I spent a word-wonderful weekend at Regis University, where my "blended variable" graduate class in advanced creative nonfiction met to workshop, chat and share. My fellow students gave new definition to the word "advanced": they are inspiring writers whose impromptu exercises spilled forth with creative genius - I could not even plagiarize as fast as they compose! Yet, where previously I would have been overwhelmed by inferiority complex, I could now step back and observe our separate voices as distinct and necessary. Each person had a project, a burning issue, a bugaboo to track down, pin to the keyboard and examine. The stories leaped forward in dialogue or in sensual scene or in startling action - in rare cases all of the above. Though I noted objectively enough where I need to improve, I could also see that no one else was preoccupied with my preoccupations, or could write my story the way I can write my story.
So Hallelujah for being free to fall short, fail, and persevere in this, my forty-fifth year! I can't discuss military issues like *Johan, art and passion like Sophia, or poetry like Marianne (*names changed to protect the superlative) but I can discuss raising three children with gluten and dairy issues, my struggle to be witty and goofy, and my journey through midlife as no other person can. The larger question - does there exist an audience for my story? - cannot be answered yet. That conclusion can only be reached after a great deal of work on my part to make the events and emotions accessible through writing.
So off to my editing stool! The grocery shopping is finished, the dishes and laundry done, and emails answered. Just enough time to spruce up a story before the kids come home.
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