. . . in the distant, early morning . . .

Reading, Writing, and how Smith killed it for me

When I was growing up, I read voraciously.  I read in the bathroom, before bed, at meal-time.  I walked around reading.

I also wrote.  I wrote short stories, poetry.  I could crank out more poetry in 30 minutes of a class than anyone else, things that people claimed to enjoy.

Then I went to Smith.

At Smith we wrote a lot.  That part was fine.

But we also tore apart poems, books.  We analyzed out the wazoo.  We made guesses at what the author meant, what deep thoughts were between the lines.  We destroyed poems and stories alike.

I stopped reading and writing for enjoyment while at Smith, and didn’t return to it until about 2 months ago.  That’s 4 years without a core enjoyment for me.

I didn’t enjoy my time at Smith; anyone that knows me well knows that I was extremely depressed during my time there.  Unhappy.  I became more of a recluse than ever.  But it was the best school that accepted me, and I got through it. 

I didn’t realize until today, when I wrote a poem (posted privately) in abotu 15 minutes just what Smith stole from me.  I’ve greatly missed the creative expression, the outlet, the freedom that I had before Smith.  But Smith drained that from me.  To think of a bunch of over-eager, extremist, liberal girls breaking apart my poems, finding deep, hidden meanings where there really aren’t any… it broke me.  It didn’t feel like expression anymore, but a challenge to stump people.  Poetry was no longer for enjoyment and freedom - it was for analyzing, breaking down into syllables, words, scansion, rhythm.

At Smith, it was forbidden to simply enjoy the imagery.  You had to analyze it, look inward to yourself and the author, find why you enjoyed that poem. 

I hated it.  I hated every stupid second of it.  Sometimes? People write because they enjoy it. They tell a story to entertain.  They roll and rhyme to draw people in.  And it’s that simple.  Maybe that poet that killed herself did so for reasons entirely unrelated to what she was writing.  Maybe she wasn’t hiding some meaning in there, just spewing words onto a page.

I used to want to do an MFA.  But I’m scared of losing that part of myself again.  Writing, reading are so core and intrinsic to who I am - breaking these pieces down to their parts, analyzing it, tearing to pieces the work…

Never again.  Sometimes, a story is just that - a story.  An engaging, wonderful piece that may stir your imagination.  It doesn’t have to be deeper than that to be immortal and perfect.

-Lisa, on February 12, 2011 at 7:32 pm

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