These days, attending my writing class is a mixture of eager
excitement, nervous anticipation and complete and utter dread. The result is a most disconcerting feeling,
as I wonder whether I really want to go or not.
The excitement is because I love what I do and once a week I
get to spend two whole hours doing just that without any distractions, well
other than the drama group that rehearses in the next room. I’m nervous because, even though I’m nearly
halfway through the course, sharing my work by reading it aloud to the class
hasn’t got any easier. And finally dread
because, well sometimes I think I just don’t get it at all.
The last few weeks have been spent on fairy tales and
fantasies, and whilst I always considered myself to have a pretty active imagination,
I’ve realised that compared to my class mates my imagination is actually quite
tame. Maybe it’s the accountant in me
that requires me to be bound to realism.
Maybe I’m too tied down by logic to be able to let go and appreciate the
abstract. But to me everything must make
sense, it must have a reason, a purpose.
That’s not to say it can’t be fantastical, it can. It just has to have some plausibility, some
sense to it. Even if it’s just a thread
that I can latch onto and let it lead me into a strange new world. I don’t need everything to be explained and
the mystery destroyed, I just need it to be plausible for the unexplained to
exist.
My class mates however don’t suffer with the same
restraints. To them seemingly random
nonsensical sentences take on their own meaning and they ooh and ah while I
stare at them wondering what I missed.
When you’re chasing your dreams, the last thing you want is
to feel like you’re not quite getting it.
It’s the most demoralising and lonely feeling.
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