Parodies Lost

I'm taking this fiction writing class and as of last count, I was the second oldest student in the class. Of course, it's an undergrad class with enthusiastic young people and that's great. And it's a big class - 16 of us - which means workshopping four stories a night. Confidence certainly isn't a bad thing in a writer, especially a young one, and God knows I had a stage where everything I wrote was brilliant (or so I thought.) If I didn't have a healthy ego, I wouldn't still be doing this. Ultimately you have to believe in the value of your own work, even if no one else does at that particular moment.

But, wow - sometimes I'm astounded by the gulf between my experience and theirs. It doesn't seem that I could possibly be that much older, but apparently I am. 15 years in some cases, I'd bet. (When did that happen?) And when they ask questions about getting ideas, I remember I have a ton of life experience to draw on. I don't struggle for ideas any more - mostly I struggle with putting the words on paper and then making them into something polished. Finishing things. That's what I have trouble with.

It's an interesting class, although it feels more like a beginning fiction class than an advanced. I suppose once we actually start workshopping that might change, but in the meantime, I'm reading, I'm thinking, and oh yeah, writing! *g*