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Too long; didn't read is short enough.
Feb. 3rd, 2012 05:59 pmYo, yoisthisracist.com is one funny motherfucking website.
I've been reading William Wordsworth and Mary Wollstonecraft and whatever Christian monk wrote down Beowulf and I'm about to start read Canterbury Tales in Middle English, which sounds pretty hilarious, actually.
I'm also reading about how the World Bank and the IMF have bankrupted tons of countries, forcing them to gouge public spending, so you know, no health care whatsoever. NGOs cry out, "Why is the infant mortality rate so high in Mozambique!?" And they hire anthropologists to say, "They have a culture that resists modern medicine and they believe in witchcraft and blah blah blah." When really, there's no social safety net at all, there's no affordable healthcare, what heathcare there is is overpriced, and there's a giant history of colonialism and imperialism.
So seriously, fuck y'all. I'm mad.
I'm also writing a lot because my intermediate fiction workshop requires five pages per week plus two 10-20 page stories. I also submitted three poems to The Madison Review, which would be my first for-real publication if I get selected. This is where I start developing a thick skin for rejections, right?
I also need to come up with some good plots for the two stories I need to write this semester. Everything I've got are either novels or flashfiction length ideas, and I need something in the middle.
Jacquelyn is interviewing for her first post-doc position as I type this. She has another interview next week as well. We're really in countdown mode right now. She's aiming to finish her PhD by June and she may be starting her postdoc immediately after, so we've got about five more months of living together before she heads off and I'm left here for a year by my lonesome.
If it were just a year, it wouldn't be too terrible, but I'm considering an MFA program after I graduate, and I'm adopting "Go Big or Go Home" as my motto for my career, so I'm going to apply to Iowa and some of the more reputable programs. You know, the few where literary agents actually scout for writers. But then, what if I end up writing genre? I had so much fun with my pseudo-detective story last semester, that I'm tempted to write another one.
Anyway, that means we might be apart for a lot longer. There's always the possibility that I could get into a program wherever Jacquelyn is postdocing. Who knows? And that's sort of where some of the stress comes in is just the uncertainty. And yesterday I was feeling awesome about my writing and today I hate every letter and I feel dense and stupid.
So yeah. That's where I am. And here I am:
I've been reading William Wordsworth and Mary Wollstonecraft and whatever Christian monk wrote down Beowulf and I'm about to start read Canterbury Tales in Middle English, which sounds pretty hilarious, actually.
I'm also reading about how the World Bank and the IMF have bankrupted tons of countries, forcing them to gouge public spending, so you know, no health care whatsoever. NGOs cry out, "Why is the infant mortality rate so high in Mozambique!?" And they hire anthropologists to say, "They have a culture that resists modern medicine and they believe in witchcraft and blah blah blah." When really, there's no social safety net at all, there's no affordable healthcare, what heathcare there is is overpriced, and there's a giant history of colonialism and imperialism.
So seriously, fuck y'all. I'm mad.
I'm also writing a lot because my intermediate fiction workshop requires five pages per week plus two 10-20 page stories. I also submitted three poems to The Madison Review, which would be my first for-real publication if I get selected. This is where I start developing a thick skin for rejections, right?
I also need to come up with some good plots for the two stories I need to write this semester. Everything I've got are either novels or flashfiction length ideas, and I need something in the middle.
Jacquelyn is interviewing for her first post-doc position as I type this. She has another interview next week as well. We're really in countdown mode right now. She's aiming to finish her PhD by June and she may be starting her postdoc immediately after, so we've got about five more months of living together before she heads off and I'm left here for a year by my lonesome.
If it were just a year, it wouldn't be too terrible, but I'm considering an MFA program after I graduate, and I'm adopting "Go Big or Go Home" as my motto for my career, so I'm going to apply to Iowa and some of the more reputable programs. You know, the few where literary agents actually scout for writers. But then, what if I end up writing genre? I had so much fun with my pseudo-detective story last semester, that I'm tempted to write another one.
Anyway, that means we might be apart for a lot longer. There's always the possibility that I could get into a program wherever Jacquelyn is postdocing. Who knows? And that's sort of where some of the stress comes in is just the uncertainty. And yesterday I was feeling awesome about my writing and today I hate every letter and I feel dense and stupid.
So yeah. That's where I am. And here I am:
