Sometimes being ambitious isn't very fun. Late Monday night as my fingers were frantically punching the keys of my laptop to get a first draft hammered out for class Tuesday, I was beginning to think maybe I’d taken Bailey a little too seriously when he said "be ambitious."
But I got it finished in time for class, a 14-page rough draft of a story set in the swing era, told from two points of view: a white band leader and the young black singer he hires to sing in his band. I spent more time going back through my jazz class notes, flipping through books on jazz from the library and searching the Web for information on jazz ballrooms and 1930s slang than I actually did writing.
Thankfully class yesterday was only a peer review and not a full-blown workshop. I was partnered with Theresa, and we traded stories and marked them up. Class ended before we were done discussing the stories with each other, so Theresa just came to my dorm room after class since she just lives down the hall from me. We sat cross-legged on the floor and talked about our stories for while.
I really like being around so many talented writers, other people my age who take writing seriously. They're people I have a lot of respect for.
I live in Hassinger Hall, a small three-story dorm with the offices of the English Department in the basement. Three other writing majors live just down the hall from me, so it’s really easy to just walk down the hall and get some feedback or bounce an idea off Thersa or Dan or Liz. Some of us are even working on converting the business major in room 306 into a writing major.
Rob, a friend of mine from the summer workshop, and I actually swapped some of our old (poorly written, we now realize) short stories the other day. We gave each other the weirdest ones we’d ever written because Rob was somewhat dismayed about not being able to write science fiction (Tom Bailey likes only realistic fiction. No sci-fi. No fantasy. No horror. He once told us he likes to feed elves to his dogs).
Which reminds me. Tonight is Halloween. I put together a scary-story reading for tonight at 10 with some other people on my floor. I’m real excited. Garth, an English Lit major, is going to read some Poe, Theresa might be reading “The Lottery,” and I’ll be reading Stephen King’s “The Moving Finger.” It should be great.
But I got it finished in time for class, a 14-page rough draft of a story set in the swing era, told from two points of view: a white band leader and the young black singer he hires to sing in his band. I spent more time going back through my jazz class notes, flipping through books on jazz from the library and searching the Web for information on jazz ballrooms and 1930s slang than I actually did writing.
Thankfully class yesterday was only a peer review and not a full-blown workshop. I was partnered with Theresa, and we traded stories and marked them up. Class ended before we were done discussing the stories with each other, so Theresa just came to my dorm room after class since she just lives down the hall from me. We sat cross-legged on the floor and talked about our stories for while.I really like being around so many talented writers, other people my age who take writing seriously. They're people I have a lot of respect for.
I live in Hassinger Hall, a small three-story dorm with the offices of the English Department in the basement. Three other writing majors live just down the hall from me, so it’s really easy to just walk down the hall and get some feedback or bounce an idea off Thersa or Dan or Liz. Some of us are even working on converting the business major in room 306 into a writing major.
Rob, a friend of mine from the summer workshop, and I actually swapped some of our old (poorly written, we now realize) short stories the other day. We gave each other the weirdest ones we’d ever written because Rob was somewhat dismayed about not being able to write science fiction (Tom Bailey likes only realistic fiction. No sci-fi. No fantasy. No horror. He once told us he likes to feed elves to his dogs).
Which reminds me. Tonight is Halloween. I put together a scary-story reading for tonight at 10 with some other people on my floor. I’m real excited. Garth, an English Lit major, is going to read some Poe, Theresa might be reading “The Lottery,” and I’ll be reading Stephen King’s “The Moving Finger.” It should be great.
