Wordpress Again

Well hi there. Happy New Year!

I have something up my sleeve this fine evening, and no, I'm not talking about dominoes from last night's game of Mexican Train. That was a fair win. Really.

Anyway, here's the thing: we all know that I love to write. We all know that I wish I wrote more, especially where blogging is concerned. And because I'm sick of constantly whining about my lack of dedication and constantly making excuses for it, I've decided to take drastic measures.

This year's New Year's Resolution: To write a blog post every day for an entire year.

Yes, it's bold. Yes, it's tough. But it's also very, very necessary. It's time I got my act together where writing is concerned. It's time I actually followed through with a New Year's Resolution. Plus, let's face it: if I can go without chocolate for 40 days (see Lent last year), then I can do anything.

Here's the other thing: I'm once again ditching you and running toward the shiny professionalism of Wordpress. Rest assured, I will come back. I always seem to.

But for now, this is where I'll be hanging out (http://holly365project.wordpress.com/). I hope to see you there.

What a Letter Means

I got a letter today. A miraculous letter that stuck its white corner out of my postbox. Even that corner looked like a miracle.

Last night I had to turn someone down, which is always a horrible experience. I usually tread softly around these things, but last night I decided that the only way to bring a sense of finality was to be honest. I wasn't cruel; I simply said that I wasn't looking for a relationship, but thank you for the offer. My friends, who I had consulted about the whole thing (I'm a consulter; I know this about myself), applauded my efforts, saying that honesty is always best, saying that the cruelest thing, really, is to give someone false hope.

I went to bed decently contented, and woke up horrified. This someone, you see, is the sensitive sort. The sort that maybe shouldn't have to contend with honesty all the time. The sort who maybe just wanted my friendship more than anything else. And I, tall and terrible, made brave by Facebook, tromped all over any semblance of hope or promise. I woke up thinking that I should have just gone to dinner with this someone. I should have talked with him, really talked and really listened. I should have seen this as an opportunity to get to know him better, instead of running scared at the prospect of him liking me in a different way than I like him.

So that letter, as I'm sure you can now imagine, meant a lot today. It meant so much, in fact, that I couldn't even bring myself to open it. I had things to do today; studying, running, classes, etc., and I didn't want any trivial thing getting in the way of my letter. I waited 12 hours to open it, until just now, when I was properly in bed and comfortable, with no German grammar tugging at my conscience.

It was beautiful, that letter. Blissful. I cried twice. Not because of anything sad, but because it means everything to get something from home. I know I've mentioned this before, but it's still true. The very hardest part about being here is that there isn't anyone who knows me, really really knows me, within 5,000 miles. And this letter made me cry because it reminded me that 5,001 miles away, there is someone who knows me. And they wrote me a letter.

Things That Scare Me

Part 1: Emails like this

Hi, Holly,

Thanks for your message. For students who haven't already taken the Intro to Creative Writing course at UMM, I'm asking them to send a short sample of their work in fiction. It doesn't have to be anything perfect -- just something to give me an idea of the level you're working at.

Thanks!

Part 2: Schedules like this

MWF:
11:45-12:50 Themes in World History
1-2:05 Advanced Fiction Writing (conditional: see above email)
2:15-3:20 U.S. Multicultural Literature
3:30-5:10 (W) Honors: Power of Place

Tu Th:
10-11:40 Intro to Stats

She Saves the Big News For Last

Finished the Sherman Alexie this morning. My goodness, I love that man. If you haven't read The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, you absolutely should. And then read some of Alexie's poetry. He's good at that, too.

I think I have a soft spot for Sherman Alexie because my American Lit. II professor knows him, and told the class a few funny stories about him. I'm constantly in awe of how connected academics are. Probably because they go to conventions and meet other academics. And discuss things academically. And read each other's academic essays. And then cite each other's essays in their own essays. And then go to more conferences to present their academically written, cited essays.

And then they probably go out for drinks.

