I would be lying if I claimed I never imagined myself as a misunderstood, unrecognized artist ahead of her time. I first thought this about myself about a year ago, when I created the phenomenon of “Nucheddar” by using pieces of cheese instead of Oreos to scoop Nutella out of the jar.
These fantasies of my secret talent resurfaced recently in the aftermath of my losing battle with Kenyon’s Creative Writing program. Each time registration rolls around, I have made it a custom to don my lucky underwear and apply for the Creative Nonfiction course. Five rejections later, I started to question the magic of my favorite tighty whities.
I came to Kenyon because the College hypes its creative writing program with as much enthusiasm as one of those inflatable tube men outside a used car lot with John Green’s face on it. I understand this excitement translates into high demand for creative writing classes, hence the need for an application process, but for introductory courses, shouldn’t four years of continued enthusiasm be enough?
If Kenyon is going to talk the talk of a creative writing sanctuary, it should be better equipped to walk the walk. When my writing doesn’t meet the standards of the course, which contrary to my whiny tone I totally accept, I am then left without the opportunity to workshop with my peers and find out specifically why it falls short of the genre of nonfiction.
Though I still have so much to learn, under the rehabilitative, nurturing eye of the English department, I’m proud to see my analytical writing skills spread their wings. I am disappointed, however, to graduate with my creative nonfiction skills unnourished.