Class was good. I'm quite enjoying Autobiographical Writings so far. We're looking at the birth metaphor, you know, the one which claims your creation is like procreation. That a story or a poem is like your baby. Okay then. We had to write something surrounding this. I took a fairly cynical approach.
I remember seeing my brother shortly after he was born. Pink, wrinkled, ugly little thing. More alien than human. Showing no promise of the capacity for his little bunched fingers and toes to grow. My writing is not going to be like that. My finished product shall not be a podgy, vulnerable, crinkled ball of flesh. The birth will have to be exceedingly painful to produce the piece which is fully formed, outstretched limbs, human appearance, strong and complete. This is, of course, all dependant on whether I ever conceive of an idea in the first place.