The Writing Life

"Writers read literary biography, and surround themselves with other writers, deliberately to enforce in themselves the ludicrous notion that a reasonable option for occupying yourself on the planet until your life span plays itself out is sitting in a small room for the duration, in the company of pieces of paper."
- Annie Dillard


It's the shortest day of the year today.

The other day I noticed how many people I've heard saying, "Have a nice Christmas" lately. Not "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Holidays" or anything like that: "Have a nice Christmas." And I guess since I heard one of my classmates say it as she was leaving our final on Thursday, and I was in an English-major mode of thinking, I thought - "Aha! 'Christmas' is a metonym for the entire holiday break, and that metonymy allows us to wish each other well in a secular manner while still using the religious word, thereby fooling ourselves into thinking we've somehow solved the stupid battle over Christmas and Santa and baby Jesus and Hanukkah and menorahs and separation of church and state."

It was something like that, and yes, I realize how hopelessly geeky and useless and boring my thoughts are.

Have a nice Christmas.
we are all innocent

I'm suddenly very nervous.

I did all right this weekend getting through my homework. Not as momentous as I'd hoped, but okay. And just now, at the moment on Sunday night when I am gripped by listless inaction and four-year-fortified apathy, I get that roller-coaster feeling in my stomach about tomorrow. I wonder what'll happen, because this could end up determining so much about my life. Eek.

I think I'll watch a little Arrested Development if I can't get started on Rushdie anytime soon. I've been slowly (since this summer) working my way through the series, and it is hilarious. Not in a laugh-out-loud sort of way, but a more subtle, so-ridiculous-I-can-only-shake-my-head way. Gob may be one of my favorite characters ever, and I love Jason Bateman, as ever. I love the new Gap ad of him and his daughter. It was in both Lucky and InStyle this week and I'm probably going to rip one out and hang it up because it's adorable.

Okay, I'm going to do some more homework so that I can stymie this feeling like I haven't done enough. Hopefully. I know I said I wouldn't post anything else this month, but tomorrow is kind of momentous and I need to spill. Okay. And I already made my Nano count for today. Okay.

just a ramblespace

Shoot myself in the face, my feet are so fucking cold. Fuckin' critics' sheet (#2). I'm going to self-destruct of nerves and self-doubt before Wednesday. I voted for the first time today. I don't want to do my homework. I don't want to go to class anymore. I meant to type tomorrow, but I wrote "anymore," whoops, Freudian slip. I will get this done, I will get this done, I will get this done. Fuck I can't let this kill me. I miss fangirling and I don't. I so don't. But I want to make icons and I don't have time or skillzzzzzz.

If this week doesn't kill me, November 4 will. At best, maybe it'll be cathartic. idek.

So my day went something like this:

Wake up. Receive email from professor requesting that the class read fifty pages before our first class next week. Go to work. Spend two hours sitting with two three-year-olds who refuse to sleep during naptime. Wrestle shoes onto and carry screaming three-year-old to bathroom. Comfort two-year-old crying for his mother. Get kids' snack ready. Convince said two-year-old to go with his mother when she arrives, fifteen wailing minutes later. Eat burnt brownies with kids. Pick up after kids. Convince fourteen two- and three-year-olds to come to the bathroom and have their diaper changed and/or pee on the potty. Pick up after kids. Take kids to gym. Change three-year-old pottytrainer who pooped green poo in her underwear. Simultaneously keep another three-year-old from sticking his face in the toilet. Pick up after kids. Keep two-year-old from eating Play-Doh. Pick up after kids. Pick up after kids. Convince my last three-year-old to leave with her mother. Clean up toys. Clean up toys. Clean tables and put up chairs. Clean up toys. Take out trash (a full bag of dirty diapers). Pick up toys. Agree to come in and sub barely twelve hours later.

Come home, eat dinner, watch Olympics, curse new "open-bucket" lesson plan, wish it was summ - fuck. It is summer.
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