Because I like to overextend myself, I started taking a fiction writing class on Tuesday.
Okay, no. I don't actually like to overextend myself (it actually makes me quite grumpy) and I certainly would never take a class for the sole purpose of overextention--but I did start a brand spanking new class on Tuesday, all so that I could learn how to write fiction.
It's a little overwhelming. I'm one of 12 budding writers in this class, surrounded by people who are, oh, just needing a kick in the pants to get their novel going again, or just having a bit of trouble with tone in the hundreds of short stories they've already written, or, you know, simply wanting a refresher after having graduated with honors from an illustrious MFA program. Not that that makes them good writers, necessarily, but it certainly makes me feel like a total gumby.
I had to admit in class that though I really like the idea of writing fiction, I've never actually done it in practice. Not for real. That's why I'm taking the class, I said, so that I can learn how. heh. I don't feel bad about it, and I'm certainly glad that I'll be in a class where it seems like I'll be able to learn a lot from the other students, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't wildly intimidating. For the story we have due next week, it's already all I can do to not outright dismiss anything I write as cliche and amateurish.
But our teacher recommended just sitting down and writing every day, and I'm determined to do that. So far, so good. I don't have a story yet, and I don't even have a great blog post, but I'm just going to keep plugging away and trust the process. I'm freaked out, but I'm glad for the push.