the sweet life at Citylit

Today I breached a hunor­mous bar­ri­er: I con­fessed to my fel­low stu­dents at Citylit that I have been writ­ing a blog. Here’s my log­ic: they are all real­ly impres­sive writ­ers, sym­pa­thet­ic but crit­i­cal lis­ten­ers and vora­cious read­ers. What bet­ter peo­ple to have read­ing my fledg­ling efforts? Nev­er­the­less I am a bit ner­vous. I have had such a reward­ing expe­ri­ence with all three class­es I’ve tak­en there: my act­ing class, how­ev­er nut­ty they could be at times, and the won­der­ful Pip Mayo who taught it, and my screen­writ­ing class, whose teacher I have to con­fess is less forth­com­ing than the oth­er stu­dents, and now my fic­tion class, the best of all so far. I plan to spend the rest of my days in Lon­don tak­ing one course after anoth­er, get­ting bet­ter, one hopes, at what­ev­er it is I am meant to be doing here. I have to say that so far, chron­i­cling what’s been hap­pen­ing has been almost as much fun as doing it.

By the way, this image is of a work of art by Mal­i­heh Afnan, a Pales­tin­ian-born artist, whose work, to me, invokes text, and the his­to­ry of set­ting down words. Pow­er­ful, no? How we strug­gle with words.