A grateful rant to my minstrels and misfits.

In Not Quite Science Fiction, a seminar I’m taking this spring, around 15 students sit in a wobbly circle to unpack tales of the intimate and bizarre. Even though we are gathered to study some distant author’s work, inevitably, pieces of ourselves come through. Creative Writing majors—or other arts-devoted students—are some of the most diverse I’ve met. Many study at the School of General Studies, which houses students from military, working, and other nontraditional backgrounds. They come before the outstretched arms of Alma Mater not to chase a six-figure career, but to unearth themselves at the nib of a pen, to tell truth at a slant. Together, we chase the insatiable satisfaction of planting ourselves on the page, often seeking reconciliation with pain and restlessness.

Even three weeks into the semester, I’ve never heard as much personal honesty as in Not Quite Science Fiction. As my fellow readers saw their own struggles beamed up at them from the page, they shared in return. Unexpectedly, I found myself spilling my own stories, whether of serious illness or grappling with free will, to these near-strangers. All we shared was a few hours of class—maybe a few extra minutes out in the cold—yet that sparse time was enough for some soul-bearing. Understanding my own narrative in the light of another’s is the beating heart of why I write, why I sought out stories from across my hometown in China, why I continue chasing them throughout my studies. This same, scintillating force powers the sacred and crooked circle we give our bodies to as a class, upholding an imperfect ritual.

Strange stories unfold in a creative writing seminar, especially one devoted to sci-fi, but strangest of all ring the personal truths unveiled in response.

Image via Bwog Archives