Monday, May 17, 2010


My motivation to write is usually highest when I have the least time for it.  Shove tests, papers, and events in front of me, and I'll have no stronger urge than to plant myself in front of the computer and turn out chapters.  Every year I tell myself the same thing: Just wait until summer and then you can write for hours every evening.  Every year the same thing happens: The instant the final final has been finished, my stories are repulsive; the idea of writing unappealing.  What I do turn out is stilted and forced.

I bring this up because my semester ends tomorrow.  I have an ethics final in the afternoon and then I'm free for the next fourteen weeks.  And I have caught myself giving the doomed promises of how much writing I'll get done once I get through this.  After eighteen straight years of school.  I never learn.



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