English as a First Language

With all due modesty, in the secret recesses of my mind, I believe I'm a pretty good writer.  I have a healthy grasp of the English language and am more than familiar with the structural components thereof; at least, this is what I thought.

As part of my education at University of Phoenix Online, I have to take a writing class for students.  Who knew that after 30+ years away from college, I would have forgotten as much as I have.  Transitive and intrasitive verbs, comma-splicing, passive and active voices, and many other areas of writing are being received by my musty brain as though they've never been learned before. 

When I was in elementary school and high school, I did my best work on speeches and creative writing essays.  Book reports were fine, but they required far too much effort, quite honestly.  I suppose, in a way, I preferred blogging long before personal computers even existed.  Now that I'm expected to write with authority, accuracy, and in abundance, all directed by someone else, it's another matter all together. 

What I'm enjoying about the process, though, is that parts of my brain that have been dormant for so many years are dancing with glee in the ballroom that is my cranium, being allowed to sway once again to the music of my education. During my years of teaching, it was so much easier because I gave the assignments, then graded them after the little children cranked out their well-worked prose.  Even while I took a turn as a long-term substitute teacher in 10th Grade English, the units I covered were on short stories and poetry.  Again, creative writing.

I'm learning, though.  Structure, syntax, grammar, punctuation, and style are coming together.  It's very exciting; especially considering that I want to write for a living when I'm done with college.  [Author's note:  That sounds so funny coming from someone who is nearly 51.] 

The sad truth is that my work for the last 20 years as a musician is coming to a close.  Playing the piano is becoming more and more difficult with each passing year.  The arthritis, the carpal tunnel, and the issues following two strokes are more than my hands can handle anymore.  One would think that typing would also be a problem; however, it not as much because there isn't as much extension and power as when I play the piano.  The irony is that I can no longer write with a pen more than a few minutes at a time, if even that some days, because the act of holding the pen is painful.  The same holds true for the baton as I conduct in the pit.  Clearly, the Universe is directing me to the act of typing.  It's painfree (most of the time), enjoyable, and I'm able to do it at home.

I love my native language.  English to me is expressive and direct.  I will admit to a certain proclivity for the Italian language for sound and lyricism; but for function and comfort, it's all about English.  As a side note, if we add much more colloquial language to our American idiom, we'll soon develop our own distinct language.  Perhaps it would be called, "Amuricun." 

Hopefully, as I continue blogging, those following my entries will see a growth in my writing, both in style and structure.  As with music, I know that learning the foundational components of anything does not detract from the creativity of the work.  As my dear friend, Emily, says, it just adds colors to your box of paints.