I'm considering my mad streak of writing a blog entry 6 minutes before I have to jump in the shower and motor to class. I need to figure out my unwillingness to get anywhere on time. This morning I have prepared a Powerpoint re: rape culture where I show pictures of Edward Cullen and Chuck Bass. I chose the sexiest pictures because I'm an old maid. Really, I feel like such an old person, finally figuring out Powerpoint. What a rickety form. What a form! To teach in Powerpoint. This is what we're expected to do. Show some images & links. Someone, maybe, who has a finger on the pulse of the novel today, should write a novel or at least a chapter dealing all with Powerpoint. Wouldn't that be something?
I have been in a very positive contemplative space lately. It has been quiet and watchful. I feel poised, like on some precipice. I don't know where the future leads, but I do feel that I am ready for a metamorphosis. Oh, god, I have been in therapy. But, really, though - this is what I think - at this moment, I will decide to take writing seriously, go back in the cave and scrawl on the walls and attempt to really fucking do something - or I should go to graduate school. That's what I've decided. I'm in love today, with the possibility of the novel. Of what a novel can hold and breathe and incubate. I want to fail and learn. I need time and space. I feel open to all of this. I also feel, perhaps, finally, after the tour is over, I might try to write a play. To write plays! Something about writing something that can be viewed and communicating in a public space sounds wonderful to me today. Scary + wonderful.
I am almost done with my slow long work on Barbara Loden and the depressed muse and failure. I have lost my mind over it for months. I think I'm almost done. Every day I print it out and carve away at it, slowly. Sounding it out loud for the rhythm. I still have to learn how to edit myself. I have no talent for editing myself, in any way. I think my talent is for the faucet. Anyway, essays are so hard! So I must repeat to myself, like Dodie B. at the beginning of Barf Manifesto - NO MORE ESSAYS! At least, maybe, for a while.