On the way to class...

I don't know how it happened, but when I started by current lit class for graduate school I was what you could consider a "non-writer". Sure I barely keep up this blog and I write e-mails and some papers for school, but I don't really do any creative writing. Now, with only a couple of weeks left for class I will come out of this course a bonafide "writer". And its not even a writing class. But the course is taught by a published writer, most of the students in class are Creative Writing majors and the atmosphere and dynamic of the class just encourages writing. We wrote responses to everything we read, and were encouraged to read as writers and to look for what the author was trying to accomplish and how he/she carried it through. We read our writing out loud, which, over time, became a performance that influenced our written responses. And our mid-term and final papers involved mimicking other writers in sytle and form to fully understand their methods and learn things for our own writing. And I wrote a non-fiction essay about a seeing-eye dog and by some miracle it came out very well and I got an A! Now, I can't stop thinking of things to write about. Each night I think of story ideas and scenes until I fall asleep. Then the next day my fingers are itching to get at the computer to tap away at the keyboard with the new tale. What happened? Where is the Raquelle who found writing so painful and difficult? Who is this new Raquelle who actually likes to, wants to, needs to write?

It's all very strange, but I'm very grateful.