I received a few more rejection e-mails today, but they're nothing special so I see no need to keep repeating them. One, though, was from the guy I was really hoping to connect with, my first choice of all the dozens I've sent out. Ah, well.
I'm enjoying the writing class I'm taking. Writers' Village University (writersvillage.com) has a free class you can take, and it's had me thinking quite a bit. Today's assignment is on points of view; it's an activity I've gotten into on my own, in fact. "Take a past writing and then tell it from a different point of view." It's fun, and it's tougher than it seems at first. You can't just change the pronouns, as the course mentor already pointed out and I'd found out when I switched from 3rd to 1st in Undercover Truths.
I really enjoyed finding out that I made Honorable Mention in last week's contest in the class, though. It was an OK writing, I thought. I'd put it together quickly, and a bit late, because I'd procrastinated.
Here it is, my paragraph about procrastinating over writing a paragraph:
I’d been putting off the writing assignment for too long, I decided after glancing yet again at the clock on my computer screen. Was it fear of what I might discover in myself, or worry that I might not be able to accomplish it successfully that had made me procrastinate? No matter, I thought as I drank in more of the bold, earthy liquid—no, not just a cup of coffee; it was liquid strength to me. I looked once again at the picture of Silby on the Lesson Two Sample page, eyes focusing and unfocusing repeatedly as I gathered my inspiration. My hands reached for the keys, index fingers feeling once again for the little nubs at the bottom of the F and the J—their keys, their home. The room was completely silent, all of the smart people in my family still languishing under their covers. My left hand left its home row to return the cup to my lips, but it paused as I inhaled rather than drank the coffee, the heady aroma trying to awaken my neurons all on its own. For the final time I looked around the room, noticing the nearby couch beckoning me for a nap while the farther door to my bedroom called me to return and the even more distant vision of writing success raised its voice in protest. I began to write.
Now, off to play the point of view game, and then I get to do some real work.