Chaos From Order: A meditation on the 2004 Creative Writing Class

It seems so very long ago that I first stepped into the realm of dignified chaos affectionately called Mrs. Bedall’s room. Everything from the once-white, bold numbering, now scribbled on in most interesting swirls of silver, blue, and black ink from various idle hands scrambling for fragments of inspiration, to the assorted bits of multi-hued paper cheerfully scampering underfoot like annoyingly enthusiastic muses on the floor. That, and the loose construction of famous authors hung about the room on a bulletin board, gazing upon young hopefuls with a matronly air to the posters of great literary classics turned into contemporary films, to the slightly askew black and white headshots of my class, frozen in a flash of hope, smiles in place, eyes never loosing their mischievous and writing-fevered fire within their eyes. Indeed, as I make my way to my usual seat—first desk, third row, right hand side, and set my shoulder-bag down with an unceremonious thump, reveling in the reassuring, solid echoes within as my standard two books rattle hopefully at me, I look around the room.

I say “room,” though 302 is far from a mere room, and deserves more than such a paltry title. 302 is an inter sanctum for writers, where, in the rare moments of intent silence, the rustling of eager muse’s wings is audible. It is a place to think, to relax, to create, to simply be. My home away from home, so to speak. If I’m not in the auditorium, which wild speculation suggests is my full-time residence, (I’m not to clear on this myself. I certainly do spend a majority of my time there, and during school productions stay odd hours, often falling to sleep on the couch behind the traveler,) or the library, chances are that I’m here. Here, with an extended family that has become as close and dear to me as that of my extended theater family. Yes, there’s no doubt that I am indeed at home, especially when, at exactly 2:05, Spencer dances in front of my desk in his usual ritual of greeting singing yet another nonsense song, right on cue, as he does every day, never so much as a millisecond off.

This never fails to bring a ready grin to my face. And as I look around, my gaze going to each person in turn; the shy, the deep, the insane, the vocal, the overly vocal, the quiet. And but of course, our personal debate team known as Spencer, Jesse, and Dean. I look at them, and shake my head, overwhelmed at how important each individual has become to me over the few months I’ve known the majority of them. How so much like family they’ve become. And how very much I’m going to miss them next year. How much I’m simply going to miss this class in general. Every day has been an exhilarating, amazing, breath-taking ride, full of deliciously unexpected twists and turns.

I think of all the assignments we’ve completed this year, my favorites have been our fiction pieces and our Writer’s Choice. Mainly because I enjoy the freedom fiction and fantasy offer. With fiction and fantasy, there are no rules save your own, and not even the sky is the limit regarding the cultures, languages, races, and worlds you can create. In my opinion, to write fantasy and fiction is to borrow freedom. Which perhaps is why I treasure such literary classics such as my personal favorites, The Lord of The Rings trilogy, as well as The Lost Road and Other Writings, Unfinished Tales, The Shaping of Middle Earth, volumes 1-5, and Watership Down, Redwall, the Dragon riders of Pern series, and countless others, as well as timeless authors like Tolkien, Brooks, Nix, Mcaffrey, Bradley, Lackey, to name a very few. These are, in my opinion, magnificent authors worthy of immortalizing on any avid reader’s bookshelf. And if you haven’t read any works by any of the above, then you’re a pair of loco pantaloons. Yes, crazy pants. That’s what you are. . *Cough.* The above are my idols\heroes.

I also enjoyed Writers Choice, as it gave me a bit of a respite from organized, or should I say, specific, writing genres. I will now focus, in conclusion, on the more classic, memorable events of this year’s Creative Writing Class. Well, actually, that would take up about the whole opinion piece in itself, so I’ll just focus on one specific occurrence. It was when we were due to read a piece of our choosing one Friday, and we had formed our little circle, to better hear and appreciate each other’s writings, and to better oooo and ahhhh appropriately. When it came full circle-no pun intended, to me, I flatly refused to read, mainly because I thought what I’d written to share was—and there’s no way to phrase this mildly- crap, and you couldn’t hold so much as a birthday candle to it in comparison to my other works, and partly because whenever I go first or second, no one else wants to follow me. My stout refusal lead to random catcalls and feet stomping, and finally outright yelling of my name and attempts to snatch my paper away, coupled with a deafening beat of hands slapping desk tops. Which is about the time Mrs. Bedall walked in. Another classic moment this year had brought about.

Speaking of Mrs. Bedall.....you’ll have to pardon the long pause. I just got up to reapply my deodorant. Anyway, concerning Mrs. Bedall....hmmm. It appears my keyboard isssss m-mal-func-tion-ing. I su-pp-os-e you’ll ne-ve-r f-i-9-nd out what I th-think of you. Pardon. My inappropriate timed sense of humor has just checked in. Well. Here goes. (I can just picture you, Mrs. Bedall. All eager to hear what I-...oh, fine! I‘m getting to it!) Mrs. Bedall is the super glue holding together the chaos. She is the sole guardian of our precious lit mag, and an all around sweet, amazing, and humorous teacher, who has made the ride that much more thrilling. And she’ll be missed. She, along with the rest of the class, in my opinion, isn’t special. You guys, (yes, Mrs. Bedall, this includes you, are extraordinary. Frankly, I adore you all. More than any of you will ever know.

In conclusion, (Yes, I’m aware of the fact that the conclusion was supposedly two paragraphs ago, but who really cares?) I love this class. I’m just glad to say I was there. And you. And you. Oh, no. Feeling somewhat Dorothyish. “But it wasn’t a dream! You were there! And you! And even you!” Ahem. Anyway, regardless. Thank you so much for being there. All of you. I’m so honored and blessed to be able to say that I know you. And frankly, what with there being no Creative Writing class next year, I can honestly say I haven’t clue what I’m going to do with myself. I may become completely unhinged-again! This class and the people are the rock upon which I stand. This is the best class in the world. You part of the reason I actually have a life. And friends. Because we’re all mad here, right? Okay. Basically, what I'm trying to say is, in words of Bilbo Baggins, I have tree-erm, three purposes. First, “to tell you that I am immensely fond of you all, and that eleventy-one years* is too short a time to live among such excellent and admirable hobbits.”* Second, to inform you, again in the words of Bilbo, to inform you that “I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve!” and finally, for you know Biblo says it best always, “I am GOING! I am GONE! GOODBYE!” *Sob, sob.* (Okay, so Bilbo didn’t cry, but I am.) Anyway, thank you, you’ve been a wonderful audience\class. So long, and Gollum says thanks for all the fish. I’ve left the proverbial building! Peace and God bless to each of you, and remember to write always or despair in a world without words. Love you!

* So what if it’s only been one year? Eleventy-one has a nice ring to it.

*Elves, Dwarves, Men, Bunnies, whatever.

*Okay, just kidding about the not liking some of you...maybe. *Snicker.*