Tonight my writing class found out I keep a secret, though they aren't entirely certain it is I who owns it or if it is my character who does. Though it seems glaringly obvious that I am the character, therefore I own the secret.
The class concentrates on fiction writing but my imagination is more comfortable buoying in familiar waters. I've taken to embellishing my Bloomingdale's chronicles which I previously posted on MySpace. My dedicated MySpace blog readers were entertained, yet they never critiqued my journals as my writing class has. I've been presenting more polished versions of my chronicles to a more attentive audience who isn't reading my 'blog' to pass time while at work. This class is trying help me with my craft.
After today's reading in which I compared Bloomingdale's to a prison with no escape, my class mulled over my hyperboles and personifications and imagery coming to a shared agreement that my character is "crazy", "mad", "depressed" and "lazy." Quizzical looks accompanied the question, "Well, why does the character stay there if she hates it so much?" They all chuckled at my story. At my real life story. Based on a true story.
That was me! That is me! I'm the loony who got stuck working in a store. Was my depression that apparent? Did I really think I could fool everyone? These people who didn't even know me could read it all over my face in only two typed pages!
I'm tired. I'm going to go read The Brooklyn Follies. The desire to read was the only success of tonight's class. My character flaws were pointed out and discussed. It was like a group of surgeons standing a patient just beginning to feel the affects of the anesthesia. They don't realize he's still awake and begin diagnosing him as not having much hope after the operation. That's how I felt. They had no idea I was still awake.
But I cant try to unravel my foibles tonight. Maybe I need to keep writing my story in order to figure it out. . .
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