I ended up going to the UNM Continuing Education Building on University north of Indian School tonight after work to start a six-week class on writing. More specifically, on writing the scene- the basic building block of all novels, narratives, and dramas.

The first class was informative. After a quick run through the syllabus and a brief round of introductions by the six participants, the instructor gave us a sheet describing the elements of scenes- which are really scenes followed by sequels- and then he read a few scenes (2 to 3 page excerpts) from Jeanette Walls’ “The Glass Castle”. It was a worthwhile use of two hours.

What looms in the next few weeks for me, though, is frustration.

We have to actually write things- write scenes, that is- so that they can be read and critiqued.

Despite the kind words people have told me over the years about my writing abilities- alluding mostly to my style or an ability to compress thoughts into terse packets when term papers were involved- I am stuck facing what I dread the most.

My own creativity.

I find my life and my thinking about as exciting as watching a pair of shoes sitting on the floor.

Which takes me back to asking myself, yet again, “What is wrong with this mind, this heart, that it does not register life, that it does not memorize significant moments in its past and find anything worth saying about them?”

I grew up safe, in a middle-class home, well-fed and unviolated. When I look at my life, it is a summation of plain.

Whatever this shell is that shields my thoughts from my own meaning and memories is perpetually frustrating. One day I will sit and write something worthwhile, I think from time to time. And in between those times, my mind is a dry fountain, caked in dust, clogged forever by God knows what. Dull, barren, dead.

Blocked, censored, encased, snared in a web of noise and nothingness.

Scene classes can only help you if you have a story to tell.

I cannot find a story. What is wrong with me.

“Frustated Man Goes To Bed”.