Well, well, well, I never got to begin the National Novel Writing Month (
NaNoWriMo) project (maybe next year) but I did take a writing workshop with the Bay Area Writing Project (BAWP) at UC Berkeley on Saturday morning.
My partner, Neil, a struggling, newishly employed English teacher at a continuation high school, was all gussied up and heading for the door. I asked, "where on earth are you going? It's only 8 AM. There's no school today." He mumbled something about attending BAWP but said he didn't think I could go too because I wasn't a teacher.
Ever the one to take "no" lightly, I fired, "Nonsense. Of course I can go."
Besides, the arts organization I teach through, California Poets in the Schools, AKA
(CPITS) and
BAWP have had a longstanding relationship, with Neil's mentor teacher, and BAWP coordinator, Judy Bebelaar, having served on the CPITS board. Few non-profit arts education can claim such a fabulous English teacher/poet as a board member as Judy. We served together. Oh, and she belly-dances too. I was the one who suggested that Neil mentor with Judy in the first place. Sheesh! Besides, the workshop was free.
And with less than 10 minutes warning, I managed to pull it together and blearily find my way into some reasonably unrumpled clothes, brew a vat of tea and then write write write. Not exactly a novel, but something to publish nonetheless. (What a portmanteau word is that!)
Saturday was one of those achingly beautiful Indian Summer days where the warm Santana winds had whipped the marine haze to the hinterlands and the coastal mountains ringing the bay were scimitar sharp silhouettes of indigo verging on violet against a cyanide sky.
The Bay was a cerulean mirror with gleaming jade islands, and on the Berkeley campus the liquidamber trees threatening to burst into pyrotechnic splendor.
(One NaNoWriMo mini contest is to submit your worst constructed sentence or paragraph to
Red Room and the previous two paragraphs could easily qualify under the purple prose, or maybe the puce adverb category...)
Or maybe they could be a dishonorable contender for San Jose State's
Bulwer Lytton Fiction Award for the world's worst opening sentence of an imaginary novel. ("It was a dark and stormy night..." You know the one.) My friend, writing teacher, Marianne Ware used to egg us on with a plethora of adjectives and adverbs to enter bodice-ripper sentence each year. But I just wasn't rotten enough. One of her students did win the dubious award.
But I digress, we were ensconced inside the hallowed halls of academia all day...the siren call of reflected light off the Bay plashing through the windows proved to be too much, so I snapped lots of photos of the participants and of poet Adam David Miller, whom I hadn't seen in years, between writing pages and pages of persuasive essay/personal memoir and travel memoirs.

But then I'm used to dividing my attention/ time. A Sagge, less than a week away from my birthday, with a Gemini rising, I secretly think my creativity is closer to the surface when I'm slightly distracted. No room for the censor to just say "no."
Now, Neil works from "No, you can't do that..." thing. It's a Scottish thing. Or maybe a UK thing. Or an escaped Beatles lyric. Fear of censure, fear of breaking rules, fear of disrupting societal norms, fear of drawing attention—are deeply ingrained. "I got something to say that might cause you pain.... No. You can't do that..."
Poor guy, even his initials have "No" embedded in them NONeill... Yeah, and denial is a river in Egypt. Having spent the summer in Scotland, I saw firsthand, the subconscious cultural artifacts at work, in situ. Not that I can begin to understand it, but I have a better understanding of it.
American culture is based on "Yes we can" and Europe is "No you can't." Cultural divide, cultural watershed.