(It was also, if I'm going to be honest, my semester of Least Performance. My only withdrawal and my only bad grade also show up on that same semester's transcript. I remember staying in bed and reading a lot. I now wonder if I wasn't somewhat depressed--winter depressed during my first low-sunlight winter, coming from North Carolina to live in Michigan; food depressed, because the food sucked; weight depressed, because I surpassed the freshman 15 and then some; creatively depressed, because I couldn't find the time and space to write, and the one play I auditioned for didn't even recruit me for tech... and so on and so on and so on.)
I also had a suspicion of creative writing classes, brought on by Madeleine L'Engle's sort of transparent authorial advice put into the mouths of one of her characters in A Ring of Endless Light. The suggestion was that creative writing classes stifle, and reading is the True Path. Nonetheless, I took the class because it seemed like an unusual premise--Creative Non-Fiction?--and my friends had all taken the professor's classes and found them rewarding. It was meant for things like biography writers, who take all these facts and have to assemble them into a narrative, and things like that.
Anyway, to get to the point of this entry: the sudden attack of memory was this. Our first assignment in the class was to write a short narrative description of yourself, physically. I whipped it out in ten minutes or something, didn't really think twice about it, and brought it in. We read them out loud--they were maybe two hundred words long. Afterward, the professor pointed out all the interesting word choices I'd made--referring to my green eyes as rebels, since Mom had blue and Dad had brown, referring to my hair as chaotic (the curls), and so forth. The subtext was clear, as soon as it was pointed out, and it looked like I'd labored over a nuanced portrayal of my character, layered in with my physical description. But I hadn't.
The professor asked, "Did you do that on purpose?"
Dumbly, I shook my head.
And she moved on.
That wasn't the first time, and wasn't the last. I find that whenever people find subtle nuances and little things like that in my work, 95% of the time, there was no conscious effort to put that stuff in. I worry about that, a bit. I worry that it means I'm not in control of my craft. I worry that it means I couldn't do it properly if I tried, that I only excel at writing when I'm unconscious about what I'm doing.
I don't like not knowing where that stuff comes from. It makes me feel that I lack mastery, that I lack control.
I feel it's related to all my other little disruptions of faith. Example: When I'm writing along and I can feel the future audience's disbelief pushing in on me, I throw up my hands and say, "They're all totally going to be able to tell that I just made all this up!" I'm pretty sure that one is only me; the other writers I've surveyed about that problem tend to blink at me and say, "But you are making it up, aren't you?" (I have recently decided that this is because as a writer, we lack the immediate audience feedback that an oral storyteller can rely on to figure out if they are heading precipitously off course; it may be a feedback signal that I-as-audience find the story unbelievable, but it might be me doubting myself, so who knows.)
Am I the only one who has such crises?