Last night was the last formal class of the writing group, the last gathering of that interesting bunch of people at the offices of the Indiana Writers Center.
It's not necessarily over. The group is organized around an e-mail reflector where we have been sharing our manuscripts and critiques, and it's not going away. Several of us expressed an interest in continuing the process, and so it will.
It was a big group, ten at the start. A few dropped out -- "life happens," especially for part-time writers with full-time jobs and even more so for my classmates who have children. One, the youngest, never really got started, thanks to persistent e-mail problems and a lack of free time to resolve them. At least that student was able to audit all but the last class, and I hope it was useful.
One thing I have learned: my glacial writing pace won't cut it. I need to write a lot more than I do.
And another lesson: that swollen and painful knuckle serves as a reminder that the clock is ticking. If I want to write this stuff, now's the time. It's easier to type it than to speak it and much easier to edit.
He Worked On A Starship
2 months ago