Writing Class

Posted: 18 February 2009 in observations, other folks, writing

I’m taking a writing class to pass the time and to get out of the house a bit, giving both D and I some much needed space.  The class is a nice balance of reading and writing, though I wish there were a bit more reading of our own writing.  I’m surprised I’d even say that, since I’m wary of strangers, cautious of easy praise and hesitant to read my stuff.  Right now we’re reading quite a bit of published writing and I like the out-loud tactic the instructor has taken.  You really can feel the words sink into your skin when you can hear the sound of them.  It’s one of the reasons I deeply enjoyed listening to books on tape during my commute.  I frequently regret the passing of the 40 minutes, as much as I appreciate the time and gas saved.

Perhaps smaller groups would make it easier to read.  With a pack of 15, a few voices pop up over others.  Some people don’t like to sit in silence.  Others can’t talk without a good settle into silence.  I did volunteer last week and read, voice shaking, a bit about my mother’s infatuation with bacon.  I was surprised to hear my voice shake (as much as I was by my rash decision to volunteer) and felt the praise press on top of me uncomfortably.  I tried to be gracious and say thank you, but I feel like it makes me sound prideful and pretentious.  It feels self-indulgent to even be talking about it.

Class is tonight and I haven’t done the homework, despite writing here and elsewhere.  Originally, I chalked it up to a homework phobia after two years of grad school, but I think I’ve settled on the alternate and very real reason.  I’m afraid to write poorly.  If I don’t do the homework, I can’t possibly face any criticism or disappointment.  My talent can remain unjudged, pristine, a glittering diamond in a hillside.

I’m full of shit.

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