There are about 20 of us, with good intentions and new notebooks.
I missed the introductions, and so was saved from the horror of realising that people in the room are already working on novels, or have completed one. The wonderful Emma from Adventures of an Unfit Mother turned up on time for the class and so had this information from the outset. I’m glad I was late.
The tutor is a proper teacher, and made her expectations clear: turn up for class when possible, constructive criticism only, write each week, actually want to write a novel. Ah. I may have fallen at the first. I don’t know if I want to write a novel. I want to be a better writer and I’m happy to use this class to learn, and to give me a structure, but a novel? I’m not sure my imagination will take me that far.
There is homework. Useful, challenging homework, that I am in no way ready for. (“Write 3 paragraphs putting your character in a setting. Each paragraph should concentrate on a different sense.”) The homework is not impossible, but by the end of term I could still be squiggling mind maps and writing streams of consciousness.
I chose this class because it was a) in the morning, and b) had space. It’s a start. That’s all I want.
I just need to remember that.