Five days ago my fall semester fiction workshop class ended on Monday. Someone said about my piece, “I don’t think he was having fun writing this.” Not quite sure what that meant, but I know it can’t be good.
Last night had a workshop gathering at my house with three writers – all struggling like me – who I greatly admire as people and as writers. We exchanged advice, discussed our work, our philosophies, gossiped and talked about triumphs and tribulations. Being with them was a joyous occasion for me. I drank too much wine and paid for it in the morning.
Today my son flew in from Tokyo where he’s been studying the past year. Another joyful occasion; without the distress of a morning hangover.