... read a lot
Now I am a writer who....
... wants to be a writer when I grow up
Soon I will be a writer who...
... will find out if this is going to work out
OK so not the most auspicious start to our first lesson. On the plus side I arrived on time, I got the right room and the natives (well regulars) seem friendly. The other newbies - and there were a lot as our class is over subscribed - seem to be in the majority middle aged, middle class women (like myself). I'm wondering whether this is the first indication of a mid-life crisis or simply whether this is how it's been since the birth of the written word. When was that anyway?*
SO lots of ladies who don't look too dissimilar to me with varying aspirations which all vaguely allude to a hope that at least one of us is going to be the next BIG THING. I say that in caps because it was like the elephant in the room. The unspoken hope. The big dream. That thing we cannot say aloud.
We had a lovely chat, it seems that part of this course is going to be a pretty touchy, feely voyage of mutual discovery. Some participants are a lot more vocal than others, there's the lady who makes up bedtime stories for her children, the mature lady who recently returned from back-packing and the lovely gentleman with a disabled son who having spent a career in science and technology is now looking to explore his creative side. Oh and a yummy mummy who is on maternity leave and looking to keep the old grey cells churning so they don't turn into baby brain baby mush.
It's a tentative, hesitant atmosphere which is bolstered by the presence of a handful of creative writing stalwarts. They've been doing it for years, clearly love it and lend the weight of experience to the class. Our learned leader is a published poet who is also a 'life writer' (that's biographies and stuff).
After a couple of timed, warm up exercises we scribble, read out and share (back then I was a writer...) we get to our first 'proper' challenge. Firstly our teacher reads a poem to us. It's called 'The Island' and was written by Langston Hughes. A couple of students take turns to read it out to the class so we can hear the different nuances that different readers lend to it then we discuss how it makes us feel. In the main it seems optimistic yet depressed simultaneously. We're then given 10 minutes to write about our own island.
Ermmmmmmmm.
The class bow their heads, cover their writing with one curved arm (no copying) and all you can hear is the sound of pens scratching on paper. That's weird really isn't it? You don't really hear people write anymore. Well apparently you do if you go to a writing class. I guess the clues are there.
I clearly want to start by making literary history by creating the perfect 10 minute novelette but after a couple of false starts, some pen chewing and 5 minutes of time wasting I decide instead to take my lead from the man Langston and write a poem which personally I think is pretty catchy. For a Hallmark card ad.
The lady next to me has also written a poem which she is very keen to read out. Its good. And dark. And runs circles round mine. I'm thinking about ripping the page out and throwing it away but don't want to spoil my perfect bound note book.
The teacher sets our 'homework' - we have to come up with a character no story as yet, we're going to talk about that in our next class, a full side of A4 'should be sufficient'. We need to know what they eat, where they shop, what they sleep in, where they come from. Oh yes and they need to live on 'our island'. Time to come up with a new island I think. Then onto my homework.
Until next week....
*A quick check on google indicates it's cuneiform which according to wiki is one of the earliest forms of written expression.
Picture 'The Island' (c) Little Voice
