Storyteller

I came here with the intention of writing something much more meaningful...and instead I wrote the previous entry...a work-related rant.  Boo.

The other day I was asked a very simple question, and yet... it's changed something in me.  "How's the book coming?"  A person I hardly know at all is aware that I'm writing something.  I felt a bit of fear...pride, too, but there was some fear.  I've admitted to myself and to others that I am writing.  There's an expectation out there... and apparently it's no longer just my own.

There was a bit of unexpected good fortune in my writing class - those students who are working on a longer piece are able to submit the first chapter in place of a short story.  I had so hoped to be able to use this class as a method of fleshing things out.  I want more feedback.  I want some insight... the first book is still my stumbling point.  If only I could start with book two...I already know that world.  Creating a whole world is difficult...much more difficult that I'd imagined.  A small-scale world is one thing...a town, a house, a park... this is a whole world, its universe...the feel, the look, the people... it's every little thing that makes it real.  I can see it so clearly, and I know a few of the people who live there, but I don't know the world; I don't know the rules.

Oddly, despite the lack of a world for my characters to toil in, I am feeling confident.

My biggest fear with the class is that I have to tell my class how the story ends.  I've given details to 3 people...but haven't told them the most important thing about the story.  If I'm not even able to tell people I trust, how can I tell all these strangers??  It's too close to me.  If I believed in souls, this'd be a part of mine.

Anyway... I'm trying to avoid getting Oliver's current illness... The effort is entirely futile, but it's best that I sleep now anyway.  Monday morning always comes too soon.