There is mounting evidence that I’m possibly the least talented person in my writing class.
The writers program that I am in is very good – I’m consistently challenged and get great feedback from the professors. However, it appears that I’m the only person in the program that is not a published author and from the tone of it… it’s pretty interesting that I even got accepted in the first place. Now, that wasn’t an overt comment but I am nothing if not exceptionally skilled at parsing innocuous words for pernicious subtext.
Yes, there are published authors in my class, and yes, I spend the majority of my life posting rambling thoughts about the brilliance of Homeland, the genius of The Edge, and the abs of Daniel Craig. But – leveling the charges that exactly no one has put to me – there was an entrance process and I’m getting an A- right now, so let’s all stop picking on me (so far, just me). And if you don’t think that I emailed the professor last night asking if I could do something extra to get rid of that minus, then I guess you just don’t know me at all.
Yesterday I spent six hours finishing my final, then crying about what a hack I am, deleting it all, drinking 3 glasses of wine, and rewriting it. Alarmingly, rereading it this morning has led me to believe that I write slightly better when I’m buzzed. Because what I really need is more encouragement to drink.