2008 FIRST PLACE: Entry fee Category

 

I Can Never Write That Well

 

By Rhyma Shohami

 

The year was 1968. America's college campuses were in turmoil, Armstrong had not yet taken a giant leap for mankind, and I was a freshman at Montreal's McGill University.

 

We aspired to be as cool as the Americans, and I ached to join the hippie generation. But without a war to seethe over or a San Francisco to hitchhike to, wandering around with flowers in our hair was a tad silly. Besides, my father had expressly forbidden me to attend demonstrations.

 

Imagine my thrill at being accepted into an experimental freshman English class. My professor was a far-left New Yorker named Alan (just Alan). Instead of moldy Chaucer, we studied the revolutionary Malcolm X. Brecht's Three Penny Opera replaced the requisite English 100 Shakespeare play. And the world of literary criticism was represented by Susan Sontag. I could be a hippie protestor vicariously!

 

We read Ferlinghetti and Plath, Auden and Rich. Sometimes, we read our own poetry. Those who didn't write poetry offered what they believed were insightful critiques and intellectually meaningful commentary.

 

One day Alan paired us up for a reading session, with each partner taking on the role of either writer or critic. My partner was the stereotypical long-haired, pot-smoking hippie. He sported granny glasses and was always clutching a thick notebook. The latter, I soon discovered, was the repository of his poetic creativity.

 

Without preamble, my partner proceeded to read several poems in succession. As I listened, my dreams of a writing career shriveled and disappeared.

 

I can never write that well.

 

I suddenly became aware of the silence and realized that he was waiting for me to speak.

 

"Wow, that's really good," I finally managed.

 

"Yes, I know," he replied in a bored tone bordering on arrogance.

 

You know? Aren't we modest!

 

"Then I guess we're done," I quipped.

 

"You don't have anything to share?" he asked.

 

Not on your life.

 

"I don't really have anything that's as good as yours," I said, squirming under his gaze.

 

He scrutinized me for a few more seconds, and then, with his next words, he saved my future writing career.

 

"I know what you're thinking, but I didn't say what I said because I'm conceited. Ryma, there's no virtue in indulging in false modesty. Anyway, it shouldn't matter to you what I write. You have to write for you. You have to be your biggest fan."

 

I heard him, but just then I didn't believe him. Others' voices rang louder.

 

It's not nice to brag; let other people praise you.

 

You win one essay contest and you think that makes you a writer?

 

Nobody makes a living from writing.

 

It took years to confront and overcome the self-defeating behavior caused by those well-meaning nuggets of advice. In the meantime, I put my writing on hold. My fear of criticism, ridicule, and failure all conspired to prevent me from pursuing what I wanted to do most. Along the way, other careers—some merely boring and uninspiring, others soul-deadening—insinuated themselves into my life.

 

But the suppressed craving to lose myself in words would not stay silent. Eventually, I joined a creative writing group "just for fun".

 

In the first session, I was spared from sharing my writing because we ran out of time. In the following session, the group turned expectantly towards me. Hesitantly, I read a humorous non-fiction piece. The laughter of the group members, delivered at the appropriate places, surprised me and buoyed my spirits.

 

"It needs some work, but it's terrific," the group leader finally commented after the laughter had subsided.

 

"I know it's not as good as…" I started to say, when suddenly I remembered a bored, arrogant voice lecturing me about the pointlessness of false modesty and how I was responsible for propping myself up.

 

"Yes, I like it too," I finished confidently. I noticed a pair of eyebrows going up and recognized the long-ago me. I guessed that he had not yet learned the difference between empty boasts and self-support.

 

It has taken me many years to internalize the advice I received in that dusty university lecture room. I should have listened sooner, but I refuse to beat myself up for not having done so. Instead, I will build a writing career and a life of joy-filled productivity. And I plan to cheer my every written word.

 

Bio:
Ryma Shohami is a technical writer/editor just starting out in the world of creative writing. She lives in Israel with her husband, a water reclamation engineer, two beautiful daughters, and a dwindling menagerie. You can visit her new blog Write It Down! at http://rymashohami.wordpress.com/ . A web site dedicated to muffins (the only thing she has the patience to bake) is under construction. She is currently gathering stories for an anthology about grandmothers and dreams of swimming with dolphins in Hawaii.