Sir Eliot Can Suck It

Today in my creative writing class I had my first workshop experience. I knew I would have to read my poem aloud and hear constructive criticism from the class on it. I knew I would freak out and turn red and probably hyperventilate a little. I believe Auraria campus sells alcohol on campus for just such occasions. And thank God they do. So I downed a few Hazed and Infused before heading off to class. Let's just say that while everyone in class was complaining about how freezing it is, I was warm and toasty and probably had jolly red cheeks. I'm not Irish but this tends to happen when I drink. And I can't breathe through my nose. But I digress.

Right as Sir Eliot comes in, I turn to the girl next to me and say "I need to go first so I don't lose my buzz!" As luck would have it, the prince of poetry choses me to go first without having to ask. I'm feeling quite hilarious and read my poem quite dramatically and sit back thinking I am so confident (and slightly drunk) that whatever they say is no big deal and I can handle it.

Nothing will kill your buzz more quickly than a creative writing workshop. It was dreadful. I felt like a complete failure. And I've decided there are a few reasons for this:

1. I am notoriously too hard on myself. My inner critic always gets the better of me and convinces me to give up because I have absolutely nothing to offer.
2. I am absolutely and irrevocably terrible at poetry. It is something I am simply not gifted in. Some people are born to write beautiful lyrics. Some people are born to paint wonderful and complex paintings. Some people are born to take stirring photographs. Some people are born to write elegant poetry. And some people are born to write thought provoking and entertaining prose. Of course there are countless instances where people overlap in these talents (I hate those people, for the record). I am NOT one of those people. I enjoy photography actually, but painting, lyrics, and poetry are something I wouldn't touch with a ten foot stick.
3. This class counts as a general education credit, which means people from varying majors are taking it to fulfill their graduation requirements. So why in God's name is Sir Eliot so brutal? Why would he say that a particular line made him want to pull his hair out or make feel like I should absolutely, positively never ever write EVER AGAIN?

I guess this blog post is my way of saying "Suck it Eliot." But for a minute I truly thought I would just give it all up, drop out of school and be a nanny for ever. That may have been the booze talking. But I did realize that I can't just give up every time I hear something that upsets me about my work. Not everyone is going to love what I have to say or how I say it. I absolutely believe that Eliot goes about the critiques the wrong way and that the rest of the class are a bunch of idiots that follow his lead, but they will not be last. And if I really want to get into this writing game then I'm going to have to suck it up and get used to it. I just cannot wait for this poetry unit to be over. Although since Eliot is a "published poet" (he never misses a chance to remind us of this) I haven't been able to find a prose section on the syllabus. So much for a CREATIVE WRITING class.

To top my night off. As I sat on the light rail on my way home, there was an extremely cute guy across the aisle from me. I made eye contact with him once and made some sort of strange jerky movement with my head I've never experienced before, and then awkwardly clunked my foot against the metal underneath the seat. For some reason he still decided he'd like to talk to me. Oh that was a bad idea on his part.

I was sitting there, brooding in my little world of inadequacies, contemplating how I could drop out of school and still have insurance, and parents that would speak to me. He leans across the aisle and asks what my tattoo on my foot says. He took me completely by surprise. I was thrown out of my heady world and into a social situation with a stranger. Uh oh. Watch out.

I explained to him it was my name in Hebrew and then explained why Sarah is a Hebrew name. He said "Well Sarah, my name is Jake. Nice to meet you." He put his hand out, I shook it and said "Hi, I'm Sarah... right, well... er, we already went through that." He was kind enough to over look that little faux pas but a guy behind him laughed. Then as the train got to where I needed to get off I said "Well, this is my ste ste ste... stop." I do not have a stutter. At least I didn't think I did until that moment. He shook my hand again and said "See ya later!" I said "Thanks." For what? I'm not sure, it just came out. And then by the time I got to the doors of the train they had already closed. They only thing I could think of was to push them with my index finger over and over again, praying the damn thing would open. In a strange turn of fortune, this worked. Though I'm sure I looked pretty pathetic doing it.

PS- I'm making a conscious/lazy choice not proofread this. Think of it as another way of telling Sir Eliot the Bastard to suck it.

{photo from here}