The Woman Who Knew Too Much

Yeah, the rumors are true. I haven't been writing here. Maybe you noticed, maybe you didn't.

When a newsletter from The Writing Salon showed up in my email yesterday, it was just enough to tip me over the edge. A class was advertised that requires very little in-school commitment -- just three sessions over the course of two and a half months -- but demands 10-20 minutes of daily writing, shared online with writing partners assigned in class. Perfect for me, in that it's far easier to cram several minutes of an activity into each day whenever there's time, versus clearing my calendar two hours a week, on a set night, at a set time, for 10 weeks. I'm eager for the kick-off class meeting next Thursday to jump-start my stalled writing habit.

I'm eager, but not unreservedly thrilled. After sending in my payment for the class, I clicked another link in the email from The Writing Salon, this time to the blog of the founder of the school, Jane, who will also be teaching the class I'm taking. It didn't take much reading to find out that she's recently been diagnosed with breast cancer, and is full of worries about her health and well-being, and about whether she'll be able to continue running the school while receiving doses of radiation and chemotherapy. Jane is blunt and honest in her descriptions and explanations, and her blog entries left me feeling raw.

My immediate reaction was to wonder what, if any, percentage of my negative reaction was disappointment about possibly not getting the same quality of class I thought I'd signed up for. The possibility of such selfishness was completely abhorrent. What I quickly realized, however, is that my feelings are not at all about getting less, but in fact much more, than I'd bargained for.

I thought I'd signed up for 10 weeks of trying to get myself to write again. Instead, I've signed up for that, plus somehow entangling and investing myself uncomfortably in the welfare of my teacher. It's voyeuristic and bare. It's completely one-sided. It's a decidedly 21st Century problem.

While I don't know Jane, I've taken two classes at her school, spoken with her on the phone, been to her house (also the location of The Writing Salon) in Bernal Heights, read her writing, and seen pictures of her. She's someone I can place. Thanks to my collateral information, and her evocative writing, I can conjure her easily, sitting on her sofa, playing with her cat, talking to a student, writing for her blog, contemplating her illness. She, on the other hand, has never seen me, and knows little more about me than my full name, credit card number, and mailing address.

This writing class next week, which started out as a mildly daring and entirely self-centered venture, has instead unexpectedly put another person in the foreground. In the deeply personal, physically indistinct, and often secretive and dysfunctional social atmosphere created by the Internet, I'm the only one of the pair of us that knows how I'm feeling about the class, and how Jane's blog has affected those feelings. Her father passed away today, and although it put a lump in my throat to read of it, and my inclination was to tell her I was sorry, I squelched that urge as something awkward and inappropriate. What will meeting her for the first time be like next week? Will my face betray the fact that I've been rifling through her desk drawers, reading her personal letters?

Comments

[tim]

You'll do good Jess! The fact that you care, and are waiting for some further context before you do anything more, is fully the right way to go ;-)

[Dee]

Hi Jess,

I've stumbled across you blog, via a link in Janes blog, and I stumbled across Janes blog, after she'd visited my blog(that's almost like 'I know someone, who knows someone, who knows someone..!).

As someone else who's being treated for breast cancer, I just wanted to say how nice it is to read your honest feelings about things.

I do hope you enjoy the writing course. I only wish I could attend, but I'm in the UK.

Love & hugs,
Dee
xxx

[rxw]

you're not rifling through her drawer. you haven't read her personal letters.

she *posted* those musings, intending those thoughts to be read.

if she has any writerly bones in her body, she'll feel a perverse satisfaction that she can inspire feelings in someone she barely knows.

nowadays, they tell kids to write what they know, don't they? Jane's experiencing an Event. she Knows What It's Like.

here's where I compare her life, how long her words will last, and how happy she is.

interestingly, I'm not the first to write this message. sure, this particular instance of these thoughts is my creation. but consider some kid reading YOUR journal and feeling your thoughts exactly. then sharing it with a friend. that friend might tell that kid exactly what I'm telling you:

you're not rifling through her drawer. you haven't read her personal letters.