This book I've been reading

The Writing Class by Jincy Willett is lovely. I'm at the library, it's snowing gobs and I'm in a hurry to get home before "snowing on icy roads" becomes a terrible concern (which it already is, but as I have at least three free days left, I intend to do something semi-useful with them). A book caught my eye that I had previously checked out and never read, and still I have no touched it. Then I see "the writing class", and the title grabs me (as it would a small percent of the population who are strange enough to consider spending the majority of their adult lives in less than undergraduate school, teaching a "hated" subject, like English).

So anyway, it turns out that my whim and my "I probably won't read it" choice turns into what I'm reading in my seat by the big window.

It makes me consider things:

Why didn't I take any writing courses? I should have, even though it wouldn't have counted, if only to "expand my horizons". I used to write. I enjoy writing. Maybe I'll take one up this summer.

Which reminds me of an appointment I need to make.

Also, what is there to write about? When faced with the idea of the ominous "writing a book" - which is something I always thought I may enjoy doing (you know, should I 'get published' and therefore be rich and famous...), it seems so unlikely now. What hasn't already been written? Everything seems old, now. I have no new ideas, I think.

Of course, I am a fraud and a fake. Every new idea I've ever had was the result of an idea someone else had, which "inspired" me in some way. Nothing unique. Or, if it was, it hasn't been in quite some time.