Sending a Son to College Feels Like This

I was sixteen when I turned down a full scholarship to Wellesley College. I don’t remember what that scholarship was worth in 1972 dollars, but I’d have to say, from my perspective now, that it would have been priceless. Wellesley offered me an open door into science and philosophy and language and strong women and self-esteem and intellectual passion that could have opened the world to me. They offered me Aristotle and Simone de Beauvoir, Sartre and Collette, Emily Dickinson and Michelangelo. They offered me classical sculpture, medieval history and macroeconomics, the riches of the Renaissance, fluency in a language, travel abroad, and in 1972, the rare opportunity to live at the beating heart of the emerging wave of feminism.

For years, whenever the subject came up, I joked with my mother, “If I’d gone to Wellesley, Mom, I just would have come out sooner.” That cavalier dismissal was my way of taunting my mother-but perhaps I was also deflecting the lost opportunity I must have sensed even then. When you turn your back on all of Western civilization and thumb your nose at a world-class education, when you say you want nothing to do with a network of some of the brightest and most talented women in the world, you are burning one serious bridge behind you. I would not get another shot at that kind of education. I’m sure some other high school senior was glad to have it; my refusal to accept the scholarship made some other parent’s day. But at the time, I was gleeful in my disdain for Wellesley, absolute in my dismissal of all it stood for. I slammed that door behind me and said, “No, I do not want your money. I do not want your school. I do not want your traditions and your hallowed halls. I do not want to be a Wellesley girl.” The day I turned that scholarship down I broke my mother’s heart, broke it in a way that I can only now, four decades later, understand.

“What’s the big deal?” I told her, as only an arrogant teenager can do. “It’s my life.”

Why I'm Taking the Summer Off

It’s been so many years since I’ve taken a summer vacation that I can’t remember the last time I took one. Why now, you might wonder. Why now, when my kids are almost launched—Eli heading off to college in August and Lizzy rounding the bend into 10^th grade—am I finally taking a whole summer off? Why didn’t I do it when my kids were younger, when they really needed me? Why did I keep working? Keep writing? Keep producing? Keep teaching? Because I thought I had to. Because I was a breadwinner. Because I was afraid to stop. I didn’t know how to say no.

But now I must. I must say it loudly and repeatedly. I must keep saying it to myself and to everyone around me, but most especially to myself. Something in my midlife, sandwich generation, post-cancer, pre-empty nest brain and heart is screaming at me to take a break, to regroup, to stop my momentum. To find out who I am and who I am meant to be. Or to find out nothing of the sort—just to simply be.

Lately, my life has all been about momentum—I’ve been a slave to the forward thrust into the next thing and the next thing and the next. And in the process of bowing to that headlong drive into the future, I’ve lost so many of the precious things that give life value—time to walk, time to think, time to daydream, time to visit with friends, time to sort through piles, time to throw things away, time to lay around and read a book. Time to waste. Time to ponder. Time to feel. Time to burn my lists.

What I Love About Teaching

I was interviewed by Jenn Louden for her Teach Now program about my teaching philosophy. In preparing for that interview, I sat down and made a list of all the things I’ve learned about teaching; step-by-step, what I do to create an inspirational learning environment for my students. This is what I do and why I do it:

• Teach in groups. Although I do work with writers individually, my strong preference is to teach in a group environment—whether it be a weekly class, a weekend workshop, or a weeklong retreat. The synergy and power of a circle of writers creates a potent atmosphere for fostering growth in self-expression, self-knowledge and craft. Although many of my students initially consider writing a private activity, they are deeply moved and inspired by listening to their classmates’ stories. When someone in a writing circle is gifted at dialogue—able to evoke a vivid setting—or a memorable character—or is particularly brave about putting herself on the page—the other students learn by osmosis and example. Another tangible benefit of a writing group is that everyone is guaranteed to write. When people sit in a circle with other writers and the teacher gives them a writing prompt, they are going to write—something they can never be sure of at home with a million compelling distractions.

• Create a safe, confidential environment. The most critical thing I do as a teacher is create an environment where each writer feels safe to explore his or her own voice, to take risks, and to explore sensitive or vulnerable material without fear of judgment, censure or unwanted advice. I do this in several specific ways: by giving extremely clear guidelines on precisely what I mean by confidentiality—and enforcing it, by protecting the creative process and raw first drafts from premature feedback, and by creating a community where we are all aware of the sacred covenant we undertake when we listen to another person’s story and witness their growth—both as writers and as human beings.

From a Rant Into the Light

Two weeks ago, I had the opportunity to teach at the San Miguel Writer’s Conference in San Miguel Allende, Mexico. San Miguel is a charming, old colonial town in central Mexico, popular with ex-pats from the US, Canada, and all over the world. The conference drew writers from all over North America and featured a variety of workshops for writers of all skill levels, on topics ranging from fiction to memoir to blogging, from marketing to science fiction writing. It was a great conference—you should consider attending next year.

One of the personal highlights for me was the keynote speech by Sandra Cisneros. I’ve been following her work ever since she published The House on Mango Street. As someone who lives on the border between cultures, she was a great choice as the keynote speaker.

One of my favorite things Cisneros said reflected my own evolution as a writer. “Writing begins from a rant, but it doesn’t end there. You write until the writing brings you to a place of light. You have to travel through the rant to the light.”

She continued, “When I was younger I did a lot of ranting. But ranting is uncomposted writing. No one wants to accept the coffee grounds and the banana peels, but they will pick up the flower. We have to learn to write with love, until the light shines through.”

As a younger writer, I, too, was famous for my rants. Whether it was a personal diatribe, putting someone who had wronged me “in their place,” or a political treatise, I loved to hone language into a weapon, a force to be reckoned with. I used words to educate, to instigate, to disturb, to shock, to provoke. I loved “being in your face.”