I finally did it.
I signed up for a kick in the ass.
Tonight marks my first novel writing class, one that purports to arm me with the skills (namely the motivation and discipline needed) to bang out one hundred pages by the end of September.
The prospect of possessing—actually creating! Gaaah!---a novel, possibly, maybe, before I turn the ripe old age of 25 is so…amazingly…far away…distant from where I am now.
Cube, grilled cheese, flip cup, my parents’ disappointment---these are the things that are organic to me in this stage of life. But in three months? Dare I think? Organic could be a sophomoric, un-salable novel stuffed in my nightstand. The possibilities are endless.
Maybe I’ll switch to quarters, maybe I’ll add tomato to the grilled cheese.
I did write a full-length screenplay my sophomore semester, and got an A plus, the only A plus I ever got in a college course, and a cute, jokey award for the best “drugs, sex, and angst” screenplay in the class, though most others had written love stories so the prize really didn’t count. I did do that. So I bet, factoring my slightly more burning desire to do this and my increase in age (hopefully maturity too) that this will happen. For. Real.
Wish me luck for tonight and every Tuesday after…