Your Craft

As you walk in the door, which you find at the end of a very long and very dusty hallway, you catch glimpses of them through the glass panes in the door. They are old and young, male and female. You see them as they present themselves in the very first moments: the older man with three novels under his belt, the woman in the boots concerned about "process" with her finished novel sitting in the bright orange folder in front of her. The obnoxious hip indie chick and the other hip indie chick (not as obnoxious) - this is Los Angeles, you knew they would be here. The shy girls in the corner and the slightly arrogant man sitting next to them who knows all about points of view and narrators. Here they are. This is what you signed up for. You are terrified.

You write. You listen. The instructor doesn't remember your name, even joking about how he won't remember your name until the ninth week, when class is almost over. His eye wanders and you aren't sure where to look. You don't talk much, because you don't like talking. That is why you are a writer. You are protective and not sure of talking about "it" - process, craft, your characters. Buzzword after buzzword. But there are no rules. You aren't ready to expose Nellie to them yet.

You write furiously for two minutes and then realize you will have to read what you wrote. This is it. This is what you signed up for. You read your passage, confidently, surprised at what came out of you. You think you heard appreciative murmurs. Maybe you were hearing things.

You love this.