I'm alternately thrilled and bored off my tits with this writing class I'm taking. I signed up because I just wanted to be around real people that were besotted with writing as I am and to force myself to actually get some work done instead of dreaming about it.
(Or perhaps I signed up because it was on Tuesday's and that meant I'd miss six weeks of French. Surely I wasn't that stupid?)
Anyway. It's an odd class. Only five of us. An old dame who works at the Senate writing speeches, a girl from Trinidad who works at Grace Bros, a lady who just moved here from South Africa (she writes beautifully and gets all glassy-eyed when she's really into it), and a wee girl who's just finished high school, (she was born in 1983!! Who the hell is born in 1983? I'm getting old) and of course, me.
This weeks class was a bit of a snooze. Too much talk, not enough write. The way the teacher scrawls on the blackboard really bugs me. She's left handed and just pummels her hand at the board like a machine gun with a horrid screeching sound.
But the first week was fantastic, we did a bazillion writing exercises and ended up with some really great stuff. We had to write a little short story at the end and I just churned it out and I felt like "woohooing" as I wrote because it just felt so damn good.
Finally we had to read our stories out loud. At first I was so nervous I thought I'd throw up (an old habit from my uni days) but once I got up there and started reading I got the most incredible rush. I sucked them right in with my words and when I finished they were dead silent before someone said "wow". I felt like I was doing something right, something that made me feel good and satisfied and so alive… I felt like me again, and work was a million miles away.