Tonight another writing class ended. I say another, because sometimes all I do is take writing classes. But that's not really true. Thinking about it, I haven't taken a single class on the story story. Same for the novel. Nothing on many of the genre fiction courses like mystery or romance. And yet.
Maybe right now I'm just burned out. This class was more difficult in some ways because it challenged me to define who I am as a writer. With only a few credits to my name, that's hard to pin down. Yet I raged against some assignments, beat my fist against the wall screaming "That's not who I am!"
Defining by what one is not seems rockier than easy acceptance.
I'm glad I took this class. But I am so thankful it's over.