I joined a novel writing class this January. I just wanted to write about my life; the stuff that happens that I cannot tell to people without sounding odd. I didn’t want to write a dystopian post apocalyptic novel as my classmates did. No, just humble reality.
The class is still going, we meet once a week, the instructor gives us homework. The assignment last week was to turn in the first page of our story, double spaced. I was happy because I had only written the first page; scribbling is arduous for me.
The instructor read my first page to the class, it felt awkward to hear my words spoken by someone else, but I liked it. Yes I did. She asked the class what the name of the main character was.
“Asshole?”, someone muttered from the end of the table.
“Jerk?”, another girl grunted.
I had to say something.
“Hey, this character is a person, is a man who has feelings; indeed more sensitive than any of you”, I defended.
“Sure”, the girl said.
I looked at them all.
“It’s just fiction!”, I sniveled.
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