The workshop is over and I wonder how the students are feeling - exhausted? overwhelmed? Hopefully not despondent or depressed, which sometimes happens. Although shorter things (like a weekend) tend to be more energising than attending a class for a whole year.
In a year-long thing, your feelings about your writing can change from week to week, depending on how you think it's going, how much you have written, whether someone in the class that day annoyed you! It's like any kind of long-term "project" - you have to keep at it but at times it's hard. That's why I keep saying that perserverance is the key (although sometimes I have a momentary sneaking wish to be instantly brilliant! until I think about how that would take the challenge out of it, and therefore half of the enjoyment - the other half is completion, the self-pride in having actually written).
It was interesting to see all the different things they were writing, and how they used the writing exercises I set. We ended the day with a session on publishing. I wish I had some really good examples of query letters - I think I will have to find some to use in class as it can be difficult to explain without samples to discuss.
Today I raced down to Bookman's in the lunch hour, and it took way longer to get there than I thought. I still look at the map and think, That's pretty close, it won't take long, and then it does. But I am learning. Found a book on writing personal essays (by Sheila Bender) which I bought. We have been doing some of these in Short Story 2, and it will be good to have a useful, user-friendly guide.
Called my husband last night and now he says I can have a pet snake if I really want one! Hmmm. I think he might change his mind when he sees one. And as for the cats... this could cause a mutiny.
Tomorrow is the Journalism class in the afternoon. My morning is free, a good thing as I need to wind down a little. I started a new poem today and am putting into it all the things I have seen and heard so far that have appealed to me or made me laugh. A personal poem that probably no one else will be the slightest bit interested in.