Shop Talk?

So I took this writing course at my local community college during the fall. Creative Writing 101. Lewis Black was the professor.

Okay, so he wasn't THE Lewis Black, but the similarities are such that the mental images you all are getting of my professor being an older, Jewish gentleman, with glasses and a poofy, receding, salt and pepper (more salt than pepper) hairline, angry about everything in general, yelling at random, inappropriate times, hand motions that defy logic, and a superior knowledge to everyone I have ever met, are more accurate than any other description I could give you.

His course was more intense than the 200 level course, which was taught by Jane Austin. He made us read A LOT. He made us produce over 40 pages of "fiction" by the end of the semester. He publicly critiqued and humiliated us weekly, and went down roads of tangents that lasted over 25% of lecture time. It was the hardest class I have ever taken.

So, obviously, I fell in love with it.

I figured that this would help me develop a portfolio for grad schools. And well, I've got three pretty nifty short stories now. Yeah. Me. I wrote 3 COMPLETE stories. In addition to this, I also got myself a mentor.

Yeah, you heard me. I got mother fucking Lewis Black to be my mentor. I really have no idea how it happened, and still pinch myself every time I open one of his emails. I can look at this one of three ways:

1. He is a lonely, old pervert who has a thing for redheads.

2. He sees something in my writing and I that are worth refining.

3. He thinks I am a tragic mess and need all the help i can get.

Right now, my overanalytical nature is mixing all three together, forming the growing paranoia on the back of my neck. Really, it looks much worse than it actually is.

The overwhelming anxiety aside, we are meeting later this week to talk about my resumes and my job search. That's right folks, I am off the schedule at ye old pub. I figured that until I got rid of my safety net, I wouldn't really make an effort to find a real job. This is all part of my New Years Bull Shit.

We'll see how long I last until I get a job with Starbux again.

In an effort to curb questions about reading my short stories, I was advised not to publish them on the internet. I really do want to submit them to hard copy publications and see if I can get started with this whole "I'm a writer" thing. So keep your fingers crossed for me. That is, of course, if you want me to get published. If not, don't worry about it. Walking around with your fingers crossed prohibits normal functioning.