Anyway, sticking to my summer tradition of alternating impressive books with 'fun' books, I began Jane Austen's Persuasion today. I'm not sure why I chose that particular Austen (actually, I know why: because Sandra Bullock's character talks about the book in The Lake House, a movie I'm not crazy about but have seen a few times recently. I like Sandra Bullock. Her Oscar win was a high point in my life.), but I'm enjoying it so far.

Austens definitely require thought. No daydreaming or multitasking with an Austen novel. If you skim through a paragraph, you should probably go back and read it properly, because that woman sure knew how to pack it in. Also, I always feel compelled to look up all the 'noted' words and phrases in the back of the book. Illuminating, but time-consuming.

And now for the "Big News:"

I feel compelled to tell you now (and have been feeling compelled for quite a while now) that I'm starting a separate travel blog beginning before I leave for Austria. And I may not come back (to Blogger, not to America. I have to come back to America. My books are here.). You see, I like Wordpress. A lot. Blasphemy, I know, but I think it looks crisper and more professional (and prettier) than Blogger. So my travel blog will be there, and if I decide I like it, I may stay with it even after I'm back in the States.

That being said, I'm not completely sure how this whole travel blog thing will go. The women I work with at one of my UMM jobs will be reading it (they first suggested I start it), my parents will be reading it, my sister, my friends, etc. I don't know if a larger audience will cause me to change the things I blog about. I mean, this blog is pretty much a journal. I really don't hold back here. Sure, I doll things up. I try to make my life sound interesting for you guys. I make everyday situations into weird off-poems. But basically, it's a journal. The other blog may be pared down a bit. It will still be me, but as my new audience will likely be more interested in the things I'm doing and seeing and learning than strange poems about street lamps and rants entitled "goodlordwhatamIgoingtodowithmylifeyouguys," I feel a paring down is necessary.

In a nutshell, I'm going over there. But I will likely come back and visit. Because I'll miss you guys and I'll miss my bad poetry and my Person of the Week and reading over the posts of a younger, less savvy me.

I'll be sure to post the link to the new blog as soon as I create it. I hope you'll stay in touch.

A Literary Feud

“He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.”
William Faulkner (about Ernest Hemingway)

“Does he really think big emotions come from big words?”
Ernest Hemingway (about William Faulkner)

Touché**, Mr. Hemingway.

**Solution found to my inability to put dashes/umlauts/etc/etc over words: I searched "touche" in Mac's dictionary, and then copied and pasted the proper, dashed (there has to be an official word for that thing) result.

In Which I Do the Unprecedented

I made the Dean's List. I finally, finally made that darn Dean's List. It took 4 semesters.
But I don't talk about that.
The point is that I have a big, pompous, maroon and gold certificate, and that I'm going to hang it up somewhere like I used to do with spelling awards when I was little.

In other news, last night I got to attend a production of "Little Shop of Horrors." As a member of the Press. I went by myself, even though they had reserved two tickets for me; I wanted it to just be me the first time. To drink it all in and all (and all). Well, I ended up wishing I had brought someone, because I was probably the only person under 65 at the show. This was okay most of the time, except when the old man behind me would stage whisper things. Like "watch out!" and "would you look at how low her top is?" (at least he didn't yell Macbeth, although I bet he was thinking about it. He really didn't like that Seymour was murdering people: "Unethical young folks! Who do they think they are?"
I brought a notebook along to jot things down in, and most of my notes ended up being about the audience. Here are some direct quotes: (please note: I don't understand/remember what some of these mean. I wrote them last night. Should I be worried?)

-"Back in the meat locker!"
-Evidently the Errol Flynn mustache is coming back
-They brought blankets (Okay. This one's about the 65+ers.)

I'm going to be hard pressed to keep this review focused on the play.

In Which a Nightmare Rights Some Wrongs

It's amazing how many wrongs you can right before 10 a.m.

I slept horribly last night; I was so worried about the whole voicemail situation. I had the "racing thoughts" they always talk about in Lunesta ads.

Early this morning, after about 6 hours of sleep, I woke up out of a nightmare. The nightmare was gruesome and terrifying. Most of all, though, it was ironic; in it, I was running from something, and then I was captured, and then I was tortured. Lovely, right? The climax of the entire dream was when I was being dragged down to the dungeon by this evil hag, and I thought to myself, "Why couldn't I have just pretended to be someone else? If I hadn't struggled so much, if I hadn't made such a display of stubborness, I wouldn't be here right now."

