Rosemary was in my writing workshop last semester. She identified herself as a fiction writer and in her first class exercise expressed a slight discomfort with being the oldest in the class. A single mom of two, her face was smooth, youthful, and alert. Only the graying dreadlocks gave away her true age.
When the time for in-class criticism came, she was the first to volunteer both praise and thoughtful critique. Her expressive eyes wide, her wise hands gesticulating, her regal profile leaning in the circle to enthusiastically offer her suggestions and thoughts. But when she was done, she would take it all back. She would settle back into her chair and shrug a shoulder saying, "Of course that's just my unpublished opinion." Stop saying that, we told her. Just because you haven't been published yet doesn't make your thoughts or writing worth any less.
Rosemary was easily the best writer in the group. She made writing look easy, words artfully spilling forth on her pages forming simple and elegant paragraphs. Her writing gave us glimpses into her life — it was a nonfiction writing course, after all — which made me admire her all the more. Her writing was always engaging, funny, and complete, but you could feel her frustration boiling beneath the surface, her longing to break out and be this amazing success that her life constructs blocked her from. Here there were no saccharine happy endings, just resolutions. Rarely would I have critique for her pieces other than, "Perfect. Publish." I envied her talent. I rooted for her from the sidelines.
Today, I am pumping my fist in jubilation. Rosemary's story Being Zarathustra has been published in Wheelhouse Magazine. Go read it. And join with me in congratulating her, because believe me, there is no one more deserving. Way to rock it, Rosemary.
When the time for in-class criticism came, she was the first to volunteer both praise and thoughtful critique. Her expressive eyes wide, her wise hands gesticulating, her regal profile leaning in the circle to enthusiastically offer her suggestions and thoughts. But when she was done, she would take it all back. She would settle back into her chair and shrug a shoulder saying, "Of course that's just my unpublished opinion." Stop saying that, we told her. Just because you haven't been published yet doesn't make your thoughts or writing worth any less.
Rosemary was easily the best writer in the group. She made writing look easy, words artfully spilling forth on her pages forming simple and elegant paragraphs. Her writing gave us glimpses into her life — it was a nonfiction writing course, after all — which made me admire her all the more. Her writing was always engaging, funny, and complete, but you could feel her frustration boiling beneath the surface, her longing to break out and be this amazing success that her life constructs blocked her from. Here there were no saccharine happy endings, just resolutions. Rarely would I have critique for her pieces other than, "Perfect. Publish." I envied her talent. I rooted for her from the sidelines.
Today, I am pumping my fist in jubilation. Rosemary's story Being Zarathustra has been published in Wheelhouse Magazine. Go read it. And join with me in congratulating her, because believe me, there is no one more deserving. Way to rock it, Rosemary.
Labels: Happy Things, Promotin'
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