Alone time
Apr. 20th, 2008 10:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aubreymTonight was my first evening writing class. It went from 7:00 until 9:30, which is the longest time I've been away from both Tom and Tai. I was both weird and a bit... pleasant. Sure, I was a little nervous both about starting a new class (meeting new people) and being away from Tai... Needless to say I had my phone on me and I checked it several times during the class just to make sure I had service and that I hadn't missed an important call or text. Of course Dad and boy were just fine. Tai was a bit fussy but he sucked down the bottle and fell asleep which made Tom a happy camper. (I'll admit to a bit of pleasure at Tai's fussiness. Now Tom knows how hard it is to do anything when takign care of the babe.)
I got to spend a couple of hours with a group of adults, talking about writing, thinking about writing, and even doing some writing. It's going to be a good class, I think. There are five of us (including me) - four women and one man. Since it's such a small class we're going to get to share our writing a lot more often than planned. This is going to be really good for me. It's going to make me sit my butt down in a chair when Tai is sleeping or Tom is home and put pen to paper. (Or fingers to keyboard, depending.) My first day of sharing is next Sunday, which means I need new stuff by Thursday.
One of the women seems a bit pretentious, but I'm trying to hold off on judgment. The other two seem down to earth - and no one seems like they're going to be overly critical, including the teacher. This is the first time I've had a male writing teacher since college and my painful experience with Professor Clayton. I'm hoping that this helps me get past that experience. One of my goals in this class is to make a writing friend or two. Or, at the very least, decide whether or not I like this teacher - if I do I can take the class again.
I did write a bit tonight and I thought I'd share -
I got to spend a couple of hours with a group of adults, talking about writing, thinking about writing, and even doing some writing. It's going to be a good class, I think. There are five of us (including me) - four women and one man. Since it's such a small class we're going to get to share our writing a lot more often than planned. This is going to be really good for me. It's going to make me sit my butt down in a chair when Tai is sleeping or Tom is home and put pen to paper. (Or fingers to keyboard, depending.) My first day of sharing is next Sunday, which means I need new stuff by Thursday.
One of the women seems a bit pretentious, but I'm trying to hold off on judgment. The other two seem down to earth - and no one seems like they're going to be overly critical, including the teacher. This is the first time I've had a male writing teacher since college and my painful experience with Professor Clayton. I'm hoping that this helps me get past that experience. One of my goals in this class is to make a writing friend or two. Or, at the very least, decide whether or not I like this teacher - if I do I can take the class again.
I did write a bit tonight and I thought I'd share -
The assignment was to write about a sensory image from our past (whether that past is today or our childhood). We had seven minutes.
"The first time I held my son to my breast I was surprised. At his weight in my arms. The spread of warmth from his skin to mine, from his heart to mine. The strength of his pull at my nipple. His greedy, gulping swallows. His own particular smell as I dip my nose to his head. The tiny starfish of his hand againts my breast. His tiny, satisfied sounds. The slide of his breath against my skin. The shifting grey of his eyes. The lengthening of the distance between us and the rest of the world. The depth of ache in my heart.
I am still surprised."
"The first time I held my son to my breast I was surprised. At his weight in my arms. The spread of warmth from his skin to mine, from his heart to mine. The strength of his pull at my nipple. His greedy, gulping swallows. His own particular smell as I dip my nose to his head. The tiny starfish of his hand againts my breast. His tiny, satisfied sounds. The slide of his breath against my skin. The shifting grey of his eyes. The lengthening of the distance between us and the rest of the world. The depth of ache in my heart.
I am still surprised."
