Miranda G. Triay

I blanched every time I heard the word.

“Why don’t you take some classes?” My mother suggested over the phone, her voice warm and bright. “It could help you out of your rut. And it’d be nice to get feedback on your work.”

I found the encouragement humiliating. Debilitating. Here I was, baring my soul about my creative spirit dwindling, incapable of stringing a few sentences together without feeling a nauseous knot swell against my throat, and she suggests classes? As if I were some amateur? As if I needed some hack to pick and prod at my work like some cold, hapless frog in a high school lab? I had a goddamn MA!

But then I would hang up the phone. Cook dinner. Watch YouTube. Stare at my bookshelves.

And not write a single word.

It’s not like I didn’t have the time. Outside of the occasional family obligation, my only real commitment was my full-time job. After 5 PM, I was free to pursue whatever I wished.

Except instead of writing, I went to meet-ups around San Francisco and made some casual friends. I went on dates, most ending with a fizzle than a spark. I thought about writing, about the dozens of stories spinning around in my head like a well-cooked rotisserie chicken on a spit.

Appetizing. Mouth-watering. But I never had the drive to slice off a chunk and take a bite.

Looking back, I know now: I wasn’t lazy. I was scared.

Scared that the words had dried up. That even if I finished something, no one would care.

(Or, worse, they’d think it clichéd trash).

These revelations came after another romantic connection withered and died. When I realized I had spent weeks of my life fussing over someone who dismissed all creative conversations, his sole focus on the swimsuits I wore and the food I ate.

“You think this is what you deserve,” I said afterward, alone in my apartment. “You think it’s okay if no one cares. Including yourself.”

And so, in the dead of night, I opened my laptop and made a change.

My job at UC Berkeley — my lone commitment — has benefits. One of them is extension classes, with the tuition completely sponsored.

I needed structure. I needed a fire lit under my ass.

Anything.

And since last summer, since taking these classes, a story has formed and expanded. It was but a bud for years: a woman staring in the mirror, asking why she just slept with a man who has no memory of who he is or where he’s from. From drafting to workshopping with classmates and receiving feedback from my instructors, something tangible has emerged from that bud. Slowly coming into fruition, day by day.

Words on a page others can read. That they’re excited about.

That camaraderie, that true goodwill from fellow writers, has tempered the ever-present fear of rejection, of others viewing my dreams and passions as frivolous. In these classes, people show up. They care about their work, about their craft. And they care about mine.

A true positive feedback loop, where ideas are cultivated, and stories are discussed with joy. This was what I’d been missing. Chasing validation, dimming my light… when a community of kind storytellers was here all along.

No more hiding away. No more tucking my dreams beneath my pillows.

Taking a class is nothing to be ashamed of. I did not fail because I needed help.

Now I have the courage to commit. Others believe in me, in my work.

It’s time to believe in myself.