During my freshman year of college I was introduced to the essay I Am Writing Blindly by Roger Rosenblatt. It first appeared in TIME Magazine in the winter of 2000, shortly after the Kursk submarine disaster, a Russian nuclear-powered cruise missile that was “lost with all hands” – sunk with no survivors. At the time of Rosenblatt’s writing, the media was abuzz with the news that, contrary to the claims of Russian officials, several men had survived in a chamber for a time before their deaths and that, from the recovered remains of the Kursk, written messages had been found. What intrigued Rosenblatt, and me, was not that the letters had been found, but “the matter of writing the message in the first place.”
The essay gives other examples like the submarine accident – passengers on a fiery, spiraling jet using their final few moments to scribble letters to loved ones, or concentration camp victims stuffing poems, letters and memories into gaps of the ghetto walls. “Why did they bother?” asks Rosenblatt, and he gives this answer: “the impulse was in them, like a biological fact.” That line did it for me. It gave a reason, or at least a name, for one of my most natural instincts – to write. It also fanned into flame the sense of responsibility that always came with it, which in The Ring of Time E.B. White describes as feeling “charged with the safekeeping of all unexpected items of worldly or unworldly enchantment, as though I might be held personally responsible if even a small one were to be lost.”
That’s where it all began, and then there was Notes of a Native Son. And the dictum “show, don’t tell”. And Marilynne Robinson, God bless that woman; and everything in between too, from Austen to Chekhov to good ol' Gregor Samsa. But throughout the years of my undergraduate education so far (I am on the “extended” plan) I have done far more reading than writing. A writer friend of mine even rebuked me recently, saying “I know you’ve read Baldwin and are marinating or whatever, but…” which I got such a kick out of, and a reality check. Thus began my search for a writing program, an arduous task considering my many indispensible requisites. It must be Christian. It must be good, too. Really, actually, good. Inexpensive, perfectly befitting my situation, preferably small, and online. It must be the ideal.
Enter Perelandra. I found Perelandra College through Bakersguide.com, like a providential windfall from the hand of God himself. I entered my first search, and there it was, the perfect personal ad: “Writing BA combines art and craft at half the cost. Masterpieces. Imagination and reason. Online.” Amen! I visited the website, read the catalogue and requested feedback from former students, all of which sang the praises of Perelandra’s commitment to quality, which is what I think I meant by “really, actually good.” It is my hope that through your program I can pursue excellence in writing to the glory of God, and so honor the impulse within me, which is more like a spiritual fact than anything else, like a hunger for more than bread.
No comments:
Post a Comment