And then my alarm went off, and I smiled at the irony of it all, and I set out to right my wrongs.

I did the phone interview I was supposed to have done a month ago for the story I was supposed to have begun weeks ago. I called the leaver of the voicemail to make amends. It was me that had to make amends, you know. She was just being honest. I was being unreliable and immature and lazy. I'm 20 years old, but I still seem to be rather good at those three things.

Perhaps I shouldn't complain about not being treated like an adult unless I'm acting like one.

A Downer Day

It's been a downer day for me.
In order to write last night's brilliant post (you can chuckle at this. I am.), I had to sacrifice quite a bit of sleep.
Lack of sleep meant that I was pretty much a space cadet the entire time I was at work.
I bumbled around stupidly.
I punched in when I wasn't supposed to.
I banged my arm against a shelf (bruise is appearing slowly but surely).
And last but not least, I somehow thought that I worked 8-4. It was 3:00 when I finally figured out that I was actually only supposed to work until noon.

On the way home I stopped at the library. Libraries usually cheer me up, but somehow, it didn't work today. I got 8 books, but only 1 that I really want to read. Outside of the library, there was a big construction zone where they were tearing up part of the sidewalk. I'm tired of construction. It seems like all of Forest Lake is one big "CONSTRUCTION GOING ON, PLEASE TAKE DETOUR." I'm tired of detours. I don't care what anyone says, roundabouts are not all they're cracked up to be. I have yielding issues.

Now I'm sitting in bed dragging myself down slowly but surely (mentally bruising??? (see above)). It's a sad sad thing to be doing on a Tuesday night, but when I'm in a funk like this there's not much of an escape. I worked on my Press article for a while, but it started to give me a headache; council meeting coverage not only requires an annoying amount of precision, but it's also kind of boring. Don't tell anyone I said that.
I guess I can read, but I'm currently stuck in the middle of "The Handmaid's Tale." This book disappoints me. I'll probably explain why once I've finished.

Sorry for lack of eloquence, optimism, excitement, etc. I'll try to be up to snuff tomorrow.

Another Finals Week

Finals week has rolled around once again, and, as you've come to expect, I will spend most of my time from now until Thursday evening:
a) Studying/writing papers/taking exams
b) Complaining to you about studying/writing papers/taking exams

Prepare accordingly.

Here's the agenda:
Monday:
German final from 8:30-10:30
American Lit. final 11:00-1:00

Tuesday
American Lit. response paper due 4:00

Thursday
Art History final 4:00-6:00

And of course I also have to work a lot during finals week, and I have to finish up my study abroad planning, and I have to begin packing up my maelstrom of a room in preparation for my Thursday night departure.

And of course of course the weather right now is absolutely perfect; 66 degrees, sunny, breezy, and bugless. That's what I'm told, at least; the basement of the Science Building doesn't have any windows.

Fun Fact: Last night I had a dream that I was running around inside a Revolutionary War-era house that had belonged to someone named Brady. This morning I did a Wikipedia search and found out that Samuel Brady was a Revolutionary War hero (and an all-around cool guy). It's funny, because I don't think I've ever heard that name before. Apparently my subconscious has.

High Spots

I think I wrote part of a story tonight.
I say I think because I'm not quite sure what it is yet. I'm not sure if it's just an overflow of spontaneous thought, or if it's an overflow of spontaneous thought that could possibly mean something to someone else.
I'm so tired, though, that I'm going to leave the overflow saved on Mic Word for tomorrow morning.

