The Writing Class Dream

Couldn’t tell what my age was in this, as I never ‘saw’ me. Most of the dream was presented in compacted segments, which gave background info. I was in a packed writing class. I’d gone from being cold and aloof with my classmates to being cheerier and friendlier. We were toward the course’s end. I was panicking because a big assignment was due. The theme was, what’s it like to be a writer? I hadn’t started mine. In fact, I lacked a plan. Meanwhile, other students had developed theirs, and presentations were underway. Another writer, who hadn’t impressed me in the class to date, gave his presentation. Wow, the imagination and cleverness in the multimedia concept he employed blew me away. A few other students presented, and they were okay, serviceable but not special. The teacher — a teacher I took creative writing classes with in Germany thirty plus years ago — gave her energetic presentation. I didn’t quit grasp her point as she used a rake, shovel, and broom, dashing around. I thought about doing a silent presentation, walking around, observing others, staring at the sky, scribbling notes, pecking on a keyboard, but that seemed so basic and trite. I kept coming up and rejecting ideas. Meanwhile, other students crowded closer to me. One female sitting to my right said to me, “I’m really looking forward to your presentation. You’re so talented.”

I laughed. “Thanks, but don’t expected too much. I still don’t know what I’m going to do.”

She answered, “Oh, I’m not worried. You’ll come up with something. You always do.”

While her belief injected some hope, I still miserably searched for an idea as another student gave their presentation, walking around looking at things and writing in a notepad. I felt sick.

Dream end.

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