Inside Gigi's World

A phrase that has haunted me for years now…

I was taking my first creative writing class. It was online which was unfortunate. I wondered what I’d actually learn from participating in an online, creative writing class but still, I eagerly logged on every Sunday to see what the writing assignment would be and then I would diligently get to work, eager to try to write something that wasn’t complete shit. 

The first week I thought I hit the assignment out of the ballpark. I wrote about roots and damp soil and breaking through to find the sun and brightly colored dahlias. I was so proud of myself, so much in fact that I shared the piece of prose to my social media page. 

I checked back to the class’s online platform multiple times to see if any of my classmates commented on the thread that I shared. Alas, there was none. As part of the class curriculum, we had to read and comment on at least two classmates’ posts to satisfy the requirements for the class and receive a passing grade. I almost never had any comments on my work, except from the professor who would lambaste me and tell me constantly how my writing was elementary. She would tell me that I was not being creative enough and that I needed to do more if I wanted the “A” in the class. 

I thought I was giving it my all. I was funny in my work. I was insightful. I was clever. I was raw and emotional but no matter what I gave, she would tell me it wasn’t enough. And so I would type with a madness, my fingers becoming stumps worn down to nothing but bone and disappointment. I’d write and I’d write and when I was getting tired or fed up with the assignments or my skill set, I’d write some more. 

Then came the poetry. Five weeks of poetry. Five whole weeks. Nothing but poetry. I like to think that I am an okay writer but poetry is not my thing. I emailed the professor and begged her to give me any other kind of assignment. I could not…no, no, no, no…I would not…there was no possible way I could handle five weeks of poetry, especially since my spirits and hopes of learning something somewhat valuable from this class was already down the proverbial shitter. She flatly told me that no matter how much I begged or pleaded that I was going to get out of the five weeks worth of poetry assignments. I reminded her that if I had wanted to take five weeks of poetry I would have signed up for a poetry class. She reminded me that she was the professor, that this was her class and she’d run it how she see fit. I know I probably sound like a small child who is throwing a fit over her mom not buying her a piece of candy at the store, however, when you’re older that your professor and all of your classmates, when you are getting no constructive or instructive criticism—which is the main reason I took this class—frustration builds and you end up writing poetry that your professor tells you it feels as though you are being passive aggressive and you let her know, you were not being passive aggressive at all but instead you thought you were being obviously aggressive and you don’t regret that choice, not one single bit. 

That’s when she told me “Dig deeper.”

Ouch.

Dig deeper? I thought I was a goddamn open book. 

Dig deeper? How?

Dig deeper? In what way?

Dig deeper? 

There were no instructions on how to do this. There were no suggestions. There was no source material or areas that she felt I could work on or parts that she thought worked, nope. Just, “Dig deeper.”

At this point I began to question why I had chosen writing as an educational and career path. Why had I gone back to school for this if I suck so much at it? I was actively sharing my writing to try to see if some of my friends could tell me where my writing was lacking. I wanted the criticism. I longed for it. How was I going to learn how to be better—the very best that I can be—if I didn’t know what to work on?

My friends tried to be reassuring. They were kind and supportive. They told me my work was good and to keep going but I didn’t want to hear that either. I wanted honesty. Maybe they were being honest with me. Maybe it wasn’t the complete dumpster fire that my professor made me feel like it was but still, I was unraveling. 

The following semester I took another writing class. This one was in-person. The requirements were easy—well kind of. We were given subject matter to (loosely) work with. It was a creative nonfiction class so of course that was what we had to write. We had to have at least two of our pieces workshopped in class which included having our piece read out loud by the professor in class and then we were to receive or give (if the piece wasn’t ours) feedback while the professor also provided live feedback and comments on our document. 

The first assignment was given. We had to write a profile about someone we know. I worked hard and fervently. I typed with an urgent madness, the thoughts came faster than my fingers could get the words out on the screen with the words “dig deeper,” swirling around in my brain like a drunk with the spins. “Roc.” That’s what it was titled. I volunteered to have my piece workshopped that first round. When I submitted it to my professor I left one comment on the bottom of the page for him, “Is this complete shit?”

That next class he pulled my piece on to the oversized projector lighting up the darkroom. I looked at him, desperately trying to read his face. He smiled at me and said “This is not complete shit.” I relaxed. I like to think through the course of that class my writing improved, if even only slightly. I looked forward to the classes when my pieces would be workshopped and that carried through the rest of my writing classes. Workshops, although done differently by each professor, is when I learn the most but I have also had to work on an understanding with myself that just because someone doesn’t like my work, it doesn’t mean that my work isn’t solid. There are hundreds of stories and essays, songs and movies, television shows that I dislike, it doesn’t mean that they aren’t good pieces. 

