It’s November. I haven’t written anything for months, and obviously I haven’t been blogging. Things are rough but I’ve been crying tears of joy at least for the last 24 hours so maybe it’s time for an upswing. I don’t really have the words to talk about how amazing last night was. I couldn’t express it then, and I can’t do it now really either, but oh wow. Obama is president. Things feel different.
I’m now also dealing with the fact that I need to chose new classes soon, I need to start studying soon so I don’t fail the classes I’m currently taking, and NaNoWriMo is currently tempting me again even though I know down that path is an unnecessary mental breakdown. Thanksgiving is soon and although there’s not a chance in the world that I won’t go home, I’m pretty nervous about the whole thing.
Things are not good right now. That is the best way I know how to describe what things are currently like. I wish that I knew how to change them back to being good or being peaceful, but I just don’t know how to do that right now. Not thinking about the bad stuff is helping a bit even though it makes me feel like I’m just avoiding problems. But maybe I’m not avoiding my problems. More and more I feel as though the walls I’m butting my head against just aren’t going to move—these are not walls but crazy undersea mountains that are miles high—and the best thing to do right now is to just stop thinking.
So I’m going to do other things that don’t involve the people or things that are making me feel so bad. I am going to try really hard to write more—jotting down words or phrases in my notebook shouldn’t count. If I have an idea, I should take the time to make something of it.
Last night I even cooked for myself and it wasn’t half bad. I’m not a particularly skilled cook so perhaps this shall be the first entry in a new photo series.
Not-A-Bad-Meal #1: Spanish Rice, Sausage, Green Beans
I don’t think I would have ever guessed how much I love one of the courses I’m taking here at King’s. The class focuses on Bloomsbury and oddly enough I can feel myself becoming obsessed despite my own attempts to stay rather detached. All the people I ever met who were obsessed with the group were just identifying to a creepy degree with Virginia Woolf and while I can feel some part of that, I think it’s more the unraveling of a society, the way in which I can trace connections and dead ends, lovers and ideas and hangers on. Right now, it’s fascinating me. King’s library has a Bloomsbury archive in which I plan on immersing myself.
I also need to immediately read all of Woolf’s big novels, right now. I read A Room of One’s Own back in high school and fell in love. Her advice to women writers is becoming very antiquated, which is a good thing really, but there’s something about her theory that rings true. Even now, the best way for me to be a writer really would be to have totally financial independence and a quiet space. I think for this reason, I was very intrigued by the Writers Room; I always like to imagine that when I graduate I’ll submit an application, get accepted, write my novel, and suddenly find I’ve made a career for myself. But in reality, I’m terrified of writing really (strange for someone who majors in the subject) because I often feel that I lack the discipline to ever make something out of what I write.
There’s a certain degree of necessary egotism that’s required to be a writer; you have to truly believe that you are adding something to the billions of pages already in the world, that what you have to say is worth spending time and emotion upon. I’ve never let anyone I care about read my work. Instead, of course, I post it here, on a fairly anonymous blog in the vast steppe of the internet.