The Narratively class ended on Wednesday night, and I was sad to finish it. I learned some things, for sure, but it was more of an inspiration, something to prompt me to keep at it. Instructor, Audrey Farley, was so good, guiding us through the material, and being patient with us when we were critical of the book. Yet I think we all appreciated everything we were sharing. It's interesting how in a short time you can gravitate towards someone, a total stranger, which happened to me with a couple of the participants. I wish we had time to get better acquainted. 

I posted "On Wings of Memory" for a critique, and Hildy Kingma read the story and gave me feedback. I was thrilled that she liked it. Her own family history was so good, with engaging family stories that made people come alive again. 

I'm hoping Narratively will ask Audrey to teach another book/writing class because it is just the kind of experience I'm comfortable with and can benefit from. I think the comfort comes from knowing that most of the other participants are not published authors but people who love to write and want to learn. 

 So, I had my first Narratively class last night and enjoyed it a lot. Audrey Farley is a good instructor, and the the class is diverse, old and young, black and white, male and female. We had thoughtful and thought-provoking discussion about the book, "Skinfolk," by Matthew Guterl. We discussed the author's narrative voice, agreeing that his voice is academic and distant, which makes him emotionally detached from the material, which is a memoir of growing up in a racially diverse family. The detachment makes the book feel antiseptic, and to me, the book is too careful, as though the author doesn't want to offend those still living, which leads to kind of "chickening out" on the hard topics. 

Our week's assignment is to practice writing in three different aspects of time. For example, Guterl writes his story in the time of the origin of his family, the culture and sensibilities of the 1970s, and Biblical time. 

My task will be to take a Fila story and situate her or another character in two, or even three, kinds of time.

 Moon Lists sent me a list of writing prompts, one of which struck a chord: "Admit an alternate version of your life you sometimes imagine yourself experiencing." Playing "what if" is something I do, imagining my life if I'd made other decisions, been braver or smarter, or just taken another path from the one(s) I chose. When I graduated from college, I wanted to fly. A sorority sister's father was a VP at Braniff Airlines, and he was ready to hire me. I like to imagine my life as a flight attendant in the years when fashion and globe-trotting were for the taking. My father, whom I loved and respected, was not pleased with my career plan. Later I learned that his disapproval had nothing to do with lifestyle; he was afraid of losing me to a plane crash. I decided to keep my feet on the ground and teach high school English, a choice that might seem boring, but was the catalyst for so many adventures. Being able to write, develop instructional plans, manage a classroom, and grow a thick skin served me well. The years teaching were also years where I felt that was where I should be...until it wasn't. Anyone who pooh-poohs a liberal arts education doesn't know the value of being able to read, analyze, write, and research topics and ideas. Well-rounded people are interesting, and for me, at least, getting a job never proved to be a problem. But it's fun to imagine myself in a Gucci outfit, go-go boots and pillbox hat, striding through the airports of London and Paris. Alas, it was a good choice to forego flying because Braniff went bankrupt, and I would have been out of a job. So it goes....

 After a lengthy hiatus, it is time to re-enter the fray (metaphorically) and dig up some courage to do more than think about writing this blog. I submitted a 50-word story to fiftywordstories.com, and it was published online at https://fiftywordstories.com/2025/05/07/susan-hunt-what-remains/. My first online published piece. Here it is:

            Fila stared at the map, tracing the 800 miles that lay ahead. Mules hitched, wagon loaded, farm sold. Nothing of home, of him, remained, save the shotgun he’d carried to the barn that day. She’d keep the shotgun as a reminder when memories of love and life wanted back in.

Writing can be intimidating, but flash fiction and even shorter pieces are not so frightening. Not that I'm scared to write, it's just the thought of falling short that's scary. I wonder if we ever get over that? 

I hope this blog, and my commitment to it, will help create some discipline that has been lacking, the lack of which makes me feel like a fraud. 

Reading now for book club "Big Beautiful Life," for Narratively class "Skinfolk," and for myself "My Friends."