Back to school

I thought I knew what I was doing.

I'd arrived early -- an hour early, in fact. I knew the building where
I needed to go. I had the pens, books, and notebook I needed. I'd
switched off my cell phone, purchased an iced tea to drink during class,
thought of what I'd say, what I'd do. I wanted to be ready, and I should've
been: I'd been preparing for this moment my whole life.

The campus was beautiful. No, it wasn't Kenyon, with its tree-lined
paths and Gothic dormitories -- but anyone who says Emerson isn't pretty
hasn't looked out over the Common from a fifth-story window, hasn't heard
the sounds of shoes clicking on marble staircases or the music spilling from
WERS or breathed in the coffee shops and the chickens roasting in Chinatown.
I couldn't resist lingering for a moment at the antique bookstore on
Boylston Street, or searching through the library -- how good it felt to be
in a college library again! -- for a book I wanted for my Monday night class.

I left for class with ten minutes to spare, only to discover I'd
forgotten in which room my class was taking place. I raced around the
fifth floor, peering into every open door. I called the Registrar's
office -- no one there. I felt ready to collapse when it occurred to me
the security person at the front door -- Emerson's buildings are all staffed
by security persons, some of whom are occasionally awake -- might have a
list of which classes were in which room. One elevator ride down, one
elevator ride up, and I had finally found my class. I raced inside and
took the first available seat, trying to make as little noise as possible.

"That's my seat," the instructor said.

I decided to take the T from Braintree that evening because I didn't
want to wait for the commuter rail. When I returned to the station, I
found that 1). drinking two large iced teas during class makes you really,
really have to go to the bathroom and 2). someone had broken into my car.
They'd ripped the lock right off the driver's side door and shattered the
steering column -- but the car was still there, and so were my sunglasses,
my license plates, my radio, the tape Trish had made me. The tow truck
arrived in less than an hour -- the police never did -- and the driver was
able to get the car started, so that I could go home and sleep for a few
hours before the second day of school.

To say I felt a little intimidated about my "Writing the First Novel"
class is an understatement in the same way that "War and Peace" is not.
I hadn't come entirely unprepared; I'd spent the last few weeks of summer
taking notes on the history and activities of a particular pirate,
something that I was certain would make a good book. Still, it put me off
a little when we went around the room introducing ourselves, and I discovered
that I was one of a very few students in the class who was not already at
work on a novel. Then a young woman just to the right of me explained that
she was working on a novel about pirates, and that she'd already collected
pages upon pages of research, maps, historical detail, information about
language, etc.

"I'm sure you'll do fine," said my mother, when I told her about my
concerns. "Do you already have an assignment for that class?"

"Well, yeah," I said. "I have to start work on a novel by Thursday."

"Holy shit," my mother said. "I mean, I'm sure you'll do fine."

I wish I shared her confidence. Then again, I've learned this week
that I'm smarter than the average car thief -- because, armed with a
screwdriver, I can get my shattered car up and running, and they couldn't.
I've learned that I know what to do when everything seems to be falling
apart, even if I don't seem to be able to avoid the falling apart in the
first place. I've learned to write when I'm not in the mood, when I'm
doubting myself, when I'm devoid of any inspiration -- in other words, I'm
learning to write fiction the way I used to write news stories. I have a
lot to learn, it's true -- more than I ever imagined. But that's why I've
gone back to school in the first place.