Talking of writing classes…

I’ve taken a few.  I’m not sure, now, what I was trying to find there.  To be fair, they must suit some people—but me?

My general experience of writing classes was—I had opinions, I joined in and even led discussions—and then, over the weeks, I gradually got beaten down.

I did do a degree—that was one thing I did do—it was in Humanities—and it was the sort of course where you were taught, before all else, how to think for yourself.

Unfortunately, from what I have seen of education these days, even further and higher education, the idea of becoming an individual and having ideas of your own—that you could illustrate from reference to your reading, for instance—that seems to have gone.

They want things more certain—but what they don’t realise is that they never will get absolutes in that way.  We have language, and it is slippery, and they may think they have explained until the cows come home—but—people still don’t get it.

Of course they don’t.

Something means something to one person, means something completely different to another.

I don’t want to get into all of this, all at once.  There is too much of it.

But—people have their own interpretations and connotations.

You’re lucky if you happen to be on the same wavelength as a tutor.  Or an educational establishment, and I really don’t know how people do it, these days.  Here is pattern A—reproduce it, but by going through x, y, and z.  We need you to do that otherwise—how would we mark your work?

Try using native intelligence.

I’ve been going through stories that I wrote—quite a few years ago—and I did consider doing an MA in Creative Writing—and part of that—it was required that you hand in draft after draft…

Otherwise, how could they see how your work had developed?

Possibly, with difficulty.

But—would I want that?

I’m editing stories.  I am not keeping earlier drafts.  I am a different person now from the one I was when I first wrote those stories.  I write differently.  You could probably tell, from a piece of my writing, what year it was, how I was, etc, etc—if you found any that had not been written over—and inevitably, at the end of the day, there will be writings of mine, if any survive at all, that I haven’t had chance to put the final gloss on—before I—popped my clogs.

I don’t want stories going out, or being seen, as they were—I’d rather they were seen as they are.

 

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