It started with an NPR newsbreak blaring from the alarm. When I hear these story blips early in the morning they always seem highly pertinent and immensely interesting, but within a couple of hours I inevitably forget what they were altogether. I believe this one was something along the lines of, “Arms, legs, and feet cut off and…” I drifted back towards sleep with images of blood and appendage-less limbs flailing about. I woke again a few minutes later and sluggishly contemplated my departure time. I calculated the level of effort required to find free parking within walking distance of the campus, if I had time to get coffee and breakfast, whether or not I was wearing clean underwear, etc. etc.
7:25 got out of bed with little motivation.
7:36 brewed coffee. (Drip coffee is most certainly the beer of the caffeinated world. It’s slow to start and can easily taste considerably shitty. I much prefer espresso, the liquor of the caffeinated world.)
7:41 began dressing and milling about without any real goal. Half of the time required to get ready in the morning is devoted to spacing out and allowing my irrelevant floaty thoughts time to clear.
8-late-:44 departed.
9:00 decided to make a quick stop at the café.
9:06 realized I wore a button-up without an undershirt and no deodorant, and dirty underwear to boot. (Terrible, terrible call.) Made a u-turn, headed home, changed with unbelievable haste, much like a Tour de France bicyclist fixing a flat, and burst out the door once more.
I arrived at the campus with a feeling slightly different than any I’ve had here before. This time I was a student and was here to attend classes, not to learn more about what the UW has to offer or fill out piles of forms; I was here, finally, to study what I wanted to study. It’s not quite as amazing as a feeling as one might hope, but a feeling nonetheless. In red square, the main courtyard, there was booths everywhere, loud bumping music, a rock climbing wall, and an ocean of students. People were handing out free swag left and right. I got free chocolate milk, free sandwiches; it was a bit ridiculous. It was honestly a bit more of a commercialized first experience at the UW than I’d hoped for, but at least it wasn’t boring. There was an army recruiting van on the bricks and I heard the sounds of gunfire and explosions coming from behind the van. This being the UW in Seattle, WA, the army recruiting station wasn’t all too popular, and the fact that they were using video games to promote the impression that the Army would let you blow the shit out of anything wasn’t quite as supportive as they might’ve hoped for.
Just as anyone should be on the first day, I was late. I walked in the room, promptly found a seat, avoided the judgmental eyes, and whispered to the woman in front of me, “This is writing, right?” She confirmed and I proceeded to be twice as attentive to make up for being late. Through observation I quickly learned we were in the process of introducing ourselves by name (excusing our first names and saying either mister, miss, or misses because this instructor has a penchant for last names) and saying one interesting thing about ourselves.
My turn came and I was highly prepared, saying just loud enough for everyone to hear, “I’m Mr. Spendlove. I’m a transfer student from Highline Community College studying Creative Writing and this is my first quarter here. Today,” I tried very hard to think of a memorable interesting fact, “is the first day in my entire life that I’ve worn a yellow shirt.” Most of the class remained quiet upon reception of this interesting fact which surprised me as I feel a first-time-ever fact is worthy of at least a little confetti or applause. And yellow, seriously? I was being courageous.
The instructor replied, “I almost wore a turtle-neck for the first time today.” Then another late student burst in.
My next class is with all of the same students as the first class so I followed the herd towards the next building. I kept wondering, What if we’re all following a single person and that person doesn’t actually know where they’re going, nor do they know that we’re following, what then? We made it without a hitch and I found a seat somewhere in between 159 other students cramped into desks less than a foot apart. Of course I was fortunate enough to sit next to the one guy with BO who strives to make awkward comments at totally unnecessary intervals to seek the much desired attention of others. I’m in no way passing judgment. I am, however, stating that I don’t much enjoy sitting next to “this” guy when I’m trying to pay attention. Moreover, how is one supposed to act around this type? Smile when they comment? Make no move at all? Fidget a tiny amount to acknowledge that you at least heard his voice? I opted to make no movement at all. It really wouldn’t be awkward if he didn’t think the comments he was making related to every other student’s opinion. He thinks his is the unspoken voice of many. To top it off, when the instructor said with much passion that she had a strong dislike for students using “personal computing devices” during lectures, his was the only one out.
My last class of the day is with David Shields and he is, as I’d hoped, highly unconventional. Recently I’ve come to realize that modern (or postmodern?) writing is not about perfecting a formula. Writing now is about creating new formulas. It’s not quite as straightforward as the old cliché about trail blazing; it’s more abstract than that. It’s figuring out how to arrange the trail one is blazing, not just doing something different or creating something new, but making something recognizably connectable to the contemporary human psyche. If I’m going to be anything but a genre writer I’m going to have to do things unconventionally.