I know I've said this before; but I feel the sudden need to reiternate this point (if, more for myself than anyone else).
I.AM.BACK!!!!!
I'm currently sitting at my computer, its 1:44 in the morning, I've been working on school work since 10:30 and I feel amazing. Is this further evidence that my poor Irish head has gotten addled over the course of the past weekend? Quite possibly, but I don't care; I'm going to just sit here and enjoy the satisfaction that I currently feel.
You see; I wrote today. I wrote a lot, in fact; eight double-spaced pages, as well as a book review for a seperate class which was closer to a single page. I feel as if a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders; the sun has finally risen and begun to disperse the thick blackness of night and I can hear the birds begin to sing! (on second thought, that might just be the train passing by my window again; I often wake up, thinking I'm hearing music, only to find its that annoying trail. But I digress).
To undrestand the true importance of these words, I need to take you back to later 2003, early 2004. I was a senior at Northern Michigan University, living with a great, if volitile, roomate and stressed out of my mind. Writer's block. A horrid writer's block, in fact, which sung its claws deep into my brain during that year and made even the simpliest academic writing pure torture.
It was rebellion, I think. I had been in college for going on my fourth year, and the promise of 'the real world' beckoned me. Doing my school work had become a chore, there was nothing else left to learn, senioritis had struck and I was 'too cool for school'. I wanted out more than anything; and this all expressed itself in that very same writer's block that I described earlier.
"So", I can hear you asking, "why is he so happy about writing eight pages, now?" A good question, although the answer is a simple one; I was terrified that the writer's block was still with me. I hadn't done a great deal of writing so far this semester, and much of what I had written seemed to be harder in coming than I thought it should be. Could it have been possible that that horrid block had carried over from three years earlier and was haunting me to this very day?
Apparently not. I first say down today at 3 and wrote with little interuption until 5:15 when I decided to watch the news and then go to the gym. I returned to my task at 11 and kept at it until about 5 minutes before I began this entry. The sad thing was, I had to force myself to stop! Everything was flowing together, I could see the structure my paper was to take laid out before me like a well traveled road, and I desperately wanted to continue along that path until I reached the end. It was fun; I was excited and nearly giddy with the joy of putting together an argument once again.
Now, this isn't to say that I've laid out the greatest English prose since Steinbeck. Hardly. Most of the writing I've done over the past several years has been in fiction; academic writing is another horse entirely and I'm no longer used to riding it. I'm sure that this rough draft will need a good deal of polishing before I reach a successful final draft. But the point, as I see it, is that I got that old horse to move, and I didn't fall off; I may be sloppy, but I hadn't forgotten how to ride it after all!
This makes me exceptionally happy and hopeful; I have a 20 page paper due a week from Wednesday in addition to the one I'm currently writing. It's been hanging over me for months and I've finally gotten to the point where I think a majority of my research has been completed. But the thought of sitting down and writing it has been filling me full of dread. No more! If I can keep up this pace, I may have that draft done in two or three days.
In other news, adding to my joy, I had a wonderful weekend. I hadn't gone out in two weeks and was beginning to feel that slothful, yet frantic feeling I always seem to get when I've been denied human contact for too long. I decided to go out on Saturday night to a local show; the Kissers, a Celtic Punk band from Madison were playing in town. I'd seen then two summers earlier, liked their music, and decided that it would be a fun show to take in.
I ended up drinking too much. Far too much, as a matter of fact; not that it mattered. By the end of the night I was reduced to the laughing mad man I always become after imbibing in a pint or two too many. I ended up doing my best to hit on every pretty girl in the place, failed miserable, and didn't care in the least; I was having to much fun flirting. Who cares if there were no takers? It was great.
I eventually ended up falling in with a group, got invited to go bar hopping after the show ended (they paid as I was out of money), nearly got into a fight with a psychotic woman who took offence at my zombie-dressed companion banging on the front door of her apartment as we walked by, won four dollars in a bet that I wouldn't touch the bathroom plunger we'd found at the bar (I took it by the hilt, brandished it like a sword, and collected my cash) accidently knocked my final pint of beer over causing it to shatter over the bar, and wandered home in a blissful mood.
Of course, the bliss of drinking soon passed into the horror of the hand over the next day; and I had to work! Being my responsible self, I bravely arrived at the store the next morning and went about my day; keeping my streak of never calling into work sick because of a hangover (as my Grandfather once told my Mother; "You can't expect everyone where you work to suffer, because you were an idiot the night before')
Even better, I've begun to go to the gym on a regular basis once again; the first time I've done that since student teaching. Although I hurt it is, much like the kind I described in my last journal, that good kind of hurt that comes from working at something hard. I can already begin to feel my muscles tightening, and I think I'll be back to my peak fitness of my last year in college.
One last note: I keep getting compliments about my hair, and I can't eat it up fast enough
Yes, I'm vain, but I can't care; a lot of people are vain about their hair and I particularly love mine. A very attractive redhead was admiring it while I was at work a few days ago, as were several people at the bar, and I even had several guys describe it as "totally badass!" Oh yes, I like. Now if only Wal-Mart didn't frown on its cashiers hitting on customers of the opposite sex
On a completely unrealted note; check out the new PG version of the trailer to 300
I.AM.BACK!!!!!
