I continue to hit social pay dirt at Clarion, and my week 2 session went extraordinarily well. Apparently there are "fighter pilot" and "bus driver" types, and I'm a figher pilot. Woohoo!
It's only the end of week 2, but I'm already thinking about how much I'll miss these guys when it's over. I've distinguished myself socially as the quiet-ish guy with periodic wit that makes the room explode with laughter. I've distinguished myself as a promising writer who can crack out kick-ass drafts within a 7 day span; story 2 received an uber positive reaction, including one colleague saying it was one of the best stories she'd ever read.
I'm still a big chicken in one respect. Today at lunch, I became especially aware of that during a certain conversational moment. That ain't going to change right now, due in part to sheer impracticality of trying to change it out here. I'll only say that I wish I'd come up with some witty interjection filled with subtle suggestions, but I ended up just staring at my plate instead. This one will go under "The effects of 3.5 hours sleep on Michael's wit" section of my eventual memoir.
And, yeah, I'm being self centered since it's my bathtub--err, blog. Story 3, which I just handed in, is an extremely risky and extremely personal piece. It could generate a bipolar reaction, it could get praised, it could get the little red riding hood treatment. In any case, I'm sure there's more to pick apart than in my last one. But, thick skin and all. Lay it on me, mates.
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