Just call me Professor Katie

Ok, so I don’t think you can actually call someone a professor unless they have a master’s degree in teaching? Or, like…a large collection of bow ties or pillbox hats? Or something? Either way, I’m not “technically” a “professor,” but I am teaching my first community education class this fall, and I feel like I should start collecting bowties and pillbox hats.

This was an idea I had been playing with for a few months. Like, since winter. And I just wanted to have something to tie me into the community a little bit more, and I hope to GAWD it goes well. I mean, I’m teaching it so it’s going to be fun regardless. Fun will be a requirement in my class.

I have two thoughts in my head as to how well this class will go over. A) The place will fill up with all 10 spots, and I’ll have an awesome cluster of writers from everywhere and it will be an awesome four weeks. 2) Like, one person will sign up and it will be just me and that one student. But guess what? In both scenarios, I am utterly thrilled to be teaching someone how to begin (or continue) their creative writing in their life.

Writing has been vital to my survival. Always have, probably always will. Sometimes I think it’s because my opinions are too strong for some people, and it’s best that I just write them down in a book and keep them to myself. Other times, I feel my opinions are just the right amount of strong, and so I need to share them with the world, and I write it into my column for the paper, and usually get compliments on how delightful my writing is. YES, I AM PATTING MYSELF ON THE BACK. I’M ALLOWED TO. And, then there are those times, where it is indeed vital to my survival. Even if it’s writing down one word or one phrase over and over again, it’s a release. Feeling that lactic acid build up in your arm, and your fingers beginning to cramp as your mind is like, “ooh, write this down! Add that to there! Keep going! I know it burns,” and I kind of feel like Dr. Frankenstein when he’s made his monster, and my hand begins to cramp and gets stuck in some weird creepy way that makes my hand look possessed and I just yell at the top of my lungs from my bedroom, “It’s alive! It’s aliiiive!” and I start laughing maniacally and my cats come running into the room because they’re all, “what the DUMPTRUCK is going on in here?!” with their tails all foofed and their ears all perked.

I love writing.

I love it so much, I want to share it with other people. And I think that’s half of what…no…three-fourths of what writing is about- it’s about connecting with others to show that even though we may live completely different lives, with completely different goals, mindsets and experiences, we are all still experiencing that of being human. Which ties us all together.

Which makes reading so cool.

Either way, I only have about 12 weeks to get my bow tie and pillbox hat collection up to snuff. Oh, and to write up my curriculum and pick out the reading and writing assignments and all of that noise. No biggie.

Prof. Katie out.


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