AUTHORITY

Releasing an old draft

I would like to teach someday. Writing, probably—my other skills, like felting and seeing traumatic events before they happen, are God-given talents. Non-transferable, like a promotional coupon.

My other aspirations include becoming President of the United States one day or starting an organized religion, but in this preparatory interim period, I think I’d like to step into a lesser authoritative role to get my bearings. Before I run the risk of tanking the economy or inadvertently steering my followers from the one true path to heaven.

This desire comes from a fundamental urge to be assertive and make decisions for others. I want to advise confidently and stand by those choices, refusing to wriggle out from under them if something goes awry. I want to urge you to order the beef over the chicken, to take the freeway over surface streets, and to choose the short man with kind eyes over your moody, six-foot ex who won’t show you off in public. But sometimes, the beef is tough, the freeways are gridlocked, and the short man with kind eyes stalks and murders you in a fit of rage. This is to say, I worry about being responsible for potentially negative outcomes.

Let’s talk credentials:

I have always been very good at helping. Not physically—I am still surprised whenever someone mistakes me for a very good physical helper. When someone calls me up to aid them with moving or packing or driving somewhere far away. I am an emotional helper—the one you call when you don’t know if you’ll ever love again, or you realize the demon of your father’s anger jumped from possessing his body to now living inside yours, or you’re trying to determine if you should quit your job to get a coffee for $7 and go thrifting every single day until you buy your fifteenth CP Shades dress and take one more sip of your latte with burnt espresso and your purpose suddenly descends through the top of your skull in the Goodwill parking lot (the answer to the latter is generally “yes”).

I identify as a “very good” emotional helper even though I still identify as “getting better” when it comes to writing. The average of these two things is why I consider the plausibility of teaching a writing class. I would especially like to teach a writing class if I could be assured that no one would ever turn on me and send an embittered email stating that my careful critique of their gripping and deeply original essay about having been promiscuous in college was unjust and incorrect. I suppose in these situations, I would adapt for the sake of survival. “Congratulations,” I’d reply. “You stood up to me—that was this week’s hidden assignment, and you passed,” and they would answer, “O, captain, my captain!”

But I don’t know if that’s how things work anymore.

I’ve published one book (three if you count poetry, which I do not) and ferried countless people through tempestuous relationship straits. These are related because writing something to completion is identical to the arc of a romantic relationship.

Here, let me explain:

The inception of the idea/love is exciting—you outline/plan the future together. You go at it, writing/loving fervently—hot n’ heavy—and then suddenly, there’s a change. It doesn’t flow as seamlessly—uninspired/sexless periods stretch longer and longer. You’re forced to confront the disconnect/the writer’s block. You push through to the other side, and things move and flow again as before—you tell people, “It’s going really well,” and you actually mean it this time. You learn to work through the rough patches and revel in the good times for a while, and then suddenly, bam. The doubt rises up from the underworld of your psyche, and you wonder if it/they are worth the trouble. If you should give up, abandon ship, and move on to something/someone else. You begin to loathe your project/person—you consider your own value in relationship to everything you once loved now crumbling within your hands. You feel foolish for thinking this was “it”—your ticket out—your dream come true. You wake up one day and know that it’s time to choose. You sit down and confront your work/partner, reading/talking over everything to determine if there’s hope for salvation. Your eyes rove your words/their face, and something flutters within your soul—the thing with feathers sings at last! Resuscitating the future you once imagined for yourself! “This/you are the one,” you say more to yourself as your eyes well with tears. You push on, you do the work, you persevere because there’s no turning back now. At long last, you reach the final keystroke/the last step to the altar. You say “the end”/“I do” and experience an unimaginable rush of euphoria and pride in your accomplishment. You gaze out over the faces of your detractors—the critics/single people whom you secretly succeeded in spite of. You close the laptop/leave the church, and as you drive to celebrate at the bar/reception, you think to yourself, “What the fuck am I gonna do now?”

While I have never advised on a romantic relationship that resulted in marriage (at least not as a direct result of my wisdom), I believe that I have guided many when it comes to affairs of the heart, and as such, I feel confident that I could shepherd someone through the process of writing a book or article or short story. Why am I pitching here? Who is this for?

Let me know what you think in the comments! Like and subscribe below. Subscribe and like below. Comment, like, and subscribe. Subscribe, like, comment. Engage, engage, engage. Feedback, feedback, feedback. I am a God, but only if you tell me I can be—only if you visit my temple and offer your flowers.

Dead Poet’s Society (1989)