There they were- Joyce, Rushdie, Burgess, Bronte, Hemingway.
As I walked into the room with a tinge of nervousness, trying to remember again why I was subjecting my helpless self to this torture, I threw short glances at my co-sufferers. Every one of them had signed up in earnest to bear 6 months of togetherness, once a week, every Monday for 2 hours to learn to be a writer.
There was the bored housewife, the French speaking business analyst, the mid-life crisis-ed European banker, the petite schoolgirl, the confident freshman, the gay black, the happy security guard. All excited, brimming with ideas & happy to begin writing.
