I finished my creative writing class (from the university’s adult education program) two weeks ago. It did what it was intended to do; namely, give me a deadline so I’d actually write and end up with a short story. I learned a lot about plot structure and detail. I liked the class. But you guys, writing is hard.

When I would actually sit down and write and my story came out, I felt like the Queen of All the Words just waiting for a book deal. But when I read it again and had the class look at it, there were valid points to edit and places to expand and things to improve–in short, revisions. Which I  never did for school papers, don’t do for this blog, and really try to avoid for work (shh, don’t tell anyone).

I’ll  take the next level class next semester, so I have some time to make friends with revisions. Until then, Papa Hemingway feels my pain:

Since I had started to break down all my writing and get rid of all facility and try to make instead of describe, writing had been wonderful to do. But it was very difficult, and I did not know how I would ever write anything as long as a novel. It often took me a full morning of work to write a paragraph.

(from A Moveable Feast)