Saturday, Jan. 17, 2004 - 1:13 p.m.
I donít know whatís wrong. Or I do, but itís a secret. But itís not the kind of secret that would hurt someone else if I were to disclose it, so maybe I should at least try to wrestle it in front of an audience. It is alligator-sized, but hopefully still a juvenile.
Here it is: Sometime in my late teens I stopped thinking about someday being a capital-double-you-Writer. It was always hidden away in the folds of my brain, certainly, but never considered. Academic writing and journally stuff sufficed. Advanced composition classes convinced me that I wasnít much cut out for the Personal Essay, and my drift away from English majorhood reinforced a general break with Literature. I was not self-motivated enough to be a writer, too much of an academic.
But then, over the last few months, I started thinking again about writing in the capitalized sense. And as soon as the thought made it into words in my head, whatever part of me writing comes from was paralyzed. It has been ever since.
So I either need to change the way things are run around here, or suppress the goal of Writing again.
At least I am long-term-borrowing a friendís laptop again, so updates can return to their former private splendor. I just donít write very well when thereís someone in the room, whether that be my officemate or my brother, both of whom have been around in the last month of posts. This feels much better.
Itís murky outside, and my Saturday got off to a late start. Still, I feel rather optimistic. The first week of classes is over, and I can already tell itís going to be better than last semester. My students and classroom are cheerful, and though I work many, many hours at the writing center, all signs point to good things in the coming months. Spring is on its way. I have lots of new kitchen accessories and two new dresses, which will satisfy about a yearís worth of desire for material possessions. I have at least two months of not thinking about the future.
Iím not sure how shoepal found me, but thanks for the increased traffic!
I am listening to Haydn. I have been digging through my filing cabinet and rearranging the cans of food and bags of beans and rice noodles on my shelves. Obviously I need the world to feel more orderly right now. No rock music, thank you; it's awfully primal. Should Ronnie's vet bills have a file all their own, or should they be filed along with my medical records? By the end of the day I will be listening to the Goldberg Variations and sitting in a hardbacked chair which is perfectly aligned with the planks of the wood floor.