And She's Off Again

I attended my first Creative Writing Class tonight with 9 other aspiring hopeful writers. We sit in a little coccoon shaped nook introducing ourselves. A retired teacher like me, a family physician, an environmental engineer, a retired therapist, an army brat, the wife of a director, a stay at home mom, a journalist, and a librarian. In our introduction we had to describe the darkest place we have ever been. Two women said their minds. The rest of us had experiences in caves or basement cellars. They are accepting and full of anticipation like an expectant mother ready to give birth. I like them all - already.
Our instructor, a published and seasoned writer, will for the next 8 weeks channel our writing and guide us along the path to our dream of publication. She isn't hurried. She listens carefully. She tells us about Natalie Goldberg's book Writing Down the Bones and about W. O. Mitchell's free fall writing.
For ten minutes she has us write. One girl has brought her laptop despite the instructor's admonition to use only ink and paper. Energy like that could light a city. Physically we don't ever write for ten minutes anymore. Our hands are cramping. We put down our pens with relief. Yet we know what is coming. Who will be brave enough to share by reading?
One by one we read our ten minutes of free fall. I like them even more. They are literate, erudite, and willing to take a risk. The instructor invites us to make comments at the end of each reading. Two women are crying from things they wrote. They are embarrassed and yet this little circle of hope tightens secure arms around them reassuring them.
Each day I will need to write for 30 minutes. No censorship. No corrections. No editing. Going for the naked and jugular.
I drive home barely conscious of the road. My mind churns out one story idea after another. A small step toward my dream. I am so happy.