I miss my old writing teacher, although my new one appears to be a very good one, and I'm excited to start the next round. Imagine what a genius I'll be at the end of it!
But since I had offered to proofread some job-application materials for my old teacher, yesterday I got an e-mail from him with the promised stuff to be dissected by my red pen. It's been intriguing to look at it all; he's led an interesting life and loves a lot of the same stuff I do. I somewhat wish I had met him in college (he graduated a year after I did), because I think we would have bonded. It's not terribly surprising, I guess, since a love of the same material and a similar sensibility is probably a large part of the reason why he liked my writing so much. It's weird to think it's that subjective, this assessment of talent and worth. But I guess it's like love and anything else: aren't we all just looking for that reflection of ourselves?
Among the things that compose an application for a writing professor, I find there's something called a "portfolio," which, in his rendering, consists of a narrative of his teaching methodology, as illustrated by a fictionalized class made up of various students he has taught, along with examples of their writing in an appendix. I am one of these students!
It's weird to see fictional me in class setting; I seem to be quite the thoughtful, engaged participant. I somewhat take issue with his suggestion of me as a shy, librarian type who doesn't like to meet people's eyes, although I totally dig having my Corningware dish immortalized. And I won't burst his bubble by telling him that the class methodology had very little to do with that particular story, and that all the word-game words I incorporated were my own, thrown out in class not because I reached that mondo-creative state, but because I had already decided to use them.