Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Friday, July 03, 2009
Admitting It
I am guilty of procrastination in a really ridiculous sort of way. For a few months now, i’ve known that the local philosophy department is hurting for grad kids. If i move in just a smidge more decisive fashion, i could, conceivably get a placement for a master’s in January. It is a good opportunity, as we’ll have the money if i can’t secure funding - but since there’s precious few kids, the big question is getting in, not getting funding. I look terrible on paper, for the most part, but the Powers actually know me, and i have marks post-undergrad that are well within grad student range. There are other positives in my favor as well.
Now, the thing is, this all might be an elaborate self-sabotage. Neat, huh? It goes like, well, i’ve been writing, and i can’t tell if it’s good, my other stuff may or not be good, but i haven’t gotten around to sending it to places, and well, writing something big takes a while, and did i mention i don’t know if it’s any good? Sure i’ve been writing stories and snippets since i was old enough to print (save for a hiatus brought forcibly about by an Aunt, which is a story that either i’ve told you before, or you can remind me to tell you it later.) I’ve always written. I’ve thrown away hundreds of thousands of words. If writing were illegal, i’d still do it. But.
Is it what i’m supposed to be doing? Who do i think i am, thinking i can write a book? Isn’t this all just some sort of ploy so i can hit the snooze button on Reality, and avoid the rigors of honest, every day work? Did i mention that i’m not sure if the thousand or so words i’ve been writing (every day this week so far) are any good?
Maybe i should go, get the education that i seem to have an affinity for, and get a fucking career, finally?
When talking to my friend today, i made a joke about grad school being procrastination, and then, things got all serious. She looked me full in the face, after i’d said that Husband really thought i should stop screwing around and get to writing, and i said, sure, like grad school is procrastination, and she said in a Most Serious manner, ‘Is it procrastination?’ I looked at her and sort of half-laughed, and started to deny it, and she said ‘Holy shit. It IS procrastinating.’ I started to protest again, but for fuck’s sake, it’s true. I’m still denying it, sort of - at the beginning of the post i started with ‘I may or may not be guilty of procrastination’. I deleted it, and then wrote ‘maybe I am guilty of procrastination...’.
I am guilty of procrastination. It doesn’t mean philosophy of sex isn’t my bag, it is. And the prospect of learning philosophy of physics and getting my symbolic logic to a level of at least beginner is comforting and soothing, and it just seems - easy isn’t the right word, but it’s closest. Grad school is ridiculous hard. I’d be learning completely brand new stuff on a level i haven’t even fathomed before, and it seems so much easier to me than sitting down, every damn day, writing word after word after word, thinking that my writing is derivative, or too much about me, or just plain chomps testicles. Sitting down, day after day, wallowing in angst and the oppressiveness of thought - that i’m putting obscene amounts of effort into something that isn’t very good. Sitting down day after day, wondering if the people who have been reading my stuff have been merely phoning their fluffy opinions in, and hating myself for thinking so ill of the people i love. Writing is the easier part (again with the burning of using a word that DOES NOT FIT...) dealing with the emotional baggage upholstered in shades of-doubt is difficult.
Issues. I have them. Perhaps it isn’t procrastination at all - it’s a decent fallback, and i don’t want to be all wrinkled up and bitter without anything fun to do. There’s no denying, though, that i’ve been using studies as a shield against writing.
Now, the thing is, this all might be an elaborate self-sabotage. Neat, huh? It goes like, well, i’ve been writing, and i can’t tell if it’s good, my other stuff may or not be good, but i haven’t gotten around to sending it to places, and well, writing something big takes a while, and did i mention i don’t know if it’s any good? Sure i’ve been writing stories and snippets since i was old enough to print (save for a hiatus brought forcibly about by an Aunt, which is a story that either i’ve told you before, or you can remind me to tell you it later.) I’ve always written. I’ve thrown away hundreds of thousands of words. If writing were illegal, i’d still do it. But.
Is it what i’m supposed to be doing? Who do i think i am, thinking i can write a book? Isn’t this all just some sort of ploy so i can hit the snooze button on Reality, and avoid the rigors of honest, every day work? Did i mention that i’m not sure if the thousand or so words i’ve been writing (every day this week so far) are any good?
Maybe i should go, get the education that i seem to have an affinity for, and get a fucking career, finally?
