Becca and I are taking a writing class that’s all about getting a good toe-hold on big, huge writing projects: screenplays, novels, etc. We decided, in a fit of self-importance and a storm of creativity, to write a play together about being age 24. So far, we know it’s about two fictional 24 year-old women with an uncanny resemblance to (surprise!) Becca and I. Our patient, dry-witted teacher thinks this can fly, but cautioned: “I’m going to push you…. to have… something.”

I know I’ll be glad I took this class when it’s over. Just like my improv class. But damn. Learning? Sometimes? Makes ya feel dumb.

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