It’s just like Mrs. Jappel said in the first grade; “Samantha, treat others as you would like to be treated.” So I do. I write for a mirror. Every word, phrase, or sentence I think “what would I think if someone wrote this for me?” In a way this is similar to the “making it strange” editing technique we used in class to find information not described with enough detail. I love and care for my reader, carefully stringing them along, taking care not to lose them along the way. I respect my reader, being careful not to bother them with pointless tangents or waste their time with misinformation. I attempt to connect with my reader, become something special to them and make them think I am writing for him or her personally. I want my reader to feel the emotions I’m feeling, share my opinions I care about, and learn the information I’m teaching. I want to consume the reader, make them me like that face looking back at me in the mirror.
It is because I write for myself that while I care for the reader, I do not need them. I would be perfectly content writing for myself, face looking back at me in the mirror. Aside from pointless papers of pesky professors, in which no meaning is meant and no feelings are felt, writing is an art. Art should always be done for the self, not to please an audience. Billy Collins writes about his nagging need for the reader in “Flight of the Reader.” He speaks of the reader as a “wild parrot digging [his or her] claws into my loud shirt.” He claims not to need the reader and denies having a “crush” on them, but finishes his poem implying these denials to be false. I could never need the reader like Collins or I’d write in constant fear of disappointment. If I aim for people of the world to like me, I would over think every phrase, sentence or word. It would lose the enjoyable feel of art to me.
However, recently, more often than not, I’ve only written because I have to. Most if not all of my writing is mundane, mandatory, academic writing. I used to write for me, in a diary. Every nights I would splatter its pages with the days thoughts and feelings, maybe a poem or two. I loved that diary and how it lifted the weight off my shoulders and onto its pages. But as papers became longer and more frequent, I soon had less and less time to write for me. Our dates turned from daily to weekly to monthly as slowly it became just another chore and obligation. Writing classes and their old age style and format that have you writing about other people ideas instead of exploring your own had slowly sucked the love out of writing for me. Until this class.
This class is much different than any writing classes that I have had in a very long time. This was mainly because of how technology based the class was. It encouraged us to venture out of the five paragraph, MLA formatted essays and into the world of blogs, prezis, and videos. This allowed us to think more creatively and explore our own ideas in a different way. This class also encouraged me to write more personally again. We did more of exploring and explaining our own ideas instead of only writing about other people’s. We were given the opportunity to write more creatively and freeform, and even use “I” and other pronouns. Over all, the class was fun and refreshing. No one was afraid to make jokes or temporarily venture off topic and we still learned a great deal.
However, would I consider myself a writer again? Well, it depends on what you mean by “writer”. Yes, I write assignments for class; I write my name on the top of the paper; I am even writing right now. But I still would not consider myself a writer like Jacques Derrida. I do not create images well on paper. I do not trick, tempt or move many people with what I have to say. I do not wait anxiously for the opportunity to put the words tangled in my head onto paper. I am still a speaker, artist, or singer before I’m a writer. But I am closer. Writing assignments like this are much less painful and I struggle less to come up with the words to describe what is dancing around in my head. So who knows, maybe one day I will be a writer, with the same passion as Derrida and the same fear of uprooting the balance of the world with my words.
Therefore, I would like to end this paper with a letter to those that will be just starting out:
Dear new students of WSC002 with Professor Lay,
Good luck. I don’t mean that to be nearly as intimidating as it sounds. Do be warned though; This class is like a roller coaster ride. It is probably unlike any college class, especially writing, that you have taken so far. It is wild; shooting up and down and most of the time speeding out of control as you attempt to hang on. Don’t be afraid though, because it is a blast. Don’t get frazzled or intimidated by Professor Lay’s wild and highly amusing antics, throwing you still half confused into assignments. It teaches you to jump into things you don’t always understand and work it out from the inside. Don’t be alarmed by any random Rebecca Black lyrics, or if the writing proficiency exam gets compared to a rock and a lemon because that is probably not even in the top five weirdest things that will happen in class this semester. However, I do promise you this: You’ll be better by the end. Better at reading, understanding, problem solving, expressing, writing, and laughing.
So, even though you won’t need it, good luck.
Sincerely,
Sammy
