I started my new class last night, and... these playwriting classes... I get so nervous and, well, WOUND-UP... by the time I get to read my piece, I'm twitching and sputtering like a French Anarchist.
It didn't stop there. I was up past 1 a.m. (bedtime is 11 p.m. weekdays) as ideas for my homework assignment fed steadily out of my subconscious. I ignored all the old writing stereotypes _ staying up all night to work _ and good writing advice _ write the idea down before it disappears _ and forced myself to sleep.
I predict next week's class won't produce this same effect. But it's kind of fun. It makes people think I'm slightly crazy, and there's a certain mystique to that... yes?
No comments:
Post a Comment