actually good enough and as good as the other people in my classes. After a semester, I didn't feel like I was, but my wonderful teacher at the time told me to apply to apply another. So I did. And I still didn't feel "good enough" at the end of that one, but I kept going because it was so much more fun than the classes I was taking. And I've learned and grown and been humbled many times by the words of my classmates. But this time around, applying to my last workshops as a creative writing major, I am not sure I can say I felt "good enough" but I felt like I deserved a slot amongst my peers I've been writing alongside for two years. I may not be better than any of them, in fact I don't think any of us are better than anyone else, but I felt like I could stand among them finally. I wasn't nervous. I submitted my best work. 

And then I made the dumbest mistake. THE dumbest mistake. Of all things you could do to mess up your chances of getting into the quasi-competative workshops taught by the best faculty in the program, I did the worst thing. I didn't read the flyer completely. I turned in my submissions three hours late. THREE. I didn't read the bold writing that said "late submissions will not be reviewed or considered". I was sleeping on my living room carpet at the moment they were due taking a pleasant unnecessary nap. When I realized I, excuse my language, FUCKED UP SO MAJORLY, I sat in my room and wrote lists of what I would do with my time to continue writing. I could make myself continue to write, but workshops have made me better. Honest feedback has made me see my writing objectively and welcome critique. I couldn't imagine life without a workshop. 

.... And then I went to Virginia. And came back. And my friend texted me and said we both made it in. I made it in. I got in even though I shouldn't have and deserved not to have a slot next to the other names that did turn in their work on time. At first I jumped up and down and then I felt sort of guilty when I looked at the long list of people wait listed. I texted my mom and she said something that was sort of perfect in the moment. She said that for whatever reason, the professor thought my writing was good enough and chose me for a reason. She said I needed to give myself more credit. I really fucked up, but for some reason this professor thought I deserved a spot nonetheless and chose me to be in his workshop. So now I'm saying this, after two and a half years in workshops pushing myself to the point of tears and frustration at 3 in the morning the night before a 500 word essay is due that I swear I hate, after misses and nose dives, and after a few minor successes- I do deserve my spot. I can stand among those other square glasses and sweater vest wearing classmates of mine I have grown to love and respect. I will probably never fully believe I am better than I think I am, but I need to think I could be to get there. I have to challenge myself and be better than I think I am. It's the doubt that pushes me further with every piece I write and I know I'll never look at another classmate and think I am better. I finally have the confidence that I fit. Rather than thinking of myself as less than everyone else, I can think of myself as equal and start to believe in what I can do to make myself better than I was yesterday. I made a mistake. But I'm here for a reason. I'm still here.

PLL, HH, and trumpeters

It has been quite the week.

Midterms. What is with this last round of midterms? I actually pulled of straight A's on every single one of them? I mean, I know. English major. It's supposed to be easy. But it absolutely wasn't. I was trying to explain to my roommate how my english classes ranked amongst my old biology classes and the difficulties in each. Being a biology major, I felt tested every waking moment of my life to cram as much stuff in my head as possible. Being an english major, I feel tested to think deeply about material that's given and push outside of myself to interpret history and language. The material itself feels easier but the thinking aspect of it is completely different. However, I did well. Very well. And the best feeling I've felt in my college career so far was getting back every paper and midterm knowing that this is something I'm good at that I also love.

The new Head and The Heart album was actually, finally released. It's beautiful and unexpected and my best friend put into words better than I can what it means to have another new album of their music to assign life occurrences to.

I chose midterm week to start watching Pretty Little Liars. I almost cancelled a date this week to watch it. Almost.

Missoula got an ULTA. Which is a beautiful, beautiful thing. I may have gone twice opening weekend just because I got a coupon for starting a rewards card and running out of both eyeliner and mascara this week. 

I made a fool out of myself at the UPS store. More on that later.

I learned that trumpeters make good kissers. Maybe more on that..... way later.

I realized more and more that if I had gotten a job this semester, I would have been a much less happier person. Here's the thing: I should have a job, but I don't need one because of photography and Internship stipends and scholarships. I sat in my advisor's chair this week and she said, "Well, you only have 18 credits you need to complete next semester. That'll be easy for you since you're in over 20 now!" To which I replied, huh????? And then realized, oh yeah. I'm taking 22 credits and had to get that overwritten last year. That is why it feels like life hasn't slowed down in almost 6 weeks.

I counted down the days to TODAY because today I get to fly across the country to see my little baby sister in her dorm room and meet her friends and see the life she's created for herself. I am more excited for this than I have been for any Christmas morning. 

be a little more messy

I struggled this week to write.

