Controlled Scribbling


Controlled Scribbling

introduction

One day long ago, I was standing in a slow line at the school store at Harper College. The school year was just beginning and the store was packed with students buying the necessary texts and supplies. The line went from the cash registers down an aisle of books all the way to the back of the store and then wrapped around and up another aisle of books. It was one of the last shopping days before classes actually started and I made some quip about how these people around us (crammed around us) were the people who would be cramming all year, before tests, you know; "cramming for a test." My attempt at humor fell relatively flat. I was standing in line with my sister Lisa who was preoccupied with making sure she had the right books. The anxiety level seemed high as all the last-minute shoppers dug through books trying to gather what they needed for the year, all hoping to get everything in this visit so they wouldn't have to wait in this mammoth line again. I, on the other hand, was anxiety-free because I just came along for the ride. By now, I had been going to art school for a year and I had accumulated enough art supplies to get through the first few weeks or more. As for books, I decided not to buy any unless they seemed interesting. I found even if a class required reading, if it wasn't interesting I didn't read it anyway, so why spend the money. Understanding the stress that surrounded us I didn't let the non-response from Lisa slow my quick-witted mind. I made another humorous remark and paused for reaction. Lisa was frantically looking for something that was clearly not where it was supposed to be and did not comment or respond to my jabbering. During my pause for reaction, I heard the young lady behind me giggle. I turned to my newfound, adoring audience; I was all smiles and ready to start meaningless small talk. I quickly noticed that she was snickering with a friend and none of this had anything to do with me. I felt very strange, almost paranoid, that someone might have noticed that I thought I was noticed and then realized I wasn't. I nonchalantly picked up a nearby book and started leafing through it. "Ah! Child Psychology, how interesting!" I tried to silently exclaim with my face. No one had noticed me when I was trying to be noticed, but now I couldn't shake the feeling that now I was being watched. I flipped from page to page looking at pictures and reading captions. On the bottom corner of a page was a picture of a scribbled-on piece of paper. The caption below it simply read in bold print, "Controlled Scribbling." I scanned the page to find the heading that would further describe this. Controlled Scribbling is the phase of life when you have learned to keep your crayons on the paper and off the table but still cannot produce legible images. The line started to move forward and I was not going to buy the book so I felt obligated to put it down with the rest of its kind. I was intrigued that such a subtle phase of life had been labeled and studied. I started to think of art school and started to apply my new knowledge to, among other things, my life. Could it be, art school was just a bunch of people who are still really excited about that control and are trying to find new ways to refine it and define it? I had only quickly read a few sentences so I started to fill in the blanks with my imagination and tried to figure out the importance of this. I induced that every time you embark on any new venture, if it is truly a new venture, you must cross through a controlled scribbling phase. I decided at that moment I would have an exhibit of drawings and paintings at the Circle Gallery exploring this very topic. I later re-thought this and decided an illustrated book of short stories, quotes, quips and rantings might be a better media. For almost two years after that shopping event, everything I did that was creative - even remotely creative - I thought about how it would or could fit into a "Controlled Scribbling" title of some sort or another. I used this concept to strip away my inhibitions and shed any fear of failure. This is when I started my first creative writing class. When I signed up for this I was just trying to fill my schedule with things that would lead me to a BFA. I registered for creative writing not because I had any interest in writing but because it wasn't another art history class. Failure was inevitable but I felt the fear of failure was optional. During our first class our learned instructor, Lynn Koons, read us short stories, and in between each she explained what she enjoyed about them. She was very interested in reading, writing and life in general. Her enthusiasm was very contagious and the sleepy nine a.m. class was soon wide awake and all ears as she read. After a few pleasant readings, she told us to get out some paper and start writing. Stress and panic seized some of the room, others dutifully took out some paper and started thinking. A moment passed and everyone had some form of paper in front of them, and a huge array of writing utensils tapped and jittered. Everyone was thinking, only a few people were actually writing. I do not know what the two people at the far side of the room were writing, but the only other person who wrote anything was across the table from me. She very studiously wrote her name, class title, the date and then paused. Lynn looked around at us as if she was amazed at our stiffness. She repeated her command for us to write. Someone mumbled something about thinking, almost to themselves. "I told you to write, not think," she calmly said. With my new mantra fresh in mind, I mumbled something to the effect of, "just keep it on the paper, heh heh." Without missing a beat, she exclaimed to the class, "Don't think, write, just keep it on the paper!" I chuckled and began writing, just a core dump of everything that was in my head. Some thoughts about work, this morning's hangover, the unknown girl with red hair, and some paraphrased plagiarism I came up with from the stories Lynn had just read. The class was over, we turned in our controlled scribblings and we were off in all directions. I figured I would have some harsh comments on my paper come next week; I was wrong. In fact I couldn't have been more wrong. I was sure there would be red marks for penmanship, grammar, run-on sentences, pointless directionless rambling, and probably some comments about the smart-ass tone of it all if it could be deciphered. Instead, she wrote comments that made the paper seem as if it were a conversation we had. There were no complaints about the randomness or pointlessness - just questions that made me think the thoughts through further. And as for the smart-ass tone that I thought might have lingered on the paper, she not only deciphered it but said she enjoyed it and listed some short stories I might enjoy. I read the stories and did in fact enjoy them. The semester ended and the only class I was never late to was over. I was looking forward to taking it again, but for one reason or another I never got around to it. I will never forget that class or about controlled scribbling. Ever since that class, and not ever before it, I consider myself somewhat of a writer. I may not be a great writer and may never go on to fame and fortune but I can proudly say I can usually keep my stories on the paper.

All these bits and pieces are perhaps not ready for global distribution, but Lisa wanted a book so try and enjoy what there is.

Merry Christmas.


Piece, Love & Empathy

Dennis