I also worked my second to last day at Target today (well, second to last day of work until May).
When oh when are they going to learn not to put me back in electronics, even to cover someone's break?
If you give me a new camera, I will read the directions and figure out how to use it.
If you give me a laptop, I will navigate fairly well.
If you give me a broken TV, I may figure out that it just needs to be plugged in.
But if you give me aisles of merchandise without instructions, if you expect me to think on my feet, if you expect me to pretend I know what I'm talking about to people toting small children and looking into my face anxiously, then I think you have the wrong girl.
There were a few high spots, however, even amidst my confusions and overall awkwardness.
For example, there was a man wearing a black wool coat who wanted a Wii game unlocked from the case.
I did so, and while I was ringing it up, he looked over at a sign by the cell phone plan stuff. It said "offering unbiased opinions."
He asked me about it, and I said that that sign was only for the cell phone plan people, and that all of my opinions were completely biased.
Then he looked at me and said, "Okay, what's your biased opinion?"
Without thinking, I blurted "I think that Obama should be reelected."
The man in the black wool laughed for about five minutes before saying "Me too. Have a nice day."

Yep. That was a high spot.

Another high spot will be happening very soon, when I lower my heavy head onto my pillow and say to myself: "best part of the day."
I've been saying that to myself every night of Winter Break, because that's what my roommate always says when she gets into bed at night.
And I always glare at her because I know I'll be up for hours studying because I'm a chronic procrastinator.
But for now, it's just me.
And I'm going to bed.

Anatomy of a Novel

I think there's a novel in me somewhere. I'm not sure how it got there exactly. I mean, both of my parents are science-y, math-y people. Even my sister mostly dislikes English, although she is a far more dedicated journaler than I.

Maybe the novel nestled up against my rib cage, crushing my left lung a tad, is just buildup. You know, a bunch of leftovers mashed together into a convenient manuscript shape. A bit of This Side of Paradise here, some Harry Potter over there...and I think I can also feel pieces from some of the books I was forced to read: Nathaniel Hawthorne and Ralph Ellison are represented in that part.

Unfortunately, however, this inner Nobel winner of mine is not easily accessible. Sometimes when I'm in the shower or driving or sleeping or staring dumbly out of a window I get flashes of it, but they're never much. A conversation, maybe, or a glimpse of some character's face. They never seem to fit together, these flashes of mine. Most of the time I don't even write them down. I just continue to carry them with me, hoping for more.

Someday, I hope, my slowly emerging novel will be solid and promising on the table in front of me. I will be able to open the cover and smile at the dedication (because arrogant and sappy as I am, I already know who's name will be there). One day I will be at a Barnes and Noble, trying my best not to dash over to the fiction section and browse, and I will be signing copies of my book, handing them shyly back to people I have never met in my life. I will live in New York City (although I'll secretly miss Minnesota terribly), and I will dance (badly, because that's the only way I know how to dance) on Youtube with Libba Bray and John Green and Scott Westerfeld. And someday, when I'm old, and have written many many books, all of them precious to me, I will look a young, ambitious reporter full in the face, and answer a question. "My first novel was my most precious. Because I carried it around next to my heart*** for twenty years."

For now, though, I'll continue to blog. I'll continue to labor into the wee hours over papers whose topics I don't especially care about. I'll devour other people's stories in hopes that they will stick and become part of my own.

Someday, though (and it'll probably take a nasty case of hiccups), I will pour this entire novel onto paper (because it's so very uneloquent to say 'word document'). And I'll dance on Youtube with Libba Bray to celebrate.

Believe it.


***Don't worry, I Googled it: the heart is actually between the lungs. And the left lung, actually, is on the left side of your body if you look down at yourself. There! I did get a partial science gene after all!

Finals Finale

I'm done.
After about a week solid of sleeping 4 hours a night, after writing 3 papers and taking 2 exams, finals are finally, finally over.
I have to say, I don't remember finals being this bad last year.
I also have to say I'm proud of myself. Around this time on Sunday, I wasn't sure I could do it.
But I did. Somehow. And actually, I'm feeling good about what I've accomplished. My honors paper (as I told you) was pretty bad, but my Understanding Writing reflection paper was probably the best thing I've written for that class yet, and my Icelandic Sagas paper (which I finished about 3 hours ago) was decent as well.

As for the exams, well, I don't know. For German we had to write a 200 word essay in 2 hours (in German, obviously). The upside was that we could use our books. Having learned from the practice essay we wrote a few weeks ago, I made things easy for myself and wrote simple sentences. You know, "I gave my mother a book." That type of thing.