I'm currently sitting at my computer, its 1:44 in the morning, I've been working on school work since 10:30 and I feel amazing. Is this further evidence that my poor Irish head has gotten addled over the course of the past weekend? Quite possibly, but I don't care; I'm going to just sit here and enjoy the satisfaction that I currently feel.
You see; I wrote today. I wrote a lot, in fact; eight double-spaced pages, as well as a book review for a seperate class which was closer to a single page. I feel as if a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders; the sun has finally risen and begun to disperse the thick blackness of night and I can hear the birds begin to sing! (on second thought, that might just be the train passing by my window again; I often wake up, thinking I'm hearing music, only to find its that annoying trail. But I digress).
To undrestand the true importance of these words, I need to take you back to later 2003, early 2004. I was a senior at Northern Michigan University, living with a great, if volitile, roomate and stressed out of my mind. Writer's block. A horrid writer's block, in fact, which sung its claws deep into my brain during that year and made even the simpliest academic writing pure torture.
It was rebellion, I think. I had been in college for going on my fourth year, and the promise of 'the real world' beckoned me. Doing my school work had become a chore, there was nothing else left to learn, senioritis had struck and I was 'too cool for school'. I wanted out more than anything; and this all expressed itself in that very same writer's block that I described earlier.
"So", I can hear you asking, "why is he so happy about writing eight pages, now?" A good question, although the answer is a simple one; I was terrified that the writer's block was still with me. I hadn't done a great deal of writing so far this semester, and much of what I had written seemed to be harder in coming than I thought it should be. Could it have been possible that that horrid block had carried over from three years earlier and was haunting me to this very day?
Apparently not. I first say down today at 3 and wrote with little interuption until 5:15 when I decided to watch the news and then go to the gym. I returned to my task at 11 and kept at it until about 5 minutes before I began this entry. The sad thing was, I had to force myself to stop! Everything was flowing together, I could see the structure my paper was to take laid out before me like a well traveled road, and I desperately wanted to continue along that path until I reached the end. It was fun; I was excited and nearly giddy with the joy of putting together an argument once again.
Now, this isn't to say that I've laid out the greatest English prose since Steinbeck. Hardly. Most of the writing I've done over the past several years has been in fiction; academic writing is another horse entirely and I'm no longer used to riding it. I'm sure that this rough draft will need a good deal of polishing before I reach a successful final draft. But the point, as I see it, is that I got that old horse to move, and I didn't fall off; I may be sloppy, but I hadn't forgotten how to ride it after all!
This makes me exceptionally happy and hopeful; I have a 20 page paper due a week from Wednesday in addition to the one I'm currently writing. It's been hanging over me for months and I've finally gotten to the point where I think a majority of my research has been completed. But the thought of sitting down and writing it has been filling me full of dread. No more! If I can keep up this pace, I may have that draft done in two or three days.
In other news, adding to my joy, I had a wonderful weekend. I hadn't gone out in two weeks and was beginning to feel that slothful, yet frantic feeling I always seem to get when I've been denied human contact for too long. I decided to go out on Saturday night to a local show; the Kissers, a Celtic Punk band from Madison were playing in town. I'd seen then two summers earlier, liked their music, and decided that it would be a fun show to take in.
I ended up drinking too much. Far too much, as a matter of fact; not that it mattered. By the end of the night I was reduced to the laughing mad man I always become after imbibing in a pint or two too many. I ended up doing my best to hit on every pretty girl in the place, failed miserable, and didn't care in the least; I was having to much fun flirting. Who cares if there were no takers? It was great.
I eventually ended up falling in with a group, got invited to go bar hopping after the show ended (they paid as I was out of money), nearly got into a fight with a psychotic woman who took offence at my zombie-dressed companion banging on the front door of her apartment as we walked by, won four dollars in a bet that I wouldn't touch the bathroom plunger we'd found at the bar (I took it by the hilt, brandished it like a sword, and collected my cash) accidently knocked my final pint of beer over causing it to shatter over the bar, and wandered home in a blissful mood.
Of course, the bliss of drinking soon passed into the horror of the hand over the next day; and I had to work! Being my responsible self, I bravely arrived at the store the next morning and went about my day; keeping my streak of never calling into work sick because of a hangover (as my Grandfather once told my Mother; "You can't expect everyone where you work to suffer, because you were an idiot the night before')
Even better, I've begun to go to the gym on a regular basis once again; the first time I've done that since student teaching. Although I hurt it is, much like the kind I described in my last journal, that good kind of hurt that comes from working at something hard. I can already begin to feel my muscles tightening, and I think I'll be back to my peak fitness of my last year in college.
One last note: I keep getting compliments about my hair, and I can't eat it up fast enough
Yes, I'm vain, but I can't care; a lot of people are vain about their hair and I particularly love mine. A very attractive redhead was admiring it while I was at work a few days ago, as were several people at the bar, and I even had several guys describe it as "totally badass!" Oh yes, I like. Now if only Wal-Mart didn't frown on its cashiers hitting on customers of the opposite sex On a completely unrealted note; check out the new PG version of the trailer to 300
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
and its been a week and 5 days!
Second night was the worset for me. Good luck!