Written March 5, 2016
I get on a frantic reading mood days before my short story class.
But on class day (night actually), I sit in the last row feeling completely relaxed as I listen to my classmates – most of them are in their 60s – give their views and intepretations of Maile Meloy’s writings involving womenand their choices, or the riveting hunting story of David Quammen.
I say a sentence or two when I feel like it. But most of the time I’m quiet; listening, observing, absorbing. There is serenity in being in one room with women who love to read. Gosh, I would love to be as sharp as them in my 60s. I would love to be as sensitive and opinionated but still humble to accept the views of othere including that of their 29-year-old classmate whose life experience is not as vast as theirs but still they give her time to talk and their ears to listen.
This short story class exposed to writers who lived, once lived, and are still living in Montana. The stories I’ve read in the past three weeks have been varied. I was introduced to authors I have never heard before and was exposed to styles of writing that I like and dislike.
There is danger in spreading your wings because you may end up with clipped feather limiting your flying ability or worse, cutting the chances of you ever flying again. Fortunately for me, spreading my literary wings by moving to this part of the world has been nothing but enriching to my bored mind. To a certain extent, it has blessed my weary soul.
Literature is music to the soul.
It will always be that way for me.
Last day of class on March 8th.
Goodness.
I’ll miss those ladies and the brains inside those heads.
