Lay lecturer

A real writer is possessed, can’t leave well, enough alone, she nickel-and-dimed the verbs and nouns into submission, tried on a new word order. You’d think she was at a bargain boutique sale, she was so desperate to pin down her vision, but any old words wouldn’t do at all. It was all about the context after all. She couldn't help it. Or herself.

She hitched up her pencil skirt to take the steps 2 x 2, late again. This time she had no excuse, the words took her hostage. Again. The clock ceased its machinations and left her behind as usual. It didn’t help that she got caught up in traffic. She hoped there was enough gas in the tank. She was cutting it close, story of her life. The narcotic sway of words on the page had this power to stop time and render it meaningless. It was her own little drop of eternity.

The top of the stairs was like an oasis. She had a straight shot into the classroom where the students were restlessly shuffling papers, as if to make a run for it. The five-minute late rule was invoked. She slid up to the podium like a baseball player stealing home. And she began her lecture in medias res, right in the middle of things, leaving them to scramble for context. The subject was not recorded.

There was always one student at the ready, who could roll with it. At first she mistook her student’s attentiveness for granted, labeling her an overachiever, enthusiastic, but lately she began to notice that Mary Beth seemed to be always taking down notes, while glancing at the clock. She thought what happens next? 

She began to worry that this woman was a spy, or perhaps she was planning to make a move on her job. Lectures held a tenuous position, and could be replaced at the whim of the department. No time for tenure on the hard-scrabble slope of lecturer competition. Lectures were a dime of dozen. She didn’t know whether to acknowledge the girl or ignore the situation completely. 

She could feel herself letting go of expectations. What would happen if she just stayed home the next time the words came to visit, and then let them have their way with her?

10/5/2023 WOW Writes, Dulcie Witman

This was from a free workshop I found on Facebook, called WOW Writes, wide open writing, held on the first Thursday of the month. We wrote for two minutes on a prompt. Then we were interrupted midstream by another prompt. Then again for a third time. I didn’t like the interruption, or the abrupt process of shifting directions or perspectives. I was later asked to read what I wrote by cofounder Dulcie Witman, who said that liked it, but I did not care for the actual workshop leader, whom I don’t remember. I’m always leery of therapists, perhaps afraid of being “herapized” by therapists always leaping to the wrong conclusions. I never went back to the group because I really don’t enjoy writing fiction. Not my thing.