I haven’t had much time to write any new blogs. Don’t blame me: blame graduate school. It’s sucking up all my free time. And when I do have some free time, the last thing I want to do is write.
I should want to write, because I hardly write anymore. This may sound odd considering I am pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing, but it’s true.
Most of my time is devoted to reading. I don’t mind too much, because I am horribly read. The last literature class I had was in high school, and I didn’t really start reading until age 20.
The only downside to reading multiple hours a day is that it wears me out and causes me to lose sight of who I am. My mind can only handle so much information, so when I read and read, I eventually drown in the words of others until I am forced into a sort of braindead state.
The main way I stay connected with myself is writing these blogs as they allow me to check-in and examine how I feel about my Nike work shirt that is way too big, my gray H&M pants that are suffering from an aggressive crotch-hole, and other aspects of life I deem important…and now a poem about a driver getting screwed out of a parking space.
The Parking Space
I see you
in the distance—
open and welcoming.
Red pickup to your right; orange compact to your left;
nothing in middle.
Approaching, I smile
Yellow jeep enters wrong way;
nothing in middle NOW something in middle;
pickup and compact
welcome new jeep neighbor.
Insides flare: red, orange, yellow.
Rearview mirror car parade.
Lifting foot off brake pedal and
I leave you
in my parking space—
door closed and waiting.
I feel like a literary fraud. The more I read, the more I realize how little I know about the literary world. Or literature, in general, for that matter. I probably should have stuck with comedy but learning how to craft a well written and fully realized story that does more than get a few laughs is pretty exciting—it’s also exciting to go $50,000+ in debt, move far-far away from your friends and family, and see if you can make it out alive.
I really have no idea what will become of all this writing business. I initially thought I’d become a college professor, but I’m not so sure anymore. Most college-level writing jobs are in teaching composition. I have no interest in teaching composition. Plus, those jobs are few and far between. It would be cool to teach a fiction workshop or something along those lines, but in order to do that, I would have to publish (not self-publish) a novel or book of short stories.
Side Note: Even if I did publish a novel or book of short stories, the fact that I possess a generous amount of social anxiety, and am a literary fraud, might complicate the situation.
I’ll most likely end up working in an office as a copywriter or technical writer or something along those lines. Whatever the case, I’m hoping I can find a way to cope. Most jobs make me want to slit my wrists. I can’t deal with the bosses and lunch breaks and ubiquitous interactions with co-workers.
At least I will no longer have attending graduate school on my mind. For the past two years, I believed obtaining my MFA in Creative Writing was absolutely necessary in my development as a writer, and until I was accepted to a program and earned that degree, life—in my mind—would be incomplete.
It seems life is always incomplete and striving for completeness often results in madness, depression, and disappointment. The ideal life, for pretty much everyone, is unattainable. When I am reading, I want to be writing. When I am working, I want to be in school. When I am blah, I want to be BLAH.
I need to exorcise these ideal illusions that I have built up over the years, so I can move on with my life and escape this constructed reality. Nothing will ever be exactly the way I want.
There is the possibility that by reading and drowning my mind in the words of others that I will somehow lose sight of myself to the point where I can kill off some of this childlike thinking. However, people don’t typically change, so the most I can hope for by reading/drowning is to gain a stronger literary foundation and heightened sense of awareness which will likely lead to more poetry about stolen parking spaces and blogs about big work shirts, aggressive crotch-holes, and other aspects of life I deem important.
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