If I want to learn how to make minestrone, chicken cacciatore and spinach frittatas, I can pay $44 and head to the local recreation center for a three-week class on Italian cooking. After ingesting an abundance of carbohydrates, I could take a clogging class, throw some pottery, or learn the basics of cartooning. If I was looking for a low-cost outdoor adventure, I could go hiking, break out the bow and arrow for some archery, or tackle my fear of heights with rock climbing. If I was an athlete looking for a team sport, I could play basketball, flag football, softball, or kickball.
However, the one thing that I cannot do at the recreation center is take a writing class other than “How to Be Travel Writer.” It is true that short story writing, poetry creation and playwriting classes do not result in a bunch of sweaty guys drinking bottled water or culminate with cheesy watercolor paintings of sailboats and wild flowers configured with a poor sense of perspective and illogical proportions, but the end result of a writing class is no less than dramatic than a good kickball game and no less creative than fusing glass or making a mosaic in a day.
Sure, the administrators at the recreation center can blame their exclusion of writing classes on a lack of instructors and limited participation. This is the excuse they gave me last Fall when they canceled the playwriting class that signed-up for in order to have some guidance to complete the my one-act play. Their bureaucratic and pleasant response to pacify me and to subdue my outrage actually was just an attempt to conceal the fact that writing classes are not sexy or marketable. E.B. White was absolutely correct when he asserted that essayists are second class citizens, and in my town all writers are dismissed. We are unappealing to recreation planners because writers are mostly grumpy and moderately crazy. Our craft is horribly laborious and tiresome. There is no instant gratification as in the case of swimming, bingo playing, and belly dancing.
It also appears that our community college has adopted the same discriminatory attitude against writing classes on their roster of non-credit continuing education classes. I could learn how to improve my digital photography, pick up some conversational Spanish, or enroll in a motorcycle riding class, but I will not be learning anything about plot or setting in a junior college environment that should want to promote communication. With both affordable outlets blatantly ignoring “writerly types” in the community, I am left with the option of taking classes with the local writers group (which I think consists of scam artists who prey upon people’s dreams of becoming bestselling authors), or enrolling at the state university down the street and subjecting myself to high expectations, stern demands, tough criticism, a heavy workload and grades. I was looking for cheap and easy, not an expensive commitment that will just result in self-loathing.
So kids, here is the lesson to be learned from my dilemma: pick a hobby that either results in body secretions or pretty works of art.
