About to finish up my second quarter at our local community college, one of the classes I've been immersed in for the last 10 weeks is a Creative Non-Fiction Writing class. It's stretched me in many ways; never before have I had the desire or requirement to write over a page on reality, without it being essay format.
In Creative Non-Fiction, my writing is supposed to be personal. It's supposed to reveal me, as the author, and my perspective on whatever subject I may be addressing. It's supposed to not just focus on the "facts, please," but on the emotions, without ever crossing the line to purely making something up. This has overwhelmed me.
My first assignment was to write a memoir - and I have never written anything so difficult. Not because I don't have special memories, not because I can't write well about them, but because the entire class is assigned to read and provide feedback on all turned-in assignments. This frightened me.
Why would I want a roomful of people to know a special memory of mine? Why would I give them that information? They don't know or particularly care about me - how can I share something so priceless with people who have no understanding of its value?
This was sharing of myself I was unwilling to give. Was it wrong? Where do I hold back from sharing myself when I should be giving everything?
five minute friday: Writing for five minutes on a theme. Skip the edits. Skip the considerations. Just write. And post.
