I remember taking a course on Emily Dickinson in graduate school. We read and studied her poems for an entire three hours. Some sessions killed me. What the hell? But always, I felt the generation of quirky wisdom. Mashing grammar and sentence word order?! I was struggling through grammar in another class, one I had demanded they make me take, even though it wasn't required for my program. I knew I needed it! But Emily, she threw all that out the window! It was a trying semester, but also one of enormous reception and clarity. Later I started playing with verbs in fiction class and my teacher, Rick DeMarinis, a former electrical engineer and now many times published author was aghast. "A verb can't do that, Sheela!" he exclaimed as we stood outside on a break. He wanted to throttle me. Something about dismantling a verb excited me. My weakness had become a strength. Years later, I took on teaching composition writing. Shit. Back to grammar and punctuation. Bit in the ass, I knew I was at a crossroads: I could spend all day and night grading essays and editing really badly written work or I could chuck it all and let them ride free in voice! I chose the latter.
On most days I feel like a fake, not a real teacher. Some students feel cheated too. "You didn't put any marks on my paper," some of them say.
I'm not an editor and don't want to be. I am the charter of my own ship and on this boat I command we study voice. It is the first tool of a mighty writer. Grammar, punctuation, spelling, it is important but it is not my concern. It once was.
"What part of speech is this, Sheela?" I can still remember Dr. Mortensen asking in class as the Education majors giggled in their seats. "Direct object," was my pat line before I realized I may pass out from feeling mortified and stupid. I eventually learned the rules and order. I could tell you now, but I choose not to do so. It is in me. I did the hard work. Everyone must do the hard work. And then run on Emily Dickinson style.
Throttle stirred stew.