Creative Writing for Women, Part II.
That was the name of a class offered through the University of Calgary Continuing Education programme. Ten lessons.
I just could wait two months for that class to finish and begin with Part I. But I was ready to start taking a class now, so I enrolled half way through.
I had been to see a psychologist – wondering what was wrong with me, that I couldn’t accomplish everything that was on my agenda. She gently suggested that I should do something that was just for me – something where no one else’s needs were present.
I don’t remember exactly being resentful.
I was more resigned to loosing another two hours of my week. Obligatory. Now a job to do for the psychologist. Yes, a bit resentful. Yet I would go, listen, give up the two hours and continue on my other journeys, some of which were weighing me down. But that was it. I would give no more.
In the second class Roberta Rhys asked everyone to write a piece where there was a trope that kept being repeated. She said that everyone should hand their work in the next class. She said she would read them and then bring some of them to class so we could examine them together.
I complied, since I had a niggling fear of being singled out if I didn’t hand in my homework. Better to comply than be embarrassed.
In doing that exercise, I found the writing fun to be really fun.
Previously I had written for a target audience. My family. Listing the events of my days.
Now I saw that I could just be playful on paper – for no other reasons than the joy of putting words on paper. Turing words around. Striking them out. Finding their companions, hidden deep in the tattered pages of a thesaurus. Words following me to another room, even if I left my pen and paper at the table. Words talk back to me and me laughing at their sassy ways.
I kept going to class. The lessons were inspiring.
At the end of the course, the lovely Ria Meronek asked the whole class if there were any women who would like to continue writing and meet monthly.
I was one of the many who came forward.
And that is how my writing group was born.
Women who love to have a pencil and a pad of paper nearby.
And are willing to listen and critique the work of others.
Writing, a craft in which I am still seriously invested.
Arta
That was the name of a class offered through the University of Calgary Continuing Education programme. Ten lessons.
I just could wait two months for that class to finish and begin with Part I. But I was ready to start taking a class now, so I enrolled half way through.
I had been to see a psychologist – wondering what was wrong with me, that I couldn’t accomplish everything that was on my agenda. She gently suggested that I should do something that was just for me – something where no one else’s needs were present.
I don’t remember exactly being resentful.
I was more resigned to loosing another two hours of my week. Obligatory. Now a job to do for the psychologist. Yes, a bit resentful. Yet I would go, listen, give up the two hours and continue on my other journeys, some of which were weighing me down. But that was it. I would give no more.
In the second class Roberta Rhys asked everyone to write a piece where there was a trope that kept being repeated. She said that everyone should hand their work in the next class. She said she would read them and then bring some of them to class so we could examine them together.
I complied, since I had a niggling fear of being singled out if I didn’t hand in my homework. Better to comply than be embarrassed.
In doing that exercise, I found the writing fun to be really fun.
Previously I had written for a target audience. My family. Listing the events of my days.
Now I saw that I could just be playful on paper – for no other reasons than the joy of putting words on paper. Turing words around. Striking them out. Finding their companions, hidden deep in the tattered pages of a thesaurus. Words following me to another room, even if I left my pen and paper at the table. Words talk back to me and me laughing at their sassy ways.
 |
| ...Ria, behind deadfall, admiring a creek running past us ... |
I kept going to class. The lessons were inspiring.
At the end of the course, the lovely Ria Meronek asked the whole class if there were any women who would like to continue writing and meet monthly.
I was one of the many who came forward.
And that is how my writing group was born.
Women who love to have a pencil and a pad of paper nearby.
And are willing to listen and critique the work of others.
Writing, a craft in which I am still seriously invested.
Arta
If and when I write about 80 memories, the writing group would be one of them.
ReplyDeleteRia
There is much more to be told about the writing group. Like many groups that start out, the number of people dwindle. A few can't quit. For me it is because there is a wealth of information shared, the participants totally present and giving feedback on each other's work. Hard not to salute the joy of writing...and having a writer's group. Remember when Carolyn thought we should be called the Friends of the Egg Lady. Or maybe that was you. It wouldn't matter -- now there was a title I would not have created, ... and that is the fun of the group.
ReplyDelete