I am going to fail writing sweatshop. Going. To. Fail.
Actually I won't. My grade just won't be as good as I'd hoped. But if I work really hard the next few days, then I can probably still pull out an A minus. Which in honors, ain't bad.
So tomorrow (and I know this is boring but I must organize my thoughts or I will never accomplish everything), I MUST get a real first draft of my final essay finished... email it to peer-types for workshopping (and probably Sharmaine as well) and then take all of the comments on Tuesday and revise into a final draft... which will most likely in the process create another couple of drafts (from second first draft to final, that is)... which I suppose is about right.
If I make it through Wednesday, I'm home free. Not that there isn't still work I have to do, but at least I'll be caught up with everything.
I never did call my mother today. Shame on me.
I am stuck in a rut. And a boring one at that. Although rut sort of implies boring, I suppose. Not that my life is boring... because it isn't (and now that I'm starting push my head above the waters of late work in which I was formerly drowning, it really isn't), but my writing here is boring, and that makes me feel boring. Not bored. Boring. There's a difference.
Virginia Woolf scares me. She was a brilliant writer, but I have now been trained to read into much of her work (from her biography mostly) all sorts of incestuous, oedipal, ultimately disgusting thoughts. It is frightening, however, to read criticism of her work which talks about how symbolic it is and how metaphorical and how the real signifigance of her novels is their lyricism and their unique usage of the passage of time. And while that may be all well and good, and not necessarily untrue, I want to scream at all of these critics who don't bother to ever read her biography or even her own memoirs for that matter to discover embedded in the text so many details and secrets about her life. I feel sorry for the poor misguided students of America.
Actually, I already felt sorry for them, but now I feel even more sorry. Or something.
Mitchell A. Leaska, you are an extremely annoying professor and I find you insensitive and practically inhuman most times, but you have at least caused me, more than any other teacher I've had to really read something closely... even if in some ways I would have preferred to remain in blessed ignorance (because really, I don't like to think about 12 year old girls having sexual lusts for their fathers... or fathers looking at their daughters and not recognizing them say "what a lovely young girl" implying something sexual.)
I have much writing to do for writing sweatshop done. One paper done and one barely started. Goodbye until I get so fed up that I am driven to write here again.
This essay is so frustrating. I have the introduction done now (so far)... it is very short, but it gets the point accross. Now the difficulty is transitioning from my thesis to the rest of my paper. I have to rewrite a great deal of what I've already said, which is immensely irritating, but I suppose I've no other choice.
I'm writing about writing an essay. How trite. And it's not even an interesting essay... it's an essay writing about an author's preoccupations and so on. How can other people have so much to say and I have as much to say but I find myself caught up in the semantics of it. I can't make the words work for me... English is such a clumsy language.
Yes it is. sniff sniff.
cold cold go away.
Time to start the echinacea and vitamin C.