American Lit. was harder than I expected, truthfully. I studied the authors' names and work titles until I knew absolutely all of them, but maybe I should have made sure I knew what was in their works also. Oh well. The essay part was awesome! For the prompt I chose, I had to pick a character and explain (using Puritan, Enlightenment, and Romantic/Transcendentalist principles) why that character was unAmerican (hmm that word looks strange, but spell check is accepting it, so whatever). I wrote about Bartleby from Bartleby the Scrivener. I hope the essay turned out as well as I thought it did, because near the end of it I was so desperate to be done that I think I may have rambled a bit. Hopefully the ramblings were coherent.

Anyway, I'm all packed and ready to go home, just waiting for Mom to come get me.

I have to say, it still hasn't hit me that I'm actually finished with this semester, and that I'll have a whole month off to read and work and sit around. I kind of feel like I've been the energizer bunny all semester, just going and going and going, and now I've suddenly hit a brick wall, and I'm still lying stunned on the sidewalk, unable to comprehend what happened.

I'm sure I'll recover soon enough. In the mean time, "Be well, do good work, and keep in touch."

Finals Week, Part III

Isn't this the most beautiful thing you've ever seen? It's Trinity Church, in Antarctica. I wasn't aware that they had churches in Antarctica, but I'm certainly glad they have this one.

P.S. I'm surviving. 2 papers left, one of which I'm currently working on.

P.P.S. I've been slowly building my reading list for Winter Break. I don't know if it's a realistic amount to read in a month, but I'm certainly going to try. Here's the list, in case you're interested. It's a combination of books I've never read, and books that I have read but absolutely HAVE to tuck into again:
1. The Remains of the Day
2. How to Win Friends and Influence People (hey don't judge! It could come in handy)
3. The Handmaid's Tale
4. Huck Finn
5. Little Women (I've literally read this book once a year since 3rd grade. I love it so very much)
6. Three Cups of Tea
7. Uglies (plus the rest of the series if I get hooked, which I'm sure I will)
8. Paper Towns

Finals Week, Part II

I'm on a study break. I tried to do an hour of straight memorizing American writers and their works and the terms that describe their works, and I barely made it.

It's only the first day of Finals Week, and my brain hurts.

Maybe because I spent all weekend (literally) trying to make a thesis based on an essay we read in Honors, based on one of the paper topics provided. It kept not working and not working until I finally realized that it was not going to work. So, I switched topics. At 2 a.m. this morning. Wrote until 5. Woke up at 10. Wrote until 3:30. Turned the paper in about fifteen minutes before it was due. And it was probably the worst paper I've ever written. Not for lack of effort, but because I didn't have time to make it good.

That's the worst thing about this semester, I think. I'm trying so hard but my grades still aren't where I'd like them to be because I don't have time to focus on one subject or one paper or one reading for very long; the others start calling to me before I have a chance to even sit and consider.

Now my brain hurts and I don't think I can spend much more time with this American Lit. stuff I'm currently doing.

But okay. Here's the plan:

Tonight: Finish typing up study guide for Am. Lit. Study study guide.

Tomorrow: German final 11-1, study Am. Litl, Am. Lit. final 4-6, Work on Understanding Writing paper, Writing Room work 7-7:30, Info. Desk work 8-10, Finish Understanding Writing paper

Wednesday: Social Science work 9:30-11:30, Think of an idea for/research/write Icelandic Sagas paper. All day. Get 'er done. Info. Desk work 6-8. Finish Icelandic Sagas paper. Preferably before 3 a.m.

Thursday: You're not done with Icelandic Sagas? You've got to be kidding me, Hol...well...you have until 4:30. WRITE. After 4:30, take a few cleansing breaths, collapse limply on bed, then get up and start packing. 7:30 Mom arrives. Load car. Go home. Sleep until Saturday.

It's 10:14. 4 minutes past my alloted break time. Must go.

Three Cups of Tea

It's finally finally finally snowing in Morris. Not those small pellets that sting when they bounce off your nose and cheeks, but huge delicate flakes that float down gracefully and coat even the smallest branches of the smallest trees.

