Last week, I attended a meeting of a local group of writers at the nearby library. They read their amazing works. I kept my mouth shut out of intimidation of the greatness of their offerings.
In two weeks, I get to attend a 6-week creative writers class, offered by the nearby college. The more I read what I've written, the more I doubt my abilities. Will this class help? Or, am I nothing more than a wheel-chair bound racer hoping to compete with biped Olympians?
With my race against the literary wind of fame and fortune, I hate to think that my best chance is only by jumping off of a cliff - great time, but the end result is a killer.
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