On the first day of fiction class we found out that each person would be able to bring in a piece to workshop. This was one of the reasons I wanted to take a writing class. My writing is in a bit of a standstill and needs outside eyes. I knew workshopping would be good for me, even if the idea made my hands sweat.
The workshopping started this week, with two of my classmates having offered up pieces for everyone to mull over. With my birthday next week, I knew I didn’t want to offer up at the next class, and while there’s a chance I’ll have more time after my birthday, I decided I might as well take the risk now and not later. When my instructor asked for volunteers to bring in a piece next week, I raised my hand.
I submitted a piece to a contest back in the fall and haven’t looked at it since. I really loved one of the characters and have meant to come back to the piece many times. When my instructor first brought up the idea of workshopping, I knew I wanted to rework this piece and bring it in. To raise my hand and volunteer this past week was more than just finding the courage to workshop. It was also taking the risk that the piece I wrote wasn’t as good as I remember.
Memory is a wonderful thing, but it’s also selective and can sometimes be wearing beer goggles. I haven’t looked it yet, so I’m not sure if my memory is sloshed or not.
A part of me wants to rework one of the pieces I’ve written from the exercises handed out in the last few weeks. But, at this point, I feel like I’d be cheating myself. And I’m done cheating myself.