Class is over, which means not only will I not see most of the people I came to care about again, most likely I'll never know what happened to the ones they created. In many ways, they are more real to me than my classmates. I knew what they were thinking, how they reacted to the world. All I really know about most of my classmates is how they wrote. I don't know if they are married or have children. I don't know if they ever had a broken heart, though how could you write at all if you hadn't? I don't know what their dreams are or their fears. But I learned those things about their characters. I have that sense of grief that goes with unfinished business.
Statistics show that most of them, us, won't ever publish the novels. My guess is that two of the twelve or so we were reading/writing are publishable, though there is a third I'd love to read. I say would love to read because my sense is that I'd never buy it unless I knew it was the novel it is… that doesn't make sense…. But what I mean is that the story was compelling to me, but I know I'd never buy it on a bookflap recommendation.
But then, there are so many books I like.
Mine? Hasn't enough been said about tragedy and pain? Do I really need to add to it? I'm not able to make this story have a happy ending, too much cynicism and the logical conclusion is even less attractive. So I will put it away. I opened my short story files last night, and tried to apply what I've learned to the one I've wanted to finish for three years... "Undertow." I have learned of some weaknesses that I can fix. What more could one ask of a class?
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