I arrived at the classroom a full 30 minutes early. I take not wanting to be late on the first day to a whole new level.
We’re in the room next door to last year’s classroom. It’s laid out in the mirror image, so it feels a little backwards. It’s like stepping through the looking glass into a world that’s similar but not quite the same.
It’s not just the room that’s different, but the people too. There are only five of us continuing on from last year, so it has a completely new vibe.
I’m not very good with change. I like familiarity and consistency. I knew that it would be different and yet somehow it was a shock that it was. I knew, but I’d tried to overlook it in the hope that it wouldn’t be true. Perhaps I am spending too many hours writing. Because I can change a characters situation to be what I want just by writing it down, I seem to think that the same works on reality just by hoping. It doesn’t.
By the end of last year I’d just about settled into a state of uncomfortable acceptance with the idea of reading my work out to the group. I was going into the new year with the confidence that I could do it, because I already had. I didn’t like it, but I could do it.
My confidence completely evaporated the moment it was my turn to introduce myself to the group. The fact that I already knew the tutor and a few students was absolutely no help.
Over the summer I’ve had 2 stories published and a couple of other pieces accepted for publication. I’ve had my novel reviewed by the RNA New Writers Scheme and I’m three quarters of the way through a rewrite. Yet all I managed to tell the group as they waited with baited breath was that I like to write stories. Duh!