When talking to my friend today, i made a joke about grad school being procrastination, and then, things got all serious. She looked me full in the face, after i’d said that Husband really thought i should stop screwing around and get to writing, and i said, sure, like grad school is procrastination, and she said in a Most Serious manner, ‘Is it procrastination?’ I looked at her and sort of half-laughed, and started to deny it, and she said ‘Holy shit. It IS procrastinating.’ I started to protest again, but for fuck’s sake, it’s true. I’m still denying it, sort of - at the beginning of the post i started with ‘I may or may not be guilty of procrastination’. I deleted it, and then wrote ‘maybe I am guilty of procrastination...’.
I am guilty of procrastination. It doesn’t mean philosophy of sex isn’t my bag, it is. And the prospect of learning philosophy of physics and getting my symbolic logic to a level of at least beginner is comforting and soothing, and it just seems - easy isn’t the right word, but it’s closest. Grad school is ridiculous hard. I’d be learning completely brand new stuff on a level i haven’t even fathomed before, and it seems so much easier to me than sitting down, every damn day, writing word after word after word, thinking that my writing is derivative, or too much about me, or just plain chomps testicles. Sitting down, day after day, wallowing in angst and the oppressiveness of thought - that i’m putting obscene amounts of effort into something that isn’t very good. Sitting down day after day, wondering if the people who have been reading my stuff have been merely phoning their fluffy opinions in, and hating myself for thinking so ill of the people i love. Writing is the easier part (again with the burning of using a word that DOES NOT FIT...) dealing with the emotional baggage upholstered in shades of-doubt is difficult.
Issues. I have them. Perhaps it isn’t procrastination at all - it’s a decent fallback, and i don’t want to be all wrinkled up and bitter without anything fun to do. There’s no denying, though, that i’ve been using studies as a shield against writing.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Readings
Just finished 'Y the Last Man' and the first Sookie Stackhouse novel. Y was engaging, entertaining and moving. Apparently they're making a movie about it, and while i have serious doubts about pulling it off, i'd love to see it move. Though, besides Shia whomever, there aren't really any actors between the ages of 18-30 running about.
Currently reading King's 'On Writing', the second Sookie novel, still slogging through 'Mother Camp'. The last is an excellent ethnography on gay and drag queen culture in the 60s. What makes it hard to read isn't the language, it's just how little things have changed in some ways. It's been 40 some years, and still there are beatings, rights issues, and other indignities. Also reading 'Lisey's Story', and 'Fixing Sex', because i can't seem to let go of a future philosophy of sex career.
The writing is going all right. The discipline is still improving - last week it was four days out of the week, and i'm two for two today. And the output is about 1000 words a day, and they're halfway decent words at that. Writing scenes have stopped for the moment, now writing backstories that may or may not get used in the story proper, but it's helping me get to know the characters better. I have a lot more for the lady protagonist than the gent, but since i have thought of him so long as nearly fifth business, it's not terrifically surprising.
What i'm finding i hate is the lack of paper. I'd like to have everything i've written on this thing in paper form, handwritten, that way i can shuffle through them, physically see how much i have. There's an intangibility when you're typing words into a computer, and makes the whole thing less real seeming. On the other hand, papers are something easily lost. I know writing things largely into the computer is the best way to go, but it does inspire the same feeling as putting one's panties on backwards. Something just ain't right.
Currently reading King's 'On Writing', the second Sookie novel, still slogging through 'Mother Camp'. The last is an excellent ethnography on gay and drag queen culture in the 60s. What makes it hard to read isn't the language, it's just how little things have changed in some ways. It's been 40 some years, and still there are beatings, rights issues, and other indignities. Also reading 'Lisey's Story', and 'Fixing Sex', because i can't seem to let go of a future philosophy of sex career.
The writing is going all right. The discipline is still improving - last week it was four days out of the week, and i'm two for two today. And the output is about 1000 words a day, and they're halfway decent words at that. Writing scenes have stopped for the moment, now writing backstories that may or may not get used in the story proper, but it's helping me get to know the characters better. I have a lot more for the lady protagonist than the gent, but since i have thought of him so long as nearly fifth business, it's not terrifically surprising.
What i'm finding i hate is the lack of paper. I'd like to have everything i've written on this thing in paper form, handwritten, that way i can shuffle through them, physically see how much i have. There's an intangibility when you're typing words into a computer, and makes the whole thing less real seeming. On the other hand, papers are something easily lost. I know writing things largely into the computer is the best way to go, but it does inspire the same feeling as putting one's panties on backwards. Something just ain't right.
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