Over last weekend I had a brainstorm in which I was able to incorporate something I wanted to do into the script which was also something I needed to add, all in the same action I cannot tell you how satisfying that was.
It was a release to hear this slightly modified version read by the other members of the program, and their questions and comments were constructive and helpful. As the reading itself drew to a close I was almost, but not quite, in tears. It was cool, the camera was off. But this is my life. These are my fears.
I am a fifty-two year-old man. And yet, I was extremely anxious to see the comments on my flash fiction inspired by the works of Richard Wright. It is amazing how much I have forgotten, or never knew, about writing papers. The comments were supportive. My professor “got” what I was trying to do. And yet, academia is not art, you are supposed to make your point clear. There were many places in my analysis in which I could have been direct, instead of coy.
I was satisfied with my grade.
My first semester draws to a close, all I need to do is complete and upload a fifteen page paper, drafted from twelve weeks of handwritten pages, underlined quotes, and a lifetime spent carefully learning lessons of circumspection and gradual if incomplete awareness.
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