A writing workshop?

I’m in a writing class now, which my wife paid a lot of money to sign me up to. The author is from Sedona, Arizona, which is the New Age capital of the world. His log grayish brown Jesus hair hung over t-shirted shoulders above gangly legs supported by his Birkenstocked feet. Now I appreciate being able to take this course, but I hope tomorrow night’s part 2 is more exciting. Tonight we’re discussing right brain versus left brain behaviour, and I think I want more hands on training of some sort. Tomorrow we’re suppose to discuss how to get published, while tonight he thinks he is talking about how to write. He’s quite a bit flighty much like Bob Budd was when I was in high school. Bob Budd was my creative writing teacher in the early 90s. He was a fiction writer and I was primarily a poet at that time. A young blonde girl I met at the high school who use to drive me to school in her father’s Red trans-Am told Mr Budd I wrote poetry and he encouraged me to do it often and daily. I had his class first thing in the day, and I would eat ephedrine beforehand. My hands would shake while I spit out plot novel after plot novel from that class. I came out of it all with a knowledge of how to write plot outlines and how to write ambiguous teen angst poetry. I knew I needed to be there and slowly developed as a poet over the next five years. I worked with two great contemporary American poets, and to this day, I know I can write poetry. I will write it again in this Spring in April. Perhaps it will be a book for my child. Something about children and turtles and turtle shells. An idea that has festered for a year. So last year I wrote my first full length novel, and a few people have read it. I want to publish it so my wife shelled out the cash for this class, and I think I regurgitated everything inside me about what I felt about a certain topic- a man’s relationship with his brother. Now I thought I would step away from all of this and write something away from me, but I always come back to writing what I know. After having my mother visit this last week, I know what I am writing, and I know I cannot escape from my experiences. I don’t think my mother will ever read this book because it will be too painful. I sent my last novel on the airplane with her, and I begged her to read it. I don’t think she will. I really don’t. I will let you know. Remind me.