Literary Composition? Fiction?

"The thoughts of undergraduates are mostly plagiarized anyways." -Dintenfass

I was just talking to Miss Bates, a fellow aspiring writer, about the class we just had together. For Tuesday, I have to write a short story, a short story which 25 people will read.

I have never been this nervous about anything.

This isn't hyperbole. I've wanted to be a writer, someone who writes you see, since third grade, when I was writing short stories about adventures on a hijacked bus. It's how I define myself: writer. Criticism of my writing feels like a personal attack.

I wrote horrible fiction for years, journaled for longer, but I haven't actually finished a short story since seventh grade, when I wrote Bilko the Human Lightning Rod, a story that represents my best work simply because there really isn't anything else to compare it to. It's also the only short story I've written that didn't rely on inside jokes for effect.

Remember Phil? Remember The Case of the Missing Erasers? Remember The Cult? Don't? That's even worse…

Talking to Miss Bates, who was also shaking as Prof Dintenfass tried vainly to discourage the remaining six unregistered students from trying his course ("Oh, I'm sorry, but I'm a cynical old man"), I'm glad to hear that someone else has the same worries. We've got each other's back, rest assured. Unless her writing sucks, then I will destroy her.

There are a few university baboons in there--cocky pontificators who seem to know their stuff, and some annoying ones who don't--but a lot of the students in that class seem nervous about their writing, and these people, who worry about the audience and are obviously desperate to be better writers for some reason, are the ones I think I'll like. I sat across from Miss Bates, right between a Chuck Palahniuk fan who just finished reading Lullaby and Casey Gamble, the girl with a famous brother.

Before class:

Our Bold Hero: Wow, it's five minutes before class, and everyone is actually here. Isn't there even one attention-hungry would-be slacker-genius who wants to come in five minutes late to make a statement?

Miss Bates: I guess not. Sorry Dan.

Exactly five minutes after class started:

Roy the Effeminate Heterosexual: Hey everybody! I'm sorry I'm late! Hah ha…

Our Bold Hero: See, now that's what I was hoping for.

Yes, that's right, I've got a class with Roy, who, I predict, won't write anything that doesn't annoy me. This is going to be one wild ride.