The thing about writing is that most would-be writers focus on technique―it's not about that―it's about honesty.
You're a writer because you're sensitive and obsessed with describing your world in words.
You've found your own pain, along with your own voice and now you want to recreate the world after the image inside you. It's not a choice because this need inside you compells you to create .
It was weird standing at a lectern talking about writing with a group of strangers when I didn't know myself which way to turn or go.
My words seemed hollow and felt naked as if everyone could see through my pretense. The fact was I hadn't had a best seller in five years and here I was trying to teach others when I was blocked myself.
A mousy looking girl asked, "where do you get your inspiration?"
I dreaded the query because I was conflicted myself and asked myself the same question.
I repeated advice I no longer believed in myself about taking risks when I stopped taking them in my own life.
That first session was horrendous and I couldn't wait for it to end.
As I watched the group file out I wondered if any would be back and I felt sorry for them if they intended to push that rock up the hill again to get the same result.
As I was gathering up my things Vi Thompson, popped her head in the door and I felt my mood plummet.
"How did the first session go?" she smiled encouragingly.
"I feel sorry for these poor suckers," I replied cynically, "but things may get better when they share their responses tomorow to the prompt I gave them."
"I'm sure things went well," she laughed, "I overheard them talking in the Hart House cafe about how lucky they were to learn from a literary celebrity."
"We'll see if their enthusiasm survives the next session." I smiled bleakly.
"Let me treat you to coffee, " she suggested, "first sessions are so overrated—give things a chance to settle down a bit."
"You're such a positive lady," I quipped.
"Famous for it," she replied sketching a mock bow.
"If you're willing to put up with me, who am I to deny a coffee and croissant?"
"Who said anything aboiu croissants?" she grinned, looping her arm in mine.
Against my will I had to admit, I liked this lady—liked her a lot.
But I felt guilty because like everyone else on campus she placed her trust in a fraud.
But besides being a collegue and a literary professor, Vi was a beautiful and intelligent woman. Why was she wasting her time on me?
She's actually read my books and says she loves my emotional honesty and wants to see the draft of my latest novel.
That last request scares me the most because she'll see right through my deception and know her hero has fallen...
and that assessment of my current state will be more than honest and for that reason will sting me the most.
