The Stanford Writing Class & My Coffee Cup

The writing class at Stanford was at 6:30pm once a week, and I’d go after office— the drive took 35 minutes in the evening traffic, but I’d still leave at 5:00pm from office. So excited I was!.

I didn’t want to get early— I just wanted to have a Starbucks coffee in the student centre and eat a sandwich while I did the required reading at the last minute.

The ambience of the Stanford student centre wasn’t just for students— there were all sorts of studious people— professors, older MBA students, course people like me and PhD’s.

You couldn’t judge anyone by their looks— the PhD’s looked like homeless people, the young men in shorts could have been professors and the smartest person in the room was probably serving you coffee.

The coffee was my best part of the day— the chilly California weather, a cup of coffee in hand with a sandwich to dip into, and a book in front of me— it was my favourite part of the week.

I felt studious, as if I have a purpose and due to the late ending of the class (9:30 pm, you open the class door to walk out, and the wind kicks you with its darkness and cold outside), I’d tell my friends I was enrolled in “night school”.

The class was a mix of Bay Area people— but if you were to categorise them, they were

more women than men,

more older than younger

and more white than other races.

However, unlike the Bay Area population, many were not engineers. I was one of the few.

People hardly spoke before or after class— and the classroom itself was quite boring and uninspiring, unlike the outside where Stanford campus could make anyone feel the need to achieve more.

October class started, on time as usual, and today we had our first workshop session— when you read out loud to the class what you’ve written and they give you feedback.

It’s boring again, especially if you don’t like the writing style of the person— I was fighting sleep through a lady’s writeup that described (though beautifully) the countryside.

On most class days I did fight sleep, because I took my car to work instead of the bus. I had to wake up at 5:30 am, so that I could beat the traffic to the office in my car— a 50 minute ride would take 1 hour and 40 minutes if I delayed beyond 6:10am. It was tight!

It was her turn— another Indian girl with dark straight hair — she read her piece on fall pumpkins straight through with her South Indian accent— “when” was pronounced “whaynn” and “everyone” was “yeveryone”. She read “Whaynn the pumpkins are carved, yeveryone in the town gathers…”

The writeup was ok— not boring but not shattering either. I don’t remember what she wrote about and that explains it.

I didn’t think much about it, till the critiques started.“Your writing sucks!” Is definitely never a feedback you will hear at a workshop, even if your writing sucks.

The teacher, standing on her feet, with a marker in hand that just scribbled a point on the whiteboard— tells you strictly with her hand hovering after the world “workshop” written in black letters on the white board that “feedback has to be given gently, and constructively".

I have done the reverse. I have personally laughed at feedback given to me— I once wrote about?my room being green, because my room IS green, and the workshop feedback I got was

“I love how the author has symbolized the room by making it green, which conveys harmony and environment friendliness, and the almirahs in the corner of the room portray how the author talks about emptiness…”

Eh, What?

I never intended that — it's too deep for my thinking! My room is green because it is green— I almost laughed, but the rules tell us ‘don’t respond when someones giving feedback’. It was against the rules to correct anyone when they’re talking.

Time flew when writeups were interesting. And slowed down when the writing was boring-- describing the countryside, women describing how much they love their family. Yawn.

A guy in the class had written a piece on a Muslim and ironically named the character "Ham". He did this out of cluelessness. I was like lol.

Anyway, I was happy to have taken 3 classes at Stanford and where they good or what. I wrote an 8-page homework overnight because my teacher wanted me to see how quickly I can come up with content.

I was so happy to be doing all this-- but the memory i have of that class is still the hot Starbucks cup in my hand, and my scarf shielding my neck as i walk across the cold dark Stanford Oval to get to my car, and drive back to the city.

Hardwork is fun.

PS: Wrote this piece 10 yrs ago!