Writing eludes me of late. I’ve bemoaned how the monetary career grows while the fantasy of binding thoughts in published form, imagining the screenplay and who’d play me suffers. Already picked the local musicians I’ll help launch to national prominence by including in a bar scene and on the soundtrack. And yes, serving cocktails, scones and coffee at the signing.
To freshly-squeeze creative juices and pull myself out of pajamas and away from the home office, I've been seeking out local writing groups and workshops (bonus should either include a poetic, tortured soul with dark hair and eyes who’ll read to me in bed). Found two classes offered by the continuing education arm of my alma mater, dear old CU, which sparked a creative plug:
“Life Writing” works with the concept that truth is stranger (and often more interesting) than fiction.
Truth is also raw, naked and a little scary. In “Creative Nonfiction”:
Do you have an idea for a nonfiction story? Perhaps you are looking for other writers to work with who can provide useful criticism.
“Useful criticism." There’s an oxymoron, like “jumbo shrimp” or “boy friend."
Yesterday two oversized course catalogs, one Winter, one Spring arrived. Should I find it karmic or ironic the only other mail delivered that day was a glossy catalog of bargain books? The abandoned remains of life’s work that don’t sell a full first print, hopes and dreams marked down to $3.95 hardcover?