I had no idea my guilt about dropping Kessler’s class would far outlast the relief. While I’ve got bigger regrets in my life, this one stays with me. Here’s why.
Kessler taught Poetry Writing, a small exclusive class for juniors and seniors. He only accepted ten students per quarter and you had to audition – present a piece of writing – to be considered. I gave him the play Luke helped me write – “The Lowlands” – and won a place. Even though it wasn’t a poem like most applicants submitted, he thought I had a “voice” and gave me a chance. I was thrilled.
Then I found out the class functioned like a writing work shop – I was unfamiliar with them then. Students were required to read their poems out loud to the class and then listen to everyone’s feedback. The prospect of reading one of my poems out loud petrified me. I knew from past experience that when I read out loud for others, a fight or flight response takes over and it turns into a race to the finish. My speech pattern is fast under the best of circumstances. I’m all but unintelligible if asked to read for an audience.
But that wasn’t the only thing that terrified me. Our first class made it obvious my fellow students knew a lot more about poetry – both reading and writing it – than I did. Consequently, I feared writing a bad poem as well as making stupid comments about other people’s poetry. I was so scared I dropped the class.
If I had it to do over again, I’d face my fear. Even if I’d been the weakest in the class, I would have learned something – maybe even made a few strides toward learning to read my work in public. Chickening out made me feel more like a failure than actually failing the class.
My regrets about this flooded back when I came across Kessler’s obituary in the LA Times, several years later. Some doors and windows open only once. I wish I’d summoned the courage to go through all of them. This wasn’t the only one I missed.
