I’ve written a few times this week and still I haven’t done the exercise right. It’s harder than it sounds. The others made it look so easy. I start to go down the route of what’s wrong with me but I block that off before it takes hold. I could do a transformation line but that’s not the exercise. So I’ll keep going. I can’t go to class a second time with a weak piece. I’ve got a reputation to uphold. There’s a Jericho trumpet in the morass that swipes left, the scream aghast as Johnny be good begets temptation to raise an army and shut me down before I even get started.
I should be used to this by now, but switching class has done something to me. It’s rattled a cage I’d forgotten was there. I try to push it to one side but I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, no matter what I tell myself. I want to quiet the noise, but I can taste it. I am so tempted to jump into the next exercise. But I need to keep going. My mind keeps throwing things at me. I need to ignore them. I tell myself to persevere. There’s an argument going on in my head. My ego wants me to use all my tricks so I can look good, but if I do that I won’t be teacher’s pet. I want to look good for my tutor and the other students. If I don’t do the exercise I won’t look good to anyone. Looking good won’t do me any favours. Yet it still pushes me to look good. Forget looking good.
So I’ll write a load of crap and face the consequences. I can see this is more drivel. It’s been the same every day this week. It’s not worth taking anything to class. Well, if nothing else I’ve stuck to the exercise this time. I should’ve done the musicians class. I bet they’re having an easier time of it than I am. I’m nearly at the end of my two pages and it’s my last chance saloon for whistles and bells and elephant’s trumpets. I’ll waddle onto the gangplank, in my barbed wire pants, shove the weeks old bread into the mouth of the knotted talisman and fingers crossed, I hope to do or die.
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