I started the Masters course in Creative Writing last week. How hard could it possibly be? I love reading. I love writing. Simple?
Er, no. I am a fish out of water. Or prawn. Squid?
It started so well. I made my way to induction, swimming and elbowing against the tide of children headed for the canteen. They were very, very young and I felt very, very old. Mumsy. Grey. Got my ID card. The woman who took my photo said, ‘you can smile you know love, it’s not Crimewatch.’
I grimaced, picked up my card and joined the young folk in the classroom. And I loved it – learning something new. Filled with enthusiasm, the first lecture loomed. Wasn’t too bad, took notes, swotted up. Then a different lecture about research. Without warning, the tutor switched to Swahili and the four hours passed in a blur of ‘why am I here, what am I doing and when will they unmask me and chuck me out?’
Then, the first writing assignment. I knew I could do this. I’ve been writing a form of flash fiction for two years with this blog, each post around 400 words but (hopefully) conveying so much more. I was chuffed with my effort, slaved over it, rewrote it, obsessed about it.
Let’s just say, I Don’t Get It. I am panicking. I wrote a terrible story. I adore my course, I love the research. I just don’t think I have what it takes.