If I had to describe myself, I would like to think that I could call myself a writer. Even if I am less prolific than I would like to be, it is a passion that has extended through enough of my life that, by now, I consider it part of my identity. Over the years, my life aspirations have changed a half dozen times, but, inevitably, I always return to that which I concluded when I was still in preschool (penning stories about dinosaurs and insisting, despite what anyone told me, that all words had to begin with a capital letter) – I want to be a writer.
Now here I am, seventeen years later, three-quarters of the way done with a college degree in creative writing. Although sometimes I wonder what I am going to do with such a degree upon graduating into the “real world,” I realize the importance of the advice, “Do what you love,” and that is exactly what I am doing.
I am never so fulfilled as when I have just completed a piece of writing I am immensely proud of. Lately, this has been in the form of short fiction, though I also occasionally dabble in poetry. I like playing with narrator voice, exploring the role of the imagination, and having fun with words (adding unnecessary capitalizations less frequently than before, though still every once in a while to change its inflection). I am taking my second fiction workshop this semester, before advancing onto my capstone workshop.
I vaguely recall studying Flash about six years ago, but I doubt any of it stuck so this class will be a new experience for me. The most I have every really worked with in changing the shape of, say, poetry, is adding line breaks, so even studying static shapes of writing should be interesting as well.
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