I just got home from my first ever journalism class. God, even writing that sentence makes me feel lighter, like I’ve just shed 30 pounds—sort of like one pound for every year I’ve been away from university since graduating in the 1980’s.

At nineteen, I dragged myself to university because that was what my parents expected. I drifted aimlessly and unremarkably from high school to higher education. I routinely skipped class and prayed for snow days. How I ended up in graduate school is anyone’s guess. I mostly hated that too, although I did meet my future husband during that time. So, it wasn’t a complete waste.

But thirty years later, I want to be here—really, really badly. The course is focused on writing for magazines. I’ve been writing in the blogosphere (mostly for free) for a couple years now. I want to take my “talents” (maybe one day I’ll be able to remove the scare quotes) to the next level, and get a syndicated column in a major publication. Oh, and I want to get paid.

So I am serious about this course, and soaking up every word that the instructor utters—although we almost started off on the wrong foot. She was five minutes late. Thirty years ago, I would not have cared, and taken it as a sign that I should bail and head to the squash court. This time, I sent a curt text to my husband, “The prof is late. Totally unacceptable.”

The other students didn’t seem the least bit fussed by the prof’s tardiness (to be fair, the classroom was impossible to find). But I was chomping at the bit to get started. I had been mentally preparing for this class for weeks. I had even thought about how to dress strategically on my first day (ripped jeans and my hair pulled back into a casual ponytail) to hopefully spare me from sticking out as “someone’s mother.”

But it was hard not to. The young man (yes, I just typed that) sitting beside me was smack-dab between the ages of my two sons (my eldest is graduating from university this year). When the prof asked us to introduce ourselves at the beginning and talk about our goals, he seemed to want to hide under his desk. My initial instinct was to put my arms around him and tell him in soothing tones that he was going to have a brilliant semester, and could borrow my notes if he wanted.

But I’m not his mother. I’m a fellow student. And I plan to kick his butt mark-wise.

Just kidding. The instructor emphasized the importance of networking, and how generous the writing community is. I have already found this to be the case. There haven’t been too many writers I haven’t liked. They tend to be well-read, interesting and ambitious people who set the bar high on quality.

While there are certainly a number of people in the class who appear to be in their 20’s, there are also a few who seem to be roughly (and very broadly speaking) in my demographic (and I won’t define that further). While I haven’t had a chance to get to know anyone personally yet, I can hazard a guess that we are all seeking our own truth in the writing process. We are also prepared to roll up our sleeves, and hunker down to do the hard work to find it.

I love being back at school.

Photo credit:Flickr-University of Saskatchewan

 

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