Roses are rose;In other news, I'm incalculably behind in everything, especially NaNoWriMo. Darn you, time management skills, you evasive fiends.
violets are violet;
your name is Alden
and you've got me smilin'.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
A Rose By Any Other Name...
I wrote a romantic poem this evening:
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Beginning
"Well, I'm drowning in this class!" exclaims the overweight middle-aged woman in the cartoon-printed scrubs. People who wear scrubs in casual, non-medical settings make me uncomfortable, because they look like freshly-minted zombies, the vectors of the newest plague. Her waddle could easily be a shamble in disguise. I give some awkwardly friendly acknowledgement and restrain myself from obviously quickening my pace. What am I supposed to say? The Political Science class we're leaving is an effortless A and I'm coasting on piles of extra credit. Every time I see my Community College classmates- mostly returning education students old enough to have parented me during some fiasco of misspent youth- complaining of how challenging the courses are or hear them snoring loudly during lectures, I become more convinced of my need to escape to some higher institution the first chance I get. I dream of university utopias, off-beat ivory tower resorts where I'll be challenged and stimulated and surrounded by intellect and radicalism and nerdiness.* I want this idealized future to be mine!
The tricky questions are where I want to go and when I'll get the applications together and whether I'll get into any good schools ("Yeah, I dropped out of highschool to attend a mediocre community college! I have pretty okay-ish test scores! I've read a few books! I'm seventeen and I've left Missouri like, two times or something!** LOVE ME!") and how in the hell I'll manage to PAY for any of those schools and whether I'll be emotionally stable enough to move wherever Mystery School happens to be by next fall.
In other news, it is November 2nd and I decided this morning that I will participate in NaNoWriMo this year. If you're unaware, the premise of the event is to challenge oneself to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November. I've always liked the idea of it, but I've never worked up the (admittedly limited) pinasch necessary to actually give it a shot before. I suffer severe Chronic Backspace Syndrome*** and usually get frozen on the first paragraph of any writing I undertake, so I see this as a way to challenge myself in breaking down those inhibitions. Even if I get nowhere near the 50,000 mark, if I make decent progress and learn from the experience I'll see it as a success. Also: if I do "win" NaNoWriMo, how freaking awesome would that look on college applications? I'd be impressed if I were an admissions officer. It'd theorhetically help make up for my lack of formalized English curriculum right now. I might even squeeze a Common App essay out of the experience, if I haven't worked something better out by then and I still have time.
To actually meet quota I'll have to average 1,725 words a day starting today, and I still have no idea what I'm writing about. On to brainstorming! (Not really. On to Equality meeting, then home, then brainstorming.)
*Okay, I mostly dream of awkward social situations, confusing interactions with strange mishmashes of acquantances, and lots of bizzare, disjointed sexual encounters. Often all three of those at once. But the point stands. I fantasize about colleges (and also much-less-disturbing sexual encounters, among other things).
**Lies! At least 11.
***Caused by excessive levels of self-doubt, Chronic Backspace Syndrome is a disorder wherein subjects become stuck in cycles of perpetual writing and deleting, impeding any substantial progress towards a larger work.
The tricky questions are where I want to go and when I'll get the applications together and whether I'll get into any good schools ("Yeah, I dropped out of highschool to attend a mediocre community college! I have pretty okay-ish test scores! I've read a few books! I'm seventeen and I've left Missouri like, two times or something!** LOVE ME!") and how in the hell I'll manage to PAY for any of those schools and whether I'll be emotionally stable enough to move wherever Mystery School happens to be by next fall.
In other news, it is November 2nd and I decided this morning that I will participate in NaNoWriMo this year. If you're unaware, the premise of the event is to challenge oneself to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November. I've always liked the idea of it, but I've never worked up the (admittedly limited) pinasch necessary to actually give it a shot before. I suffer severe Chronic Backspace Syndrome*** and usually get frozen on the first paragraph of any writing I undertake, so I see this as a way to challenge myself in breaking down those inhibitions. Even if I get nowhere near the 50,000 mark, if I make decent progress and learn from the experience I'll see it as a success. Also: if I do "win" NaNoWriMo, how freaking awesome would that look on college applications? I'd be impressed if I were an admissions officer. It'd theorhetically help make up for my lack of formalized English curriculum right now. I might even squeeze a Common App essay out of the experience, if I haven't worked something better out by then and I still have time.
To actually meet quota I'll have to average 1,725 words a day starting today, and I still have no idea what I'm writing about. On to brainstorming! (Not really. On to Equality meeting, then home, then brainstorming.)
*Okay, I mostly dream of awkward social situations, confusing interactions with strange mishmashes of acquantances, and lots of bizzare, disjointed sexual encounters. Often all three of those at once. But the point stands. I fantasize about colleges (and also much-less-disturbing sexual encounters, among other things).
**Lies! At least 11.
***Caused by excessive levels of self-doubt, Chronic Backspace Syndrome is a disorder wherein subjects become stuck in cycles of perpetual writing and deleting, impeding any substantial progress towards a larger work.
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