the throng of page count

You'd think as a writer, I would hear the page count (the mininum number of pages required to pass the class) on the first day of my writing classes and brush it away, as if it were a unnecessary concern, as if there was no challenge in mustering sixty pages in fourteen weeks. Sixty. 60. That's nothing, some might say. Most students probably turn in double that over the course of the semester.

Not me. Not even close.

In fact, I have never reached page count for any class until at least the very end of class, but usually in the weeks after, when grades are being tabulated and recorded, when teachers are tired of paper and just want to go home, and I have been given a grace period in which to turn things in.

Today in class, we received our folders, manila file folders containing our work that has been turned in over the last twelve weeks. It was almost like being in the locker room after gym class. Mine was painfully and I felt, obviously thin, and I worried that everyone was comparing theirs to mine.

22 and 1/4 pgs.

We have a two week break, then we're back for two weeks, and this class is done. And starkly, like that, the facts are that I am only a third through page count, but nearly done with class.

After tirading rants rang out between my ears, I stared at a wall for ten minutes, filled with fliers, advertisements and blank spots of paint. Staring at this particular wall, as I have done in the past, I ate a soggy sandwich that I saved from being thrown away at work, and ruminated on my life. I will spare you all the abstract fervent thoughts that rattled through my brain.

Two years ago, when I was in Fiction II, I lamented my lack of quantity, that in all my efforts, I could barely make page count. I countered that I had always been a quality versus quantity writer.

Now that I am older and less confused by life, I realize that was simply a flimsy cover-up for the real problem, which I have lately discovered (yet I know it has always left its mark on everything I do) is that I have a terrible time finishing things. I can't end a story to save my life. I start something with absolute zeal, infectious passionate innovation and than find myself unsure of how to maintain it. I can't let go of the good times at the beginning. I am enamored by the inspiration in life, but terrified to be left with the responsibility of keeping it up. (Many of you horoscopically minded are screaming, yes, for you are an Aries!)

Today in class, when zeroed in on by my teacher for my ideas on my yet to be written first draft of my creative essay which was due two weeks ago, I said what may have been the wisest thing to come out of my forsaken mouth, "I think I just need to sit down and start writing."

But oh! After Thursday, I will have two weeks free in which to frolic and meander and witness the slow and subtle changes in the winter weather, from the shaking of the stubborn leaves still fashioned to their branches, to the wispy snowflakes that are so ferocious they sting the eyes in a horizontal wind, right down to the ground and the snow covering the bleary grey squares.

And yes, a lot of homework too.