Mundane Misadventures
by Rebekah VanPelt

You should write!

I can’t wait to read your book!

You’re such a good writer!

Yes, I have received some high praises over the years for various things I have written. But alas, the remarks cannot be attributed to a New York Times critic or a review in The Washington Post. They are simply the affirmations of close family and friends who, let’s be honest, would probably tell me I’m fabulous at most things. It also might be fair to note that these utterances usually occur after a particularly well written birthday card or an email wittingly composed. While it’s nice to pull off a well crafted email or a thoughtful birthday card I’m not sure the jump from there to being an adept writer is an easy one.

Kind kudos from family and friends aside I have always had this thing deep inside of me that beckons me to write. It calls out, Do it, do it, just see. I poke at this thought, like a jellyfish washed up on the beach. I turn it over and examine it from the safe distance of the top of my stick. Could I? Maybe? Perhaps? Yet, I have never taken any action more than that of poking at this idea. I have never consistently set aside time to write. I’ve never taken a writing class, until now.

A friend forwarded an email she had received from a friend with the singular line: Fwd to you in case you had any interest! My one line reply: I do have interest. I think I’m going to sign up and take this class! So here I am beginning this journey of writing in a more official manner. I eagerly shared with multiple friends that I had signed up. My parents gave me money for my birthday specifically earmarked to use towards tuition. I cleared it with my boss to take two hours every other week out of my work day to attend class.

It was finally Thursday, the Thursday, the first Thursday in March 2024, the 7th to be exact and it was time for our first writing class Zoom call. I logged in and faces popped up attached to names and I was wowed by all the continents and countries and time zones represented. This was it. I was doing it. I was taking a writing class. The first step of pursuing this life long inkling that I should be writing.

Then Becky gave us our first writing prompt. Ten minutes to write our life story. Shit. Daunting. This is where I would insert the startled emoji face. I’m sure if I could have seen my face just then, that’s what it would have resembled. I don’t know what my expectation for what we were going to be doing during our class time was, but that wasn’t it!

I pulled up a blank word document because all of a sudden the flowery journal with the mantra All along you were blooming emblazoned on the front I’d brought to hand write in didn’t seem quite suitable. I didn’t feel like I was blooming at all in that moment, more like shriveling in on myself and dying. I know that sounds dramatic, but I was having some big emotions. Emotions I was entirely unprepared for given my excitement at taking this class and my own personal build up to its start.

Folks, I cried staring at that blank word document and probably used three of my ten minutes just watching the small black horizontal line blink on and off on and off at the top left hand corner of my screen: blink blink blink. There was no clacking of keys, there were no black letters appearing from left to right in rapid succession. There was nothing but tears streaming down my face and a blank white page and some level of panic and grief. All I could think about was what I wanted my life story to hold: Abundance and light. Instead all I could see: lack and dark. Finally I snapped out of my trance and in the seven minutes I had left to write all that deficit came pouring out in a gush of words like ache and hard and chaffs and off kilter and askew. Along with the loss came longing and the line I look back on now with particular fondness: The cozy blanket that Joanna is wrapped in, I am always looking for that.

Hoping the tear rivulets on my face weren’t too obvious on my one by one inch Zoom call square I reentered the class session as the chime sounded our ten minutes had commenced. I stumbled my way through the next two writing prompts and listened, listened but did not talk the rest of the session. With a weak goodbye I left the Zoom call at the end of the two hours and slowly closed my laptop. I was exhausted and it was only noon here on the West Coast, almost a full day of work still to go.

March 2024
Oregon, USA