Instead of going on an on about how ridiculous I feel when attempting to craft fiction in a successful manner, I figured I could talk about my Lit class. A few of my friends aren't the hugest fans of said class, due to the teacher mostly, but I think it's one of my favourite classes that I've taken since 9th grade. I find our teacher quite delightful, he's not incredibly judgmental, and seems pretty "go with the flow," which I enjoy. Plus, he doesn't mind that I sit in class, drawing and/or painting, 90% of the time.
I won't lie, if it weren't for the class, I doubt I would be reading as much as I have been. I sort of forgot how much I liked reading things in plain English, verses Elizabethan. Plus, some of the novels, poems and stories we've read have been fantastic. There is really only one book I found irritating, but that was due to the way the narration was written (due to the time period, location of the characters, race, etc).
For the first time, I've actually felt like participating in class too, which is quite out of character for me. I'm not afraid that Luc is going to mock me for seeing something differently, because he doesn't care. If you don't see what he does, he says his opinion of your opinion and breezes past. My only problem is that quite often I think something, and before I raise my hand, it comes out of another students mouth. I find it entertaining, he talks and then I try to talk, for participation and because for once I feel for the character/setting/situation, but end up babbling and making no sense. I would try and convince him to talk less, but I doubt I would say much anyway, for I still have this underlying fear of being terribly off base. I'd rather hear a boy I've known since elementary school add to the conversation, and not partake, then something not get added to the conversation.
We just finished our discussion on naturalism, which spawned from our reading "To Build a Fire" and Ethan Frome. If you would like to feel odd, sit in a class discussing the characters, relate to them and how they act, and listen to your classmates complain of them being weak & pathetic (Ethan), vicious & vindictive (Zenna) or completely useless (Mattie.) Oh, and The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, too. The jumbled thoughts that barely seem to connect, that's abnormal as well, even though you've experienced them. That's the one downside to the class, really. Sometimes, when we talk of characters who feel trapped by their surroundings, or people who seemed caged in by their own thoughts, the fear of the reaction that action brings, I have a tendency to leave the classroom slightly dazed, stumbling around more introspective and attentive to the inhabitants of the hallways. I'm amused by the fact that I'm part of the small number of girls who would date Mr. Prufrock, if he were to exist. Why wouldn't a girl want to date a guy who could understood her thought process more than others could?
Currently, we're reading "The Stranger," and already I see where the character is coming from, and I'm only 16 pages in. So much of the narration reminds me of how I think, or thought, when dad is illness is worse than usual. The only read differences are that my parents are still alive, and after thinking of something I want, I feel guilty for not putting dad first. This may not make any sense, but in my head it is completely coherent.
In other news, 237 words were written today. I only liked one of them, exponential. I only liked it because it entertained me at the moment I wrote it. No longer does it fill me with any sort of thrill or whimsy.
Keep Calm & Write On,
Sarah
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