Last year The Queen went to the writing class at the library.
This year they had it again and she went again. This time she asked if I wanted to go.
I figured I’d go and just check it out. You know. Get a feel for it. Decide how I felt about it.
There were a few people there when we arrived. A couple I recognized from the book signing. While The Queen and they caught up many more people came in. It was pretty cool that a small local writing class was able to pull them in.
After a bit the teacher started talking about what they would be doing. This class was going to be mostly focused on publishing and editing. And proper grammar, spelling and word usage. Definite pluses for me.
I finally figured out the whole to and too thing. I know two is a number thank you. It was the others that confused me. I’m good now.
Once she finishes going over all her points, they do a writing exercise. In ten minutes you write about whatever topic she throws out at you. She will then go around the table and randomly point at someone.
Then you read out loud. In front of everyone.
This is where they lost me.
First of all the topic was to write about yourself. That way everyone would get an idea of who you are.
I don’t like that sort of thing. I have little to write about. Also, I bore myself to tears, how anyone would stand it is beyond me.
As I was sitting there thinking, very aware of the minutes moving, (I wish they moved that quickly at dialysis), I saw everyone was writing away. Flipping pages over to write more on fresh clean sheets. Writing and writing.
I could feel myself pale. Then the sweating started. And then. The queasiness appeared.
I had four sentences.
I had nothing.
I realized then that the reading aloud was not going to happen. She would get to me and I would vomit.
She was speaking about how these exercises were to loosen us up. To relax us.
I was so far from relaxed I had to send it a postcard and tell it it was okay to come home.
I had to go.
I know. I know. Face your fear. Be strong. Blah blah blah.
I figure I do that several days a week with big needles. I don’t have to speak in public if I don’t want to.
It’s not my thing. Not my forte. Not while sober.
Damn it. That’s why I write a blog. I can work on a piece. I can think about things.
I don’t have to read it in public.
I don’t have to be sober.
So I don’t think I’ll be partaking in the class this time. Maybe I can work on this fear thing for the spring class.
But then again maybe I won’t.
I know you’re wondering what the four sentences were. I would be.
I am a daughter, a sister, a friend.
I am a procrastinator and am terrible under pressure.
I am a patient and a mom to two kitties.
I am a blogger and I’m not dead yet.
I think perhaps Twitter has affected my writing.