I'm taking an upper level non-fiction workshop this semester, which I chose over fiction after my overwhelmingly wonderful experience in the lower level non-fiction workshop, because I've found that writing from my own "voice" is easier for me than through another characters. Plus, I found that finding MY voice turned me into an infinitely better writer. I have to have my own voice before I can write from another, you feel me?

However, with my first workshop this week, I felt totally out of my element. There was the problem of picking an idea and then there was the problem of writing it. Everything felt forced. Everything felt way to dramatic and nothing came out how I wanted. I listened to my first professor's voice in my head telling me that every word sucked (he really did tell me my pieces sucked sometimes)(and I think you NEED to be told you suck often) and though I wrote and finished it, I didn't feel any sort of emotional connection to it at all.

And though my workshop went much better than I expected, my professor pulled me aside after and said, "Maggie, where are you in this? I don't see you- I see your characters, but not you. Don't be afraid to be a little more messy. I want to see you be messier."

When he said that, it immediately registered to me why I'd struggled. He was right. I told him I had my old professor's voice stuck in my head telling me not to go too far with things and he laughed and said, "But we can trim that down. We can add to it and take things away over and over again! Be messy."

I think I've been afraid to be messy lately - in my journals, on my blog, and in my assignments - because I've been too afraid of being "too cliche". I've been afraid to say the obvious thing on my mind out of fear that it isn't a unique thought. I've been scared to be too honest. I don't really know how to go back to the days when I could write without any restraint, but I think I need to try. I need to try in all regards to get there again, even if it's not something that's not obvious to people that read it, because I know when I'm "there" or not. I looked through my old notebooks today and found a quote from my old workshop professor who said that cliche is only cliche if it feels forced. Everything is a cliche. What makes something unique isn't the story or the experience, but the voice behind it. It doesn't need to be unique. It needs to be mine.

Here's to being messy and unafraid.

sometimes, it's just the little things that are the big ones

The longest day of my no-longer-pre-med life occurred today. Remnants of my pre-med past want to hit myself over the head with a frying pan but present non-pre-med me wants to cry. Granted, the part of me that wants to cry wants to cry because it is a genetics final I am cramming a semester's worth of information into one day for, but nonetheless, it was the hardest day of the semester.

But in all honesty, it makes me realize I am definitely doing the right thing these days. Because! I am just not that good at human biology. Poorly structured class or not, it's just not my thing. Writing is my thing because I love it and I can do it without wanting to completely off myself. Human biology, however, is not my thing. I don't love it and I definitely warped into a super dramatic version of myself tonight in the text's I sent to people complaining about how hard and horrible it was. And if today had been my last day on earth, I kind of think that the way I spent it studying for a genetics test is the very last way I would have wanted to spend it. Ethics? Sure. Lit? Sure. But genetics? Absolutely not.

Two good things happened today, though. Two good things that would have made today, if it had been the last day that I lived, an acceptable pass. And not because of what I was doing but rather that one of my favorite people said something small and probably not meant to be so funny but made me laugh for hours. And then at lunch, she allowed me to take this picture of her and post it on Instagram. Then there's sitting back after taking it and the reminder that to see this amazing person I get to call a friend doing what she loves with so much passion and excelling GREATLY is truly something else. It's inspiring. And if not for her, I probably wouldn't have realized that human biology was absolutely not what I loved. I'm so glad my homework every night involves something I love as much as she loves anatomy and physiology. 

"I listened to the Mulan soundtrack on my way to school today and it was the most inspiring bike ride of my life."

You rock my world.

all day i thought it was thursday

these last couple of weeks just feel like they are those kind of weeks. at least this week seems to be better if only because having three full weeks of school left feels like a whole lot less than four. maybe.

montana, however, wants everyone to think it's actually fall. why i am so surprised every single spring when after a week of 60 degree weather it plummets down to the 30's i have no idea. it's MONTANA, maggie. get with it. 

i had my very last workshop today so i can successfully say i've written four short stories this semester and i'm actually the slightest bit proud of a couple of them? i think i may actually be improving *slightly* as a writer and i can attest to that because when looking over my short stories i wrote even just a year ago i want to delete them from my harddrive and never see again. but then again i hope the day comes i want to say that about the ones i just wrote and it's a never ending cycle of hating everything i've ever written and continually getting better. or at least, improving. i like writing, guys.

other than that, i'm busy being a proud older sister, putting all my summer plans into motion (!!!), wasting too much time on the internet finding a cheap leather jacket for spring/summer, nannying and falling more in love with my kids every day one of which insists his shoes are on the right feet but never are, trying to put an arm's length between me and my closet because our relationship is about to be severed when our lease is up, and realizing this year is almost over and realizing how crazy is it that looking at myself a year ago feels like looking at a completely different person.