This post was originally published on December 17, 2015, after I finished my Master's Degree. I'm republishing today as a fill-in post while I'm on vacation. As I reflect on these words of the past, I recognize a fear of failing. I'm regretful that it's taken me so long to put that fear aside but grateful to have found a bit of courage to move forward toward a creative life now. The videos of commencement speeches by Steve Jobs and Neil Gaiman never fail to inspire me. I hope you enjoy them.
In the second grade, I wrote an essay about how I wished I were a pig so I wouldn’t have to take a bath. I have a distinct memory of my teacher, Mrs. Pfaltzgraff, showing this masterpiece to my parents. I can visualize the lined paper and super-big lettering and a picture of a pink pig that I drew in the top corner. I can also visualize the smirks on the adults’ faces. They were at once praising me for my creativity and also thinking, “this kid is going to have some serious issues being a functional member of society.” Of course I wasn’t really able to interpret what those smirks meant when I was seven years old. At the time, I thought thought they represented the joy of reading some truly great writing. I came to believe that I should probably be a professional writer so more people could experience my wit and wisdom. At least I believed that until I became an age when I embraced the notion of regular bathing.
The trouble with writing as an adult—even a young adult and especially one with a pretty significant self-esteem problem—is that you fully expect your audience to smirk and criticize every word on the page. You’re torn between wanting to show off what you craft and keeping your work private until you know that it’s perfect, which is never because you only write crap. So I put the idea of being a writer away because I was never going to deal well with that level of scrutiny.
Eventually though, you have to become a writer of sorts just because you get a job that requires you to communicate with people who read the written word (although, I maintain that most people only read about half of the words you put in front of them). Today, I’m proud to announce that I’m an official writer because I have a master’s degree saying it’s so. A mere five years after I got the courage to face my fear of failure, I completed the Information Design and Communication graduate program at Kennesaw State University. I finished my last class, my last research paper, my last project, my last discussion post, my last excuse for a dirty house and a fat ass. Yay, me.
My newly certified skills are not in the art of creative writing—no one’s ever going to pay me to write fiction about being a filthy pig or anything else. I’m afraid my days of using my wild imagination to entertain elementary school teachers and my mom are long behind me. Instead I write and put words, pictures, and data on a page or a screen or a road sign or whatever for the purpose of making it all understandable, usable, and engaging to the reading audience. With the exception of that last sentence, I practice the art and science of information simplification. Yay, me again.
On Wednesday, I watched streaming video of the commencement exercises for me and my fellow postgraduate students. Kennesaw is in Marietta, Georgia and I wasn’t up for the trip east, but I was glad to be able to see what I was missing from the same remote location that I completed all of my coursework. The ceremony was about an hour and a half long and featured over 400 extremely happy graduates. For the record, there still have only been two worthwhile commencement speeches in the history of humans:
Steve Jobs, Stanford, 2005
Neil Gaiman, University of the Arts, 2012
Bob arranged a celebration of my graduation in Zion National Park last weekend for just the two of us. We enjoyed a nearly perfect day of hiking, good food, good wine, and hot tubbing…all while surrounded by the majestic red rocks of Zion. We were also treated to a fabulous Christmas light show while driving through Toquerville and Rockville on the way to Springdale—there’s a Clark Griswold level of competition in those little towns. Simply put, it was lovely.
So now what? Not much changes, actually. I’ve updated my email signature to include the initials “MS” after my name. I’ll probably dedicate my spare time to getting my freelance career off the ground or writing a business plan for our small farm and vineyard or getting back to 10K running shape or completing the home redecorating projects that were started before I went back to school or finishing those books I’ve been working on. Yay, me.
(I can visualize the smirk on your face and I know what it means. You’re right…I’m just going to spend more time watching Big Bang Theory reruns. Don’t judge—I have a master’s degree and I’m not afraid to use it.)
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