Tapping my pencil on the edge of my desk. Why do I still use a pencil? Come to think of it, why do I still write everything longhand? I look over at my laptop sitting closed. Is it my age? Maybe it is.
Maybe it's that this class seems to never end. This, the class of our nightmares, where we are expected to stand and speak in front of all of our peers, possibly naked, depending on your level of fear. The class, in where we are judged on our vocabulary; spelling; comprehension; grammar; description; and, ultimately, our ability to write. Hence, the pencil. With every glowing review, there comes the moment where changes are recommended, encouraged gently, with force.
Slipping mid-tap, my pencil lands near my feet. The class isn't over. I retrieve it and start to write again.
