I’ve been engrossed in Coetzee’s Summertime for most of the day. Once again, his economical use of words leads to evocative story telling.
I tear my myself away from the last few pages to head to my weekly creative writing class. I am getting quite attached to my fellow classmates. We have shared stories that expose the joys and sadnesses in our lives. I must admit though: the creative writing class was not love at first attendance. I missed the exactness of the scientific world--the definitive rights and wrongs.
I fight a conscious battle with my right brain. Then my thoughts turn to the process of creating prose--the euphoric rush that comes from stringing words together to form something. That is why I write.
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