It wasn't snowing when I tramped into the HFA this evening, but it was snowing when I came out.

I was in the HFA to attend a presentation by David Oliver Relin, co-author of Three Cups of Tea. Don't misunderstand me, I have not read the book myself. I've merely heard about it. In fact, the first time I remember hearing about it was a few summers ago, at the funeral of one of my Dad's best friends. It was a sad day, obviously, but somehow (I don't remember how), the book came up. I thought to myself then "I just have to read that book."

I'm thinking to myself now "I just have to read that book."

David Oliver Relin was absolutely wonderful. He was a great speaker: funny, animated, sensitive, profound. But even better were the stories he told about the places he'd seen and the people he'd met on his travels. Relin is a foreign correspondant journalist.

You know what, everyone? I want to be a foreign correspondant journalist.
I want to travel, I want to meet people, to immerse myself in different cultures.
And then I want to write about these people and places and cultures so that teenagers back in America can come back from a Gen Ed class they may or may not hate and read about some faraway place and be inspired to see their own world through new eyes.

First of all, though, I want to read Three Cups of Tea.

A Book I'll Probably Write

I spun as soon as I saw him,
hissed to Maddie and to King:
"I'm not going to sit across the table from him and pretend that everything's normal.
I can't."
Stomped down the stairs
Sat down on the first floor
Abnormally, by myself.
King and Maddie followed
Seated themselves across from me,
good friends they are.
I calmed down shortly,
knowing, perhaps, that this wasn't my battle to fight.

I know this about myself: Sometimes I fight other people's battles just for a chance to fight at all.

But it felt personal to me.
I saw the disappointment on Tim's face, the bewilderment on King's.
These are my friends. They're being treated badly by someone.
Fight.

"He's moving out," King said, "he's packing gradually."
"Moving to the apartments to live with Derek and Luke."
Don't say anything, Holly (his face said).
We both knew it was coming.
We knew we wouldn't have him for much longer.

I can see myself writing a book about him in a couple of years.
A book about a boy that I was friends with freshman year, that I fought with sophomore year
A boy I'm not sure I ever really knew at all.

I don't know if I'm sad because I'm losing a friend
or because for once I've found someone I can't read.
And he'll be gone before I get to try again.

I'll see him around campus at first, I'm sure,
haunting the HFA like another musical ghost
thumping the piano in various practice rooms.
Then climbing the stairs with folder clasped tightly beneath arm
Bursting past me through the doors
And out into the night.

He'll transfer early, perhaps,
or graduate with the rest of us.
I'll watch his back as he walks away with his family
I'll wonder if I'll ever see him again
I'll know I probably won't.

Yes, someday I'll certainly write a book
About the boy I almost knew.

Another 2 a.m. Paper

Why do I do this to myself?
Why am I sitting here at 2:02 a.m. typing a 5 page research paper draft that's due tomorrow?
I've had weeks to work on the thing.
I've done pretty much zero research.
I've spent minimum time thinking about my topic (not that it's uninteresting).

The result of this lack of diligence?
Tomorrow, I will doubtlessly be turning in a draft that consists of me vomiting out my opinions on my topic.
It will a be a research-less research paper draft.
Of course, I will have b.s.-ed in my cover letter.
Something like, "I felt it was best to use my draft to discover what I think about my topic, and then implement my research later on."
My writing professor, being an extremely sharp person, will certainly see through said b.s.

Darn it.
You just can't win at 2:06 a.m. 2:07 is looking bright, though...

Anyway, said procrastination was actually not entirely procrastination. Most of it was actually lack of time to work on something long term. It's hard, you know, to make time for a paper that's due in a few weeks when you have a German test tomorrow, and an Honors paper due on Monday, and a 400 page novel to read in six days.

Plus I have work. Lots of work. Information Desk, Writing Room, Social Science Office.
And then there's writing an article a week for the campus newspaper, MCSA meetings, and various campus events.
Also social things. I need to have a life. I'm not one of those people who can just shut themselves off from everyone for a week on end. If I don't have time where I can hang out with my friends and not worry about anything else, I go crazy. Certifiable.

