The Best Kept Secret Blog - My Five Seconds Of Fame

For some reason it seems important that she like my hair.

I think it's because it's been snowing or raining all the other Wednesday nights so far this semester which means I've been arriving for class with really bad hair, looking way too much like a suburban, middle-aged mom and not enough like the hip, downtown writer I'm aspiring to be.

I am thick in the throes of midlife reinvention and I have a dream - class-parent and volunteer lice lady by day, hard-hitting journalist by night. (Well, as long as I can get a babysitter, that is.)

As I navigate the mini-van through rush hour traffic on my way to class, I think that I'm looking good.

And I'm feeling good. For I have written the most brilliant article that has ever been produced by a journalism student on the face of this earth and tonight is the night I'm presenting it to the class.

Half my fellow students, I'm sure, will slam their books closed, throw their pens on their desk and declare that are just giving up - that they'll never be able to compete with the likes of me. The other half, the nice ones who have no time for sour grapes or axes to grind, will just stand up and applaud.

My accomplished instructor will love it too. Why she'll whip out her cell phone right then and there, call an editor friend at some über cool magazine, and shout for her to stop the presses - that they simply have to shift things around to accommodate my utterly engaging piece, How To Pack A Grocery Bag.

I'm early for class and the only people in the room are my instructor and one other student. We begin chatting and it turns out we all need a caffeine fix.

"Come on," says my instructor. "Let's start class five minutes late and take a field trip to the Tim Horton's across the street." I'm thrilled. I'm going for coffee with my oh-so-savvy instructor!

We chat about the weather and cold and flu season as we wait in line for our java. "This is going so well," I think to myself. "Maybe we'll become friends and get together over a glass or two of wine while we discuss writing and the publishing industry and debate which author we like better - Danielle Steele or John Grisham."

I order coffee and a couple of Tim Bits and daydream about what to serve if I end up inviting my instructor and her partner for a weekend at the cottage.

We ride the elevator back up to our floor and I think I notice my instructor eyeing the Tim Bits. I'm about to offer her one when I remember that of the many things she's published, she's perhaps best known for her recent book exploring Canada's foodscapes. I suddenly recall a passionate discussion from a class or two ago on the merits of organic food and the evils of just about everything else we can put into our mouths. I tuck the Tim Bit bag into my purse and give up on the thought of roasting weenies with my instructor at the cottage.

More students have arrived by the time we return and I'm turning to say hello as I set my coffee down and shrug out of my coat. It isn't until I hear half the class exclaim, "Ohhhh" that I realize something's wrong. I look down to see brown liquid puddling on the floor. It's coffee. My coffee. I've knocked it over and it's flowing across my desk, onto the floor and into my purse.

I'm guessing the discussions over wine are out now too.

I try to be calm as I sop up the mess with a roll of toilet paper retrieved from the Ladies room; as if spilling a full cup of coffee is an everyday thing and that I'm totally cool with it. I still have a quarter of a cup left and I drink this slowly, prolonging the feeling of being part of our intimate little coffee drinking group. When it's all gone, I even suck on the cup for a while - no one can tell it's empty with the brown plastic lid still attached.

We begin presenting our articles and finally it's my turn. Everyone reads my piece and begins scratching their criticism and feedback on the copies I've brought in. At first I sit back - I know it's good and apart from a little thing here or there, I can only expect praise. Then I notice my instructor writing something on her copy. I hear her bracelet hitting the desk again and again as she circles paragraphs and words. Then I see her bending down and retrieving something from her bag. It's a large red pencil. Is she striking something out?

At the end of the day it's no better or worse than the rest of the people in my class. No one's shouted "Stop the presses" but nor have they kicked me out of the class.

I climb into my soccer-mom mini-van and drown my disappointment in the Tim Bits I've fished from my soggy purse. I console myself by remembering that we learn more from failure than we do from success. This makes me feel a little better and I begin thinking about next week's assignment. Hmmm. . . Maybe I'll bring in cookies.