Class went very well last night. I had such weird reactions to the stories. The first one, in picture book format, was charming and reminded me of my own childhood. The next two were transitional readers or juvenile novels, so hard to nail these definitions down and I'm just not sure anyway. The first brought out the proofreader in me and I was highly critical of everything. I made sure not to speak up and kept my corrections to myself. The second was colorful and entertaining and I would have liked to have read much more. It had some of the errors of the first one but I didn't care so much. There's a layer of subtlety to this that part of my mind is working on, but I'm not conscious of it.
There's a teenager walking around the library (where I'm posting from) in a red-lined cloak. I'm unable to determine whether he's mentally retarded or just extremely awkward.
Boredom's really setting into my bones, and I'm past the point of resenting it. In the beginning of this week it fired me up and made me angry; now I just feel worn out. I sent out writing samples to three places: received automated messages from two sites, have heard nothing from the third. No reason to give up, certainly, and this is one wall against which it is most beneficial to bang my head. Must keep writing, submitting, or writing without submitting. Neil Gaiman gave me the simplest, almost exasperated advice: writers write.