a writer friend posted an article which i should link here as well as passing it along on Facebook: the pitfalls and truths of what happens after your MFA
depression, for one, and feeling like you have to PUBLISH NOW, and GO TO READINGS, and MEET PEOPLE WHO ARE IMPORTANT, and GET YOUR WORK OUT THERE
it’s encouraging to know that i’m not the only one who feels like a fucking dickhead who’s not writing as much as they should be
but it’s also disheartening – do we really provide such little fuel for writers after our carefully scripted and sculpted curriculae?
as much as i hated writing in a hippie vacuum (aside from the nagging feeling that my advisors and my peers were just tolerating me and my work) i hate the sea of confusion that exists now
it still thrills me
but damn is it fucking hard to navigate!
plus i am seriously lazy. any day that’s not spent in part in front of netflix in my underwear, horizontal, eating onion dip, is not a day well spent, at least the way i’ve programmed my brain to function now.
(and yes there is such reeking privilege there, but i have feelings about the tiptoeing around how we really feel and what we really think as “enlightened” liberals that are fodder for some angrier work down the line)
i am currently writing SOMETHING every day (and by every day i mean for the past three or so, which is a damn fine streak for me)
even if it’s mostly throwaway like thoughts like this
thought: it could be the most pretentious thing ever but the ability to simply press enter in the middle of a line
which is what i used to call poetry, when i refused to admit its ability to sear you and its elusive structure
is damn liberating
so for now i don’t really care
something to get the wheels creaking and words flowing again