There are eight people in my copyediting class. Seven women and a young guy, perhaps a couple years my junior, who is the only person in class, besides yours truly, whose interests lie in creative writing. The rest are professionals who are taking the course courtesy of (or perhaps on the orders of) their employers. (Yes, the CNIB is footing my bill, but I intend to use the things I learn not just for the technical manuals and communication missives I write at work but for personal use, as well.)
The instructor is a woman employed in the publishing industry. She’s friendly, funny, and, most important of all, she seems to know what she’s doing.
The class was extremely quiet, bordering on comatose. After the instructor got settled, we each had to stand up and introduce ourselves, like at an AA meeting. Which makes sense since most writers would admit the work is like an addiction. No free coffee, though. Not as many tearful confessions, either.
I won’t lie; it’s strange to be back in school. It was a surreal experience to just be in a classroom again, taking books out of my backpack. In one respect I felt old and out of place; and yet in another it was like I had never been away.
I never thought I’d go to university, and granted, it’s going to take a bit longer to get a degree piecemeal than if I quit my job and went fulltime. But I’m doing it the best way I know how, and it seems to be agreeing with me.
On a funny note (at least it struck me as funny), I kept raising my hand to either ask a question or to answer one. I couldn’t seem to break myself of that one.
But I didn’t ask to go to the bathroom. Give me that much credit.
Ian
