I have another volleyball game tonight, and my first critique of my writing this afternoon. I finally feel like I'm doing things, since my dominant emotion is nervousness. Yay!
This morning in English we watched a clip of the best movie ever (well, probably not, but at least it's my favorite) Some Like It Hot. I finished Blonde yesterday after a three-hour enforced reading extravaganza in and outside the library, so the itch to watch Some Like It Hot has been extreme (not seven years, but extreme).
Yesterday evening we had enforced group discussions about plagiarism, and I continue to be simultaneously shocked at how dumb some people can be and paranoid about the unintentional variety. As a creative writer (and what is creative writing but plagiarized life?) I've always (since birth? maybe) been afraid of people "copying off me," to use the elementary school term. In high school when the teacher would ask if anyone would like to share their paper ideas so that the rest of the class could be inspired I never would because I wanted to be brilliant, the only person to have thought of that one thing. With stories it's worse. There are so many ways to write about one specific thing, yet the person who originally came up with the topic always feels very protective of it. In my creative writing class we're all telling our life stories (in novel or memoir form), which you'd think would exempt us from overlap. But no. All little kids do the same things, think the same things. And all freshmen, sophomores, juniors, seniors, remember it the same way. Oy.
That's why I've decided to start my story (my novel, no memoirs for me) later in life. We'll see what everyone else thinks of that in, oh, about forty minutes.
Drumroll, please.