"Death by a thousand cuts"
is how one writing professor called his day job of teaching creative writing in a university. Interesting article in the New York Times about how most writers now teach in universities instead of throwing themselves full time at writing.
This is something that I bemoan as well: "Another thing that is undeniably lost is time spent reading great literature and communing with writers of the past. While the effect of teaching on writing may be a matter of debate, its effect on reading is undeniable. That is because there are only so many hours in the day, and those hours are used up reading our students’ work, which is, by definition, apprentice writing. Energy is finite while college students seemingly are not, and after teaching for a while you begin to feel as if you are in a “Star Trek” episode, lost on a strange planet made up of a thousand pods of need, all of them beaming out at you, sucking your energy, and all of them, invariably, asking you to read something. Since the reading life feeds the writing life, since we are what we eat, this can wear you down, to say the least."
A week ago, I picked up a book and really really would have loved to read it straight through except that, well, I had to go to class and check student papers. All these books by my desk that I want to read, and yet, like right now, I have to almost force myself to read the essays and books I need to finish so I can write a paper for grad class, which I need to finish soon because it's what the university requires.
There are days when I miss holing up in my room, writing for 18, 26 straight hours because I had a deadline to beat. I was snarky and extra sungit during that time, when any wrong greeting or when somebody turns up the volume on the TV a bit higher than usual and I snap. Even my mother knew enough not to knock, and trays of food appeared outside my door. It wasn't exactly the healthiest of work habits, but by the end of that time, I came out of that room with a 40, 50, 100 page script.
And here I am. I can't even fill the 20 or 30 pages of prose required of me. I feel like a hamster on a treadmill sometimes. Nyar.
This is something that I bemoan as well: "Another thing that is undeniably lost is time spent reading great literature and communing with writers of the past. While the effect of teaching on writing may be a matter of debate, its effect on reading is undeniable. That is because there are only so many hours in the day, and those hours are used up reading our students’ work, which is, by definition, apprentice writing. Energy is finite while college students seemingly are not, and after teaching for a while you begin to feel as if you are in a “Star Trek” episode, lost on a strange planet made up of a thousand pods of need, all of them beaming out at you, sucking your energy, and all of them, invariably, asking you to read something. Since the reading life feeds the writing life, since we are what we eat, this can wear you down, to say the least."
A week ago, I picked up a book and really really would have loved to read it straight through except that, well, I had to go to class and check student papers. All these books by my desk that I want to read, and yet, like right now, I have to almost force myself to read the essays and books I need to finish so I can write a paper for grad class, which I need to finish soon because it's what the university requires.
There are days when I miss holing up in my room, writing for 18, 26 straight hours because I had a deadline to beat. I was snarky and extra sungit during that time, when any wrong greeting or when somebody turns up the volume on the TV a bit higher than usual and I snap. Even my mother knew enough not to knock, and trays of food appeared outside my door. It wasn't exactly the healthiest of work habits, but by the end of that time, I came out of that room with a 40, 50, 100 page script.
And here I am. I can't even fill the 20 or 30 pages of prose required of me. I feel like a hamster on a treadmill sometimes. Nyar.