By Cecelia Caldwell, written July 2023
“Let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences.”
from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
If you had told me in high school that I was going to end up majoring in English, I’d look at you like you were crazy. If you had told me, additionally, that within the field of English, I’d be specializing in creative writing, I’d think you were even crazier.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve always loved reading, but I never liked reading, if that makes sense. I liked to read for fun, for entertainment. I despised the type of reading that we did in English class. We read closely, analyzing all the nuances, contradictions, and hidden meanings a text had to offer. And after all that, we’d have to write an essay demonstrating that reading in a way that was concise, yet thorough. Daring, yet professional. I always hated English class, I think, because it made me feel stupid. I could barely even extract a deeper meaning from a text, let alone begin to write a thoughtful essay about it. I had resigned myself to the belief that English just wasn’t my thing and spent hours pouring over sample essays just to stay afloat in my AP Lit class.
I went off to college planning on majoring in anthropology. I had never taken an anthropology class, but I thought it would combine my love for human culture, storytelling, and history in a meaningful way. My first semester of school, I dove right into my planned major, taking cultural anthropology, the basic prerequisite for all anthro majors. I wanted to love the class, I did, but I just couldn’t. The readings and concepts were interesting enough, but it was all so objective, scientific. After a high school career filled with activism and advocacy, it felt weird learning about racism, colonialism, homophobia, and more without learning anything about how to combat these phenomena. I was utterly disappointed, and yet I pushed forth, hoping my spring semester classes would reignite this passion.
It didn’t. My linguistic anthropology class was dull and as I sat in a classroom filled with 40 other unmotivated students, I’d count the seconds until class was over. My other anthropology class, called Anthropology of Food, was a little more interesting, but I still didn’t feel a spark. I had, however, signed up for another class on a whim: a creative writing class called Writing the Self. The thought of studying English still felt undesirable for me but being a lover of books (and especially memoirs), I thought it could be fun to give writing a try. Writing the Self marked a milestone in my academic development; there was me before that class, and there was me during/after it. In the early weeks of our class, we read pieces of creative nonfiction from a wide range of authors. We dipped our (collective) toe into the world of writers like James Baldwin, Joan Didion, Roxane Gay, Lucy Grealy, Hanif Abdurraqib, and Mary Oliver. These works, so different in form, structure, and message, opened my eyes to the beauty and multidimensionality of personal writing. Through the reading process, we engaged in thoughtful conversation about each author, each work, and what it means to exist as an “I” in a piece of writing. As our observations drew to a close, we began writing our own pieces that we would later present to the class.
As excited I was to dive in, the open-endedness of the brief intimidated me. When I wrote essays for my anthropology classes, at least, I had an idea of the structure and sequence of my work. Here, the world was my oyster. After trying to draft several serious, melancholy pieces speaking about breakups and mental health, I decided to take a left turn. Drawing from my love for brilliant satirical essayist Samantha Irby, I decided to self-administer the New York Times’ famous 36 Questions that Lead to Love questionnaire, answering the questions in a way that was both self-deprecating and funny, and serious, vulnerable.
I padded into class timidly on the day my piece was to be workshopped. Already a generally anxious person, I found the idea of hearing criticism about my work absolutely dreadful. I was convinced that my peers would hate it, hate me, and that all my creativity and vulnerability would be for nothing. Boy, was I wrong. My classmates loved the piece. They thought 36 Questions was hilarious while still being honest, satirical, while at the same time sad. They had critiques, too, of course, but I was warmed and overwhelmed by the support I received, and left the class happy, creatively fulfilled, and hungry for more. At the same time, my anthropology classes were still giving me nothing. At one point, when tasked to write an essay analyzing a piece of poetry that utilizes African American English, or AAE, I was surprised to have only gotten a B+ on the assignment. My professor had left but one comment for me: Remember that this is an anthropology class. You just wrote me a book report.
By the end of the year, I had realized that my passion for anthropology would never grow. At the same time, though, I discovered that my school has a creative writing major. It’s a branch of the English major, except instead of studying solely literature, we’re required to take several semesters of writing classes. It seemed perfect for me. With this plan, I could write, read, and edit without needing to study Shakespeare or Chaucer or Homer ad nauseum.
I am writing now as a student about to enter her third year of college. I am a declared an English, creative writing, major with minors in Spanish and, yes, anthropology. I’ve spent the last academic year writing poetry and creative nonfiction, while also reading extensively in my spare time.
I am often asked what I want to do with my creative writing degree. I am asked if I want to become an author. The answer to these questions is that I do not know. I might write a book of my own someday, but I also might not. What I do know is this: by learning to write, I’ve opened a door into the world and into myself. I can wield my words as a sword to bring about social change. I can craft my words into mazes, discovering more about myself and healing past traumas, even if I get lost along the way. And, of course, I can use my words to help other writers (dreamers, activists, poets, etc.) realize their own goals. I [am lucky to be here, at Yellow Arrow Publishing, where I can do just that.
College is a time for exploration. It’s a time to get things wrong and to try again. It’s a time to discover ourselves, lose ourselves, and discover ourselves again. Words are everything to me. They’re endlessly powerful. Writing is, too. I will never regret the confusion and dissatisfaction I encountered when first coming to college, because all of that led me here. Right where I’m meant to be.
Cecelia Caldwell is a rising junior at Middlebury College studying English on the creative writing track. She is minoring in anthropology and Spanish. An avid reader and lover of words, Cecelia is passionate about publishing, editing, storytelling, literacy, and the diversification of all these fields. In her free time, Cecelia enjoys writing satire, working out, cooking, and tending to her garden. She lives in Western Massachusetts with her mom and two dogs, Ollie and Ernie.
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