Nothing Much.
Yesterday I started a journal entry here that was somewhat lengthy, and I was digging it because I was in the perfect mood for musings. A guy from down the hall who, despite being married, has taken quite a fancy to me loittered for an hour beside my desk asking way too many personal questions. I never got the chance to really finish the thing, and I'm sorta mad about that because I never really get the chance to do real writing that pleases me anymore. I sorta only come out of the slump to post these pathetic, meandering entries. I love to write, so I can't figure why I'm not doing it more often. Sadly, without the push of the academy I don't produce nearly as much. I think it has more to do with the fact I'm a much better analytical writer than I am creative. And let's face it, I'm not going to assign myself ten page papers on the books I'm reading these days. Nor am I going to read the volume of theory and criticism I once was. This makes me feel like a loser in comparison to my friends who are either still hanging out in the academy, or continuing their writing. I particularly envy those of my friends that are able to craft stories out of thin air. I can complete a poem. I'm not saying I am great it, but I can complete one. A story, will never happen. I'm ADD or something, and I have great trouble crafting characters that seem real. Maybe I should make it a goal to complete one story before I die. You know, I kinda like it as a New Year's Resolution. Just write a story.
On a sidenote, I'm sitting at my desk with my leg neatly pulled underneath the other. My foot is swinging aimlessly. Occasionally, my shoe grazes the floor gently. And in that moment I am instantly transported back to a makeshift studio on Harkers Island Road, where Mrs. Susan Hancock tried so hard to make a dancer out of me. The slight scrape of my shoe instantly calls me back to the feel of ballet slippers on my feet. They were the only part of dancing I loved. And though I'm well aware my childhood was far less than idyllic, it was quaint. And the memory of shuffling ballet slippers, and sun slanting in on hardwood floors, and tinkling music reminds me it wasn't all bad. And that's nice.
On a sidenote, I'm sitting at my desk with my leg neatly pulled underneath the other. My foot is swinging aimlessly. Occasionally, my shoe grazes the floor gently. And in that moment I am instantly transported back to a makeshift studio on Harkers Island Road, where Mrs. Susan Hancock tried so hard to make a dancer out of me. The slight scrape of my shoe instantly calls me back to the feel of ballet slippers on my feet. They were the only part of dancing I loved. And though I'm well aware my childhood was far less than idyllic, it was quaint. And the memory of shuffling ballet slippers, and sun slanting in on hardwood floors, and tinkling music reminds me it wasn't all bad. And that's nice.