She Painted a Picture with Words

The following was written on December 18, 1997, after taking a creative writing class at IUPUI in Indianapolis. I found this story and many more in a long-lost box in the garage attic. 

Six weeks. That's all the longer it lasted. An eye blink in time. Every Tuesday night twelve students and a teacher met in the basement at the mall to share a passion for writing. Some stories were good. Some were painfully bad. Was I a perpetrator of pain? For 2 1/2 hours we shared the same glorious space in time. We cried and laughed together. I felt a camaraderie with my fellow writers, well, the good ones anyway. Secretly I'd hoped the bad ones would find themselves locked in a traffic jam on the interstate or sequestered in a last-minute teleconference at work. I didn't want to share the good stories with them. I'd waited seven days--168 hours--and I was selfish. My passion realized an outlet--a forum to be heard--and I was sharing it with those who felt exactly as I did. Was I one of the good ones? Julie was. She read her stories with a low deliberate voice that captivated all of us and when she was done, there was silence, then a chorus of sighs. She didn't know she was good and acted embarrassed by the attention. Hansel was good. A shy seventeen-year-old who insightfully regurgitated his fears and anger; he has incredible wisdom for someone so young. One dropped out which left eleven. Another gone. Ten. On the last night, there were nine. How could anything be more important than this class? Maybe they were locked in traffic or on the telephone at work. Maybe they realized they weren't good and wanted to save us from the pain. Should I have found a reason to not come too? Mike is an editor for a publishing company. His stories were good, although he didn't write more than a half page double-spaced per class. Carol read a story she wrote about having to decide to turn off life support for her father. I cried. Could I have told her story as well as she? Ruth wants to write a book about her life as an adopted child. She doesn't have the passion, though. She just wants to write a book about her life as an adopted child. Lattia has the passion, but my mind wondered. Exurciating pain wracked my head when Molly read. Was she in pain when I read? Pam follows our teacher from one semester to the next. She has the passion to write but seldom did for the class. I enjoyed the one minuscule story she wrote. I didn't write anything for the last class. No one noticed. Maybe they were thankful for the pain I spared them. Ruth read her story first, then Hansel. Mike next, then Carol. Pam, Lattia and Molly followed. No one asked why didn't I write anything tonight. I remembered the second class. During the break, someone complimented me on my good story. She said she felt close to me, like a friend who shared her secret world of pain. I was too embarrassed to respond. Julie was the last to read. Once again her voice drew us all in. She painted us a picture with words. I could see the man lying there in front of me, his head smashed flat. When she was done, there was that familiar silence, then the chorus of sighs. Embarrassment followed. She hung her head and her face grew red. How could she not know she was good? At the first class, she said she feared she was a bad writer. But after six classes of sighs with each story, did she still not know the truth? 8:45. Class over. Good bye. Happy Holidays. No! It can't end like this. We are joined together by some invisible force. We are comrades by virtue of our love for word construction. Julie must know. I had to catch her before she walked away doubting herself. Too late. She was gone.