I’m still digesting Monday’s critique. It’s clear that the members of my fiction workshop certainly think that there’s something wrong with me, or that I’m at least a bit strange. Perhaps a fucked up childhood. Daddy issues. Something.
On the whole, I’m pleased with the effect - pleased that there was an effect to begin with. I haven’t really poured my heart into a piece of my fiction like this since I began the novel - the project to which this chapter is attached - so it’s gratifying to feel its reach. In thinking about intentionality, I think that the waves were created with the desired effect; people were uncomfortable, not sure how to feel, felt unstable about creating a basis of compassion. I have yet to read through my professor’s comments, but the overall evaluation on the back page reflected a noted impact.
In non-fiction news - pun intended - there are thousands of dollars of lighting equipment on my floor, and I’m postpoing social interaction in favor of nightly photoshoots. It’s been an interesting dynamic, certainly. I’m also finding myself slightly more comfortable in the C-lab. While color priting still perplexes me, I can see my skills towards it improving. My next color venture may be intertwine with history - WHF Talbot, specifically - and I’ve surrounded myself with art history book again, which thrills me from the inside out.
Other than that, decisions loom. I hate writing quotidian and mundane updates about my own life that lack insight, so that’s that, I think. More moving forward.
M
