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Next, my roommate got a bunch of assignments from the University’s stellar newspaper, The Michigan Daily, some of which she foisted upon me. Instead, the process of writing would show me the way. She declared that I didn’t have to know exactly what I wanted to say when I started writing, or how the thing would end.
#LIFE AFTER LIFE BOOK BY ELIZABETH HOW TO#
Professor Back taught me how to write with this single sentence: “Writing is a process of discovery.” She released me from outlining my papers to death. First, I took an English class taught by a brilliant woman named Lillian Back. Noticing a trend?Īround my junior year, three important things happened. When I wasn’t learning about the id and Freud and stuff, I took scads of literature courses.
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Why? Because I loved hearing people’s stories. I arrived in Ann Arbor, signed up for Psych 101 and announced that I was going to be a clinical psychologist.
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Having lived in a suburb of Atlanta for most of my life, I was ready to see some snow. After graduation, I headed for the University of Michigan, which I chose because it was Up North. I gave up the dream without too much fuss and focused my energies on surviving high school. But I always gave up after a few hackneyed entries.Īnd that was that. Imagining Harriet the Spy’s precious notebook, I would ceremoniously touch pen to first page. For birthdays, I received cute, pink diaries that you could lock with a little brass key. The rest of the book would remain, to my shame, blank. I inscribed blank books with ambitious titles and got no further. I read my favorite books over and over and over: Anne of Green Gables and all the sequels, all the Judy Blumes, Katherine Patersons, and Roald Dahls, Little Women and Island of the Blue Dolphins and A Wrinkle in Time…īecause I loved to read, of course, I wanted to write. This led to super-long, very hot showers which made my dad mutter about the water bills. I even figured out how to prop a book on the outside handle of the glass shower door so I could read while I bathed. I read in bed every night for hours, falling asleep with the lamp on and the book clutched in my hands until my dad stalked in and turned off the light, muttering about the electric bills. I read my way through cross-country family road trips. The first thing I ever wanted to be was a writer.