On writing at all.

Oh, to be writing again. How do I do it?

A few weeks ago, my boss called me into her office to discuss an idea she had for helping me improve my writing. I won’t claim that this didn’t irk me at first. There’s nothing quite like hearing that maybe, possibly, you could stand to improve the thing you do on a daily basis and for which you are paid an annual salary. But, once I had given her idea some thought, I realized she was right.

She suggested I take a creative writing course. So, on Monday, I ventured onto the SMU campus, rather intimidated by the manicured lawns and Grecian columns of the building where the class takes place. I sat on the front row, in a 70s era bucket seat with an attached desk, linoleum beneath my feet and fluorescent lighting overhead.

Thankfully, the woman teaching this class not only writes novels but also non-fiction freelance pieces for magazines and newspapers. Were she exclusively a novelist or a poet, I think I would assume I can’t learn a thing from her. (I’m a jerk that way.) Already, I have learned that I fail often by not doing the very thing I say I want to do: write something, for the love. Writers write. Simple as that. And there is nothing so certain to make one Not A Writer as ignoring the craft until something inspiring comes along. So, here I am.

For our first in-class practice session, we spent increments of time, three minutes each, free writing. We began by making lists of interesting things about which we could write. From there, each of us wrote, just to get something on the page. Finally, we all went outside where we observed our surroundings and wrote about them. So, I am trying again. And I could use some ideas.