It’s the third week of my writing class. I’m learning a lot, and my writing has never been worse. I can’t even write a post as the minute I start typing I start reading what’s missing and how painfully hard I am trying.
I’ve been blowing off my writing assignments, too. I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do (to myself) if I can’t catch up. Maybe, I’ll ask myself for an extension. I just have to catch myself in the right mood.
On the other hand, I have been keeping up on my reading assignments, which are to read as many personal essays as possible. I have a stack of books next to my bed and the library keeps calling to let me know the books I special-ordered are in.
I’ve decided Nora Ehpron is my new BFF: so lovely, funny, and insightful. But David Sedaris…I mean, are there even words? I’ve read him before, but reading him again, years later, I am indebted.
Among so many others, I love this sentence from “This Old House” (When You are Engulfed in Flames): “Like anyone nostalgic for a time he didn’t live through, I chose to weed out the little incoveniences: polio, say, or the thought of eating stewed squirrel.”
Seriously, how does he do that? Duuuuuude.
I have to stop posting now. Even though it’s sunny, it’s like -10 degrees outside and my throat hurts. The kids (who don’t have school today) are in the basement making up a fashion show, using the dirty futon as their runway. I’m grabbing another cup of throat-soothing coffee, and sneaking back to bed with David.
P.S. Ugh — this post, see what I mean? I can’t write a thing. I curse you, writing class!