It strikes me kinda funny that after 50 years I am choosing to return to the belly of the beast. I define the beast as a UCLA writing class, the last one of which I took began in January 1974, the second quarter of my freshman year. That class was the dreaded, at least to me, English Composition class, a requirement for all students, a class in which I was lucky to earn a “C,” and a class in which my writing was subjected to ridicule by the TA on numerous occasions. Yeah, those comments still rankle and my psyche still bears the scars.
The reason I took that class during the winter quarter was that UCLA deemed my skills in English, specifically with respect to writing, to be too weak to allow me to take English Composition without first taking the Subject A English class as a prerequisite, a class I never even got credit for taking, as it was deemed remedial and not worthy of counting towards anyone’s degree. I never understood why UCLA opted to name the class Subject A. I would have thought a better title would have been Subject D (for dummies) or Subject R (for remedial) or some other equally demeaning title. I must have done okay in the class, though, because UCLA let me into English Composition afterwards.
In case I have not made this abundantly clear, I did not like to write at that stage of my life. Frankly, I could not conceive of a future in which I ever would. I chose to become a math/computer science major because I thought it would enable me to avoid writing one page more than absolutely necessary while earning my degree. I did not think too hard about the choice. I selected it when I was at orientation, a month or so prior to entering UCLA. It took me all of a minute to make the decision and check if off on the form. I knew I was pretty good at math, but I had never written a computer program, so it was a somewhat risky option. It’s not like math or computer science graduates made much money back then. So I did not pick it for the job opportunities. During my four undergraduate years, I never once thought of changing it. It turned out to be a smart decision made, to a large extent, based on a stupid reason.
So here I sit, 50 years later, having just signed up to take a writing class at UCLA Extension. I realize it is not part of the UCLA undergraduate curriculum, but that distinction does not matter to me, as this class still has an instructor, it still has assignments, and I still perceive it as returning to the belly of the beast. Ironically, this time I am choosing to enroll. Thanks to the ravages of inflation, I am choosing to pay more for this single class than what my family paid for tuition for my entire first year at UCLA. I want to take it. I am interested in it. Dare I say it, I am taking it because I have developed a passion for writing.
What the hell? How did this happen? What ended my desire to avoid writing? When did writing become one of my hobbies, an enjoyable way to pass the time without having to watch tv, peruse social media, or, God forbid, play golf. When did I discover that my brain felt good while I was writing? That writing was fun. That I liked filling a blank screen with words. The simple answer is, “I have no idea.” And, frankly, I have no need to know.
That does not mean that I am completely comfortable with taking a writing class. even one at UCLA Extension. Far from it. Now, I write when I feel like it. I write when I have something I want to say. I write to tell stories that are meaningful to me. I write to make myself happy. Taking a class may force me to add structure to my writing, to write more often than I wish to, to write to meet the expectations of others, to write about subjects of which I do not care. In short, it may make writing less of a hobby and more like work. I hope that does not happen.
Thankfully, I do not have too long to dwell on any of those thoughts, as the class starts next week. Soon, I will be firmly ensconced back in the belly of the beast, hoping to escape it without any more ridicule or scarring of my psyche.
Bravo Harry!