But still, every so often I hear those two words in my head, “dig deeper” and I can’t help but wonder what it is that sets me apart from the rest—the other writers, those with too many thoughts or words or stories to keep them all inside their heads without going crazy? Am I telling stories that are worth telling, stories that are worth listening to? Am I good enough for the people of the masses to ever want to read what it is that I have to say? I guess I’m still not sure. I think so but I also believed my parents when they told me Santa was real and did you ever see any of the guys I dated in high school (yikes), so maybe I’m not the best judge of character. But still, when I’m writing, it just feels right, like this extension of me has been trying to come out for years and now that I somewhat know how to control it, it feels like greatness. 

I dig deeper even when I think I am at rock bottom and my metal shovel has hit the core of my very being. 

This time, last year, I was in a creative fiction class. Fiction is something that I have always felt I struggled with. I can’t fathom fancy ideas when my life feels fanciful and chaotic enough. There is much room up there for heroes and princesses and lands in far-off places and let’s be real, I took enough LSD where I’ve spent enough time for one lifetime hanging out with aliens and little, green people that dance to techno music under strobe lights. That didn’t negate the fact that as part of my degree I needed to complete the class. For our last assignment we had to create a portfolio from the semester that included all of our revisions, our in-class writings and all of the feedback we had gotten from our fellow classmates as well as the professor. We also had to submit our work to at least two sources to be considered for publication. All of which I did. 

“This assignment,” he told us, “is to show me how you have grown as a writer. Now is the time to show me what you’ve got. Don’t hold anything back.”

I knew instantly what the one thing I could do to show that I improved as a fiction writer over the semester would be to create a conflict with a resolution within the number and page count. All semester I struggled with resolution in my pieces. I mean let’s face it, how often are things in life resolved? 

“Dig deeper.” Two words that have haunted me for sometime now.

“Dig deeper.” Two words I repeat to myself every time I need a swift kick in the ass. 

“Dig deeper.” Two words that now light a fire within the pit of my stomach. 

As I continued to work on my final portfolio for that class—editing and re-editing and then when I thought I couldn’t do anymore, I went through my work again—the idea of resolution escaped me. Then unexpectedly, life threw me a curve ball just like life has a way of doing,at the most inopportune moment possible, heading into finals. 

My father called me to tell me that my mother had taken a fall a few days ago, she was in a lot of pain and her skin was very yellow. She had been belligerent and wasn’t making a whole lot of sense. The few days afterwards were a whirlwind of diagnoses and prognoses. 

My mother was going to die, nothing was going to change that. Instead of feeling empathy or heartbreak, I felt anger. The kind of anger that changes a person. The kind of anger that only comes with realization and self awareness. I realized that the reason I had such a hard time writing about resolution is because I have never known it, at least nothing that I could fit in a word count. I couldn’t write fiction, especially not in the state of mind that I was in. So I dug deep, deeper than I ever have before. And I wrote until I had nothing to give.  “There Are No Peonies, Only Conflict” was written as a kind of ode to mine and my mother’s relationship. It was written in a moment full of raw emotion. It was and continues to be my life—full of dueling conflict where no resolution is easy—or at times, what even feels possible. 

I passed in a nonfiction essay, even though that was not the assignment. If I am being honest, I think my professor was just happy that I completed my portfolio and passed in my work. He showed me grace because no matter how good I thought the essay may have been, it still was not the assignment. 

After I sent my work into the school’s literary magazine to be considered for publication, I didn’t give the piece another thought. That was in April 2024. 

A full year ago. 

Recently I received an email from the literary magazine’s staff member informing me that  the forgotten piece that I submitted, “There Are No Peonies, Only Conflict”, had been selected as the first place winner in the prose category and that my work would be published in the school’s literary magazine. Tomorrow, on April 24, 2025, the winner’s—including myself— of the pieces that were picked will be recognized at the English Department’s yearly “Spring Gathering” —I imagine it’s probably a lot like a Spring Fling, just with literary nerds, without music and dancing…I hope there is going to be food. 

I dug deeper during a time when I felt there was no deeper to dig.

A lot has changed in the past year. Sometime when I’m not writing paper after paper, taking five classes, chasing around teenagers, praying for a full night’s sleep without any hot flashes, surviving on sarcasm and breakfast cereal (Lucky Charms and Fruity Pebbles in case you were wondering), or trying to just get by, maybe I’ll tell you all about it. 

“Dig deeper.” 

It’s just two words, two words that probably shouldn’t mean so much…but for some reason, they just do.