One class down, another to go and I’m already wiped out.
The class beginning tonight will be more intense. Draw me further to the edge. Push me to write fiction.
Once upon a time, I thought I wanted to write fiction. Living in the land of make-believe, I bragged to my husband, “I know I can.” He surprised me with agreement. Took the air write out of my sails; and with nothing left to prove, I didn’t even pick up a pencil and try, though I did buy my first how-to book.
Three years ago I had this story kicking around in my soul, and my son Kyle kept asking, “How’s the story going, Mom?” My response was always flavored with the same gist: “I’ve got no story, Son. That’s your department, isn’t it?”
And now I’m going to write fiction? Just like that? Play God by not being in control of my characters. Talk about getting out of my comfort zone. What seemed so do-able in March seems less so now, minutes away from the starting gate.
The last few days, I’ve reminded myself of that Lenten mantra that I lived with earlier this year — “It’s no better to be safe than sorry”-– which helped get me to Iowa in the first place. And I have to ask myself: Do I really believe these words? In my heart of hearts, wouldn’t I rather play it safe and tell myself I’m not sorry? It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve lied to myself.
If I return to the festival next year, I will be less greedy. I will settle on just one class. For “Betcha-can’t-eat-just-one” doesn’t apply here in Iowa. Because sometimes, Three Dog Night, one is not a lonely number. Sometimes, one suffices quite nice.