The road to hell is paved with e-courses

I have seen many ads for e-courses on writing. Are these everywhere? Or, have I made the mistake of clicking on one so now I attract them all? It is probably the algorithm, right?

Every time, I feel as though it is specific to me. I feel tormented by the reminder that I have such a hang-up about writing. I feel plagued with bad memories that I don’t want to talk about even to myself.

When I was in college, I was struggling a lot during my sophomore year. The stereotype is to struggle with the freshman year. I did not. That was mostly because I didn’t live far from home and my perfectionism kicked into high gear for that first year. However, when I entered my second year, all those repressed emotions came back to haunt me.

I wanted to drop out of college. My grades were very high freshman year. I started slipping early in sophomore year, but I still kept a decent average. However, I couldn’t live up to the ideas I felt were imposed upon me. I still had not realized that I had been bullied and emotionally abused for years and that it was actually still happening. I had been labelled as the problem for so long that I believed it. I believed that there could be a singular problem in the world and that I could embody it.

Anyway, through a series of difficult and disappointing conversations, I wound up in a screenwriting class. I was amazed that I was actually sitting in a class like that. That experienced became so negative for me that it still haunts me.

The class was smaller than I anticipated. There were only about ten students, give or take. On the first day, the teacher asked us to write down our top ten favorite movies so that we could get to know each other. Then, we each had to read them aloud. Based on the order of the seats, I wound up having to read mine about mid-way through the line of students. As the first few classmates read, I didn’t recognize any of the movies they named. Now, we are all aware that there is high-brow art we have heard about, but don’t actually know much about. I expected my newly minted classmates to name classic movies that I had heard of, but never bothered to watch. However, as we went down the line reciting titles, I didn’t recognize a single movie named by those who preceded me. I was even more confused because the titles were all in English, so I couldn’t even assume they were foreign films.

Well, then, it was my turn. I read my list of popular American movies. I don’t recall it exactly what made my list, but I know Titanic was at the top. That’s when the classmate across from my started laughing. I looked up and he was smirking. I should change my list, right? Well, what would I change it to now? I kept reading. When I was finished and looked up, the teacher had a smug smirk on his face. I wasn’t sure if I was blowing this moment out of proportion in my mind at the time, but it felt like the room was judging me for naming popular, mostly contemporary movies. I was confused. Weren’t these well-known movies that a lot of people liked?

I’m probably not the only one, right? Well, I could hardly listen to the other lists that were read after mine. I didn’t recognize whatever managed to make it through the humiliation spinning in my head. It is only day one though, right?

The class continued to be socially challenging for me. It turned out to be a very easy class to pass because the teacher barely read anything we wrote. In fact, we were expected to write very little. Early on, we had to present a few ideas for a project that we would dedicate the semester to working out. Basically, we would pick a general storyline and write to it, piece-by-piece - or should I say, scene-by-scene.

I wanted to write a story about a group of feminists who went to a modern women’s college. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to happen, but I wanted it to center around the divisiveness of the group when one of the friends became pregnant. I was excited about it. I was also nervous. I was basically in a very fragile emotional state.

I wanted to learn how to build something. Instead, I was handed another hammer to hit myself with. The teacher didn’t like the idea. He made it sound like that would never work. I still don’t understand what he meant. I certainly don’t think the idea was complete, but that’s why I was a student in the class. I had absolutely no confidence in myself, let around arrogance about this idea. I didn’t think this was unbelievable stuff that would get me a movie deal at age twenty. I didn’t even think it would come out well for the purposes of the course. I simply wanted to learn how to write to that idea. He insisted that I modify it. I wanted to learn and do well in the course, so I quickly agreed.

He instructed me to write a story about a group of friends who sexually manipulate each other. Then, he transitioned that into instruction to imitate a recently released film about a politician who pressured his mistress to have a secret abortion. I tried to imitate these stories, but I didn’t even find them interesting. I blamed myself for not finding the stories interesting and then blamed myself again for not knowing how to imitate stories that I didn’t find entertaining.

I had so little confidence in myself that I believed the teacher was trying to help me. I didn’t realize that he was mostly trashing my idea until later. He didn’t even like my half-baked imitations of his ideas, which made me feel even worse. It felt so painful to fail at pursuing my idea and, simultaneously, fail at following his instruction.

I went to every single class and never missed one. I bought the books about writing, but we didn’t cover the material in them, so I stopped reading them when I became busy with the rest of my courseload that semester. I didn’t know how to write a story. I still don’t. I have never met anyone willing to teach me. However, I have met many willing to criticize. Maybe, it simply needs to be natural. That’s what plenty of people say, right? If you have to try so hard, then maybe it isn’t for you. That stings.

I’m trying anyway. Telling a story about how I wasn’t able to write that story. That’s a tad bittersweet. It seems like I was living a story while struggling to find one to tell.