Class went well yesterday! Sanderson can no longer get a big room from the evening-class board (or whatever they’re called) though, since apparently it twisted someone’s panties to have one writing class with 80 people when all the others had 15. There are 20 students and 10 auditors in that class, and while Sanderson said he won’t kick anyone out, he recommended coming next year, when he would be doing a lecture series that anyone and their dog could come to.
I, of course, am stubborn, so I will be attending anyway, even if I have to sit in the windowsill with the rest of the peanut gallery.
Anyway, I’m finally in a writing group again! It’s awesome. We have eight people, which is a lot, but two of them will only be reading, so it works. (Nathan, are we doing treats again?) I’ll be submitting Weirs for review, which unfortunately means I’ll be revising earlier chapters whilst working on later chapters. But it shouldn’t throw off my groove too much.
I finally got my final back from Sanderson! His critiques were wonderful and helpful. I won’t share any unless someone is absolutely dying to know (and yes, doctor’s note required).
Also got chewed out by a friend to start responding to comments on this blog, ha. And I met a nice girl named Stephanie who is apparently one of my readers. I had no idea. Needless to say I feel slightly more important.
Stopped by Leading Edge, but they didn’t have any stories in the slushpile, so I drove home (at which point I ate cake, then cake for breakfast, then cake for lunch, and now I feel kind of sick).
Only heard back from on person (thanks for the comments btw) about giveaways—I’m thinking starting small, like $5-$10 Barnes and Noble gift cards or something. But we shall see. :D
Excerpt of the day:
(This is from an old Yahoo! writing group my sister used to run. We did monthly “one-shots,” where we had a new prompt each month to respond to. This was written February 2008 about some chick getting ready to commit suicide.)
I grab the eave of my window and carefully wind myself back inside my apartment. I leave the window open. I’m not giving up, I’m just getting ready. I strip off my clothes, one at a time, and rush into my bedroom. I switch on my CD player and crank up the bass of Bon Jovi until it’s all pound and no words, then escort myself to my closet.
I have to be glorious. I inspect every article and hangar,** tossing them onto my floor. Not good enough, not good enough. Doesn’t matter how much of a mess I make; doesn’t matter that I just knocked over my cereal bowl with my sweater and now chocolate milk’s seeping into the carpet, because I don’t have to clean it up. Let Carol worry about it. She can keep whatever clothes of mine she wants, I won’t need them.
*It takes a lot of self control not to say “Sandy’s.”
**I know how to spell hanger. But apparently I didn't know how to spell hanger in 2008.