I wonder if I have too many expectations for my writing, even here, the single place where my habit of writing has maintained itself during my adulthood. I am an inconsistent personal-journaler, leaving my diaries filled with tragedy after (relative) tragedy and nothing of the days in between. I don’t correspond. I flirt with Morning Pages but let them fall to the every whim of my personal schedule.
But I do blog. And I sometimes pay attention to my unintentional patterns. Lately, I don’t feel compelled to write unless I have something specifically to say. This is probably a good rule for any writer to follow. However, I sometimes miss the feeling I would get at the information desk of Park Library, sitting down for a shift, readying myself for work by telling the internet whatever popped into my mind for a few minutes.
Without considering a dumb blog post to be any representation of my best writing, a substantial part of myself, or considering it something that has to be cohesive and maybe uplifting if not vaguely positive.
So I’ll tell you today that I got a B on my first paper, which is fine, but my instructors comments were disheartening in regards to the following: No, I really don’t know what I’m doing yet, and No, there will probably not be an easy way to write these weekly papers.
I’ll tell you that you should really get into the practice of changing into Out of Work clothes when you get home, especially when you don’t have a washer/dryer. You’ll probably drop chicken salad on your shirt, the same shirt you were going to wear later in the week, and will have to rinse it in the bathroom sink and hang it over the curtain rod in the shower.
I’ll tell you that I could be going to see Neil Gaiman and M.T. Anderson speak (among others) but have tickets to see Ben Folds and the Boston Pops, so I’m not.
And I’ll tell you that you should watch this video