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.