I made an interesting discovery at class last week. It seems that quite a few students, myself included, have opted to keep our pursuit of literary technique a secret from everyone except our very nearest and dearest. Friends, colleagues, siblings and even children are ignorant of the fact that we are earnestly meeting in hallowed halls of learning and engaging in secret scribbling.
Is this a terribly English thing? Are we so afraid of failing before we start that we don't want to broadcast our imminent failure? Is it the fear of ridicule? Or is it our guilty pleasure? Could it be because we are taking time out for ourselves? Time is so precious it seems over indulgent to even consider taking a 2 full hours out of a week, away from work and responsibilities to pursue a skill that eludes so many and favours so few? Shouldn't we be ironing, driving, organising, cleaning, gardening, volunteering, caring?
The thing is of course that it's not just the two hours at school. It's the surreptitious ducking out of life, excusing yourself from a room to jot down the character traits, plot lines or perfectly crafted expressions that pop into your mind while you're supposed to be concentrating on more important things. One of our lovely ladies likened it to having an affair. With a pen and paper? It could be far worse.
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