You’ll be happy to know that I stopped pouting. Thanks mostly to the lovely Peabo, and partly to the scalping I got at the salon (god, I really hate using that word. It makes me feel like a frou-frou girlie girl who knows how to apply makeup and properly accessorize. I am not that girl. Except for that one week in 1988, but then I decided I liked sleeping more than makeup and I’ve never looked back).
My hair is short. I would take a picture but I’m afraid it’s too short to show up with a regular lens. The jury is still out on whether I like it. Every time I look in the mirror I hear Tyra Banks say, “You have the face that can carry off no hair.” Only I don’t have that face. I have the kind of face that should be hidden by many layers of hair.
But this is not about hair. This is about renewed faith in writing and writing workshops.
Though I’ve been pretty mum about it, mostly out of nothing to report than anything else, I am in the midst of a summer class with the Vodo. Summer classes are a little weird because they’re not very long. This one is extra weird because we only attended class every other week for the first month and by the time we were meeting every week half the class had disappeared for some reason.
I don’t mind when the flakes flake out, I’d rather have them ditch then sit in class sullen and quiet with nothing to say. What’s left of this weird summer class is good, a bunch of opinionated talkers (which are my favorite kind of talkers).
It’s not that anything magical happened last night, well besides Vodo banning me from Twittering while in class. We just talked about voice and too much voice or not enough voice and second person and weird moments and all the things that make short stories wonderful. Really, it was just a typical class.
And maybe that’s why I felt so good zooming home with the windows open singing along to Styx (I’m sailing away, set an open course for the virgin sea). Nothing magical happened, but I loved it. I love writing and talking about it, and sometimes that’s all it takes.