I’m not a teacher. It’s not that I’m not good at it. I’ve taught things to people before, but I don’t have the long term patience for drilling stuff into people’s heads. Put me in front of a class of thirty students and I’d start the hour teaching Calculus and end up making balloon animals.
I know how to make exactly two balloon animals: the herpes virus and The sandworms from Dune.
Last Thursday night I’m sitting in the library at the College of Santa Fe to get some writing done. I enjoy writing in libraries. They’re quiet and comfortable and full of people completely unlike me (i.e. published authors.) On this particular night I observe a young woman meet with a young man and sit down at a nearby table. She’s wearing a striped skirt and a maroon top. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She’s soft-spoken, carries a binder and clings to a well-used tissue. The young man is stocky, with sandy hair. He’s got a black jacket on that’s a bit small for him. He has trouble modulating the volume of his voice, which is loud and cottony. From what I can tell, she’s here to provide some sort of guidance for his college career. If my guess is right, his studies have spiraled out of control and she’s here to help him.
Normally, that would be the extent of my interest. I would drop the headphones back on, turn up Steve Reich and get back to the script. But since the guy’s voice was so loud, I couldn’t help overhearing when they got to talking about his subjects and I realized that he’s a film student. He was taking History of World Cinema, Post Production and Fundamentals of Screenwriting. All the classes are giving him trouble, but what’s weighing on him is a script assignment.
Welcome to the ever-lovin’ club.