You know, it's suddenly striking me that I've had a lot of negative posts lately. I'm sorry. My life is by no means negative.
For example, today I had my first three intramural badminton matches. I'm afraid I lost all three, but they were all certainly interesting. Badminton has never struck me as a very intense sport, but let me tell you that I was absolutely drenched in sweat by the time I was done. I was also pretty sore; as you know, I'm not a coordinated person, so I was tripping over my own feet and getting my legs tangled and doing awkward lunge-type moves in pursuit of that darn birdie.

Overall, though (and here's the happy part at last), I had a lot of fun. I've always enjoyed playing sports, even though I'm by no means a great athlete. Next time, however, I'd like to win a little bit.

A Disparaging Day

I'm feeling a little beaten down by college right now.
Got my Honors essay back today with an A-, but also with comments labeling it as "smart, well observed, and unusually well-written," but also as "superficial, unconnected, and undeveloped."
Truthfully, I've been getting comments such as these on a lot of essays lately. My writing is great, my style is wonderful, but apparently there's not much behind it.
This is obviously extremely troubling for me-to have professors think that I can write pretty, but that I'm ultimately uninsightful and unable to make strong arguments.
I had a bit of a breakdown after Honors, needless to say.
Crying unabashedly, I walked through campus, down behind Spooner and Gay and the Science Building, until I finally realized that I had nowhere to go. In the end I would just have to turn around and head back to the library to make things right.

College can be a surprisingly lonely place sometimes; your friends can sympathize, but in the end they have their own studying to do. Your parents aren't there to tell you that everything is going to be okay, and that when you wake up in the morning your problems will have worked themselves out. In college, you have to work your own problems out before bed. You have to be independent, and you have to bounce back from things whether you want to or not. You always have to try harder next time. You have to write two papers and study for a test in one weekend, because you have no other choice. Because you did have a choice; you chose to pursue higher education. You're paying for your classes. You wanted to be here.

And so I'm trying very hard not to let the A- and disparaging comments get to me too much. I have miles to go before I sleep, and I don't intend to waste time dwelling, unless said dwelling will help me to write a better paper.

Goodnight, blog readers. May your struggles lead to triumphs, and may you find a secluded park bench on which to sit and think whenever you are in need of one.

A Walk in the Woods

I'm sitting in the basement of the library beside the wall of windows that is so distracting but so wonderfully sunlit and warm.
For an American Literature paper, I have to imagine that Edgar Allen Poe and Ralph Waldo Emerson go for a walk in the woods. I have to imagine what they would talk about.
I think, being in the woods, they would talk about nature.
Ralph would look at the beauty and the perfection and the light drifting among the tops of the trees. He would say something along the lines of: "I went into the woods and I felt, you know, sort of religious."
Edgar would see the trees as ominous and looming. He would comment on the mystery of the forest, a darkness that he couldn't quite explain.

And I, a mere observer on this extraordinary hike, would wonder how the woods came to be. I would wonder who had meandered through them for the first time, and why. I would check over my shoulder for bears, and occasionally trip over protruding roots. I would see the beauty in the branches outlined in navy blue. Finally, I would grow nervous as the sun set and the night gently dropped herself down over everything.

And then, leaving Edgar and Ralph to their discussion, I would hurry back home, pour myself a glass of orange juice, and blog about the woods I'm imagining in the library.

Stress Levels High

Here's what I have to do:
1. Study for a German test on Friday
2. Begin researching/writing my 10+ page Understanding Writing research paper
3. Write a paper for Icelandic Sagas (4 pages, due next Friday)
4. Write a paper for Honors: Traditions in Human Thought (5 pages, due next Friday)
5. Figure out topics for the above 3 papers
6. Give blood tomorrow
7. Work tonight, tomorrow, Thursday, and Friday
8. Do laundry
9. Get my Mac fixed once and for all
10. Study for American Literature Midterm next Friday
11. Finish reading Atonement (pleasure)
12. Sign up for Intramural badminton
13. Sign up for Big Friend/Little Friend?
14. Become a superhero so that all the above tasks can be successfully completed.