"Work is what you do for others -- Art is what you do for yourself."
Flisters, allow me to say, 'sigh.'
Also, allow me to say that this article was once much much angrier, but I'm feeling somewhat better now.
I think that I'm suffering a major bout of Hype Backlash about Paris. Oh, wow, it's such an amazing city, oh, wow, you'll have the time of your life there, oh, live it up while you can... Guess what, people, it's a city like any other. And every day I have to get up quite early to -- walk, and I take the metro with a hundred strangers, and I walk some more, and I sit in class, and when I'm done there I walk and take the metro again and maybe I'll have some energy for exploring and then I go home and I either go on the computer to unwind or I try desperately to read what's been assigned to me. It's not sitting around in a cafe sipping tea and flirting with handsome garcons. There has been, in fact, a depressing lack of any romance whatsoever while I've been here.
I can't love a city just because I've been told over and over and over again how poetic and wonderful it is. I learn to love cities when I can sit in them quietly and get a sense for them, when I can sit on a park bench and watch the birds fly all around me. When I can explore without any goal or direction in mind except to walk in a big circle. Fortunately I have been getting in some quality time with Paris herself. A bit. (Hello, reading Kate Chopin stories in the Luxembourg Gardens!)
Also, I hate the phrase "the time of your life," or any idea that "now is the best that your life will ever be," or that there is such a thing as the best your life will ever be. But unfortunately I can't explain that to everyone who says that to me.
I honestly do not feel that my French is improving. I've been here a month and I haven't noticed any improvement.
Also, I've completely scrapped and tried to restart my Writing Sample application for graduate schools. I'm nervous, scared, and insecure. This is the most complete story that I have - and even this one is incomplete - and I feel acutely that I do not have the time to lose with scrapping this one and choosing something else. I try to write and every line it feels like I'm being reminded of what's wrong with it.
It starts In Medias Res. It switches narrative voices, from third to first. It doesn't have any character names but it has character physical descriptions. It's a fantasy story. It has a princess for the main character. It consists largely of a flashback. I'm giving away too much information. I'm giving away too little information. Oh my god.
It's scary. And so to combat this fear, I got out a book of Kate Chopin stories, Virginia Woolf's Orlando, and when I did read Polyeucte (in English -- also, I hate and fear and despise how French professors assume that all of their students have already read all of the assigned books, and they schedule on their damn syllabi accordingly), I made an abridged version - of the first act or so.
If anyone wants to read it, let me know.
I'm coming to the conclusion that maybe Corneille, for all his fame and glory, is not that great a writer. Strat is also not nearly so much of a Deadpan Snarker as I make her out to be.
I also found out about this Alchemical story model, which is intensely interesting and I want to know more. It also inspired me to look back to my essay from Freshman Year comparing Psyche, of Eros and Psyche, to Lucius from The Golden Ass, as counterparts to each other, and damn I was insightful!
Also, new icon. It took so much damn tinkering, but I finally got something I was quite happy with. ... but it needs a border.
Also, allow me to say that this article was once much much angrier, but I'm feeling somewhat better now.
I think that I'm suffering a major bout of Hype Backlash about Paris. Oh, wow, it's such an amazing city, oh, wow, you'll have the time of your life there, oh, live it up while you can... Guess what, people, it's a city like any other. And every day I have to get up quite early to -- walk, and I take the metro with a hundred strangers, and I walk some more, and I sit in class, and when I'm done there I walk and take the metro again and maybe I'll have some energy for exploring and then I go home and I either go on the computer to unwind or I try desperately to read what's been assigned to me. It's not sitting around in a cafe sipping tea and flirting with handsome garcons. There has been, in fact, a depressing lack of any romance whatsoever while I've been here.
I can't love a city just because I've been told over and over and over again how poetic and wonderful it is. I learn to love cities when I can sit in them quietly and get a sense for them, when I can sit on a park bench and watch the birds fly all around me. When I can explore without any goal or direction in mind except to walk in a big circle. Fortunately I have been getting in some quality time with Paris herself. A bit. (Hello, reading Kate Chopin stories in the Luxembourg Gardens!)
Also, I hate the phrase "the time of your life," or any idea that "now is the best that your life will ever be," or that there is such a thing as the best your life will ever be. But unfortunately I can't explain that to everyone who says that to me.
I honestly do not feel that my French is improving. I've been here a month and I haven't noticed any improvement.
Also, I've completely scrapped and tried to restart my Writing Sample application for graduate schools. I'm nervous, scared, and insecure. This is the most complete story that I have - and even this one is incomplete - and I feel acutely that I do not have the time to lose with scrapping this one and choosing something else. I try to write and every line it feels like I'm being reminded of what's wrong with it.
It starts In Medias Res. It switches narrative voices, from third to first. It doesn't have any character names but it has character physical descriptions. It's a fantasy story. It has a princess for the main character. It consists largely of a flashback. I'm giving away too much information. I'm giving away too little information. Oh my god.
It's scary. And so to combat this fear, I got out a book of Kate Chopin stories, Virginia Woolf's Orlando, and when I did read Polyeucte (in English -- also, I hate and fear and despise how French professors assume that all of their students have already read all of the assigned books, and they schedule on their damn syllabi accordingly), I made an abridged version - of the first act or so.
If anyone wants to read it, let me know.
I'm coming to the conclusion that maybe Corneille, for all his fame and glory, is not that great a writer. Strat is also not nearly so much of a Deadpan Snarker as I make her out to be.
I also found out about this Alchemical story model, which is intensely interesting and I want to know more. It also inspired me to look back to my essay from Freshman Year comparing Psyche, of Eros and Psyche, to Lucius from The Golden Ass, as counterparts to each other, and damn I was insightful!
Also, new icon. It took so much damn tinkering, but I finally got something I was quite happy with. ... but it needs a border.