Into the void...

2003-09-26

3:36 p.m.

I’m taking a class this semester with Dennis Lehane, author of Mystic River. His book has recently been made into a movie by Clint Eastwood and it’s supposed to premiere next month. He’s a really interesting guy and he has a lot to say that should really help my writing. There’s only one problem.

I’m terrified.

I sit in class and I listen to him talk about his theories on writing and publishing, drama and action in movies and fiction, and all I can think is, “I am not worthy of this.” It’s not that I think he’s the greatest writer in the world because I assure you there are far better writers than he. But in comparison to the class I had this summer where my instructor was not yet published and was struggling with the same issues that I struggle with, this new class feels so much more important.

I have yet to decide if it’s the people in the class or Lehane himself that frightens me. All I know is that I sit in class with red splotches all over my arms and chest, and I can’t speak to save my life. My throat tightens up on me and I feel like I’m choking, and as soon as I want to say something, I feel that I’m pushed aside by the much more outgoing people who don’t care if they sound stupid when they talk.

It’s kind of funny. I totally expected that my more academic class this semester would be the one where I’d feel less comfortable, but that’s not at all the case. I am perfectly comfortable in Studies in the English Novel with the guy who edited the Norton Critical Edition of Robinson Crusoe. He’s a great guy, the people in the class are down to earth and talkative, and nobody tries to show off their “obviously superior writing skills.”

Stupid writers.

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