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aamcnamaraThere are two big envelopes sitting on my bookcase right now. One of them has the last of my financial aid forms; the other holds my application to Viable Paradise. Both are addressed and have the appropriate bits of paper stuck in them (don't want to get those envelopes mixed up...), and one has postage. (The VP application is enough paper that I need to buy actual postage for it.)
I am not wholly happy with the state of the two chapters I'm sending, but hey, I've gotta send it out sometime. May's well be now, right?
Last night I wrote my annual poem. It usually happens around this time of year. This time it's a sestina and I think it actually has a turn. It's interesting; even though I have been working very slowly on stories and novels during college, doing something like writing a poem lets me see how my writing skills and even just my brain have been developing. I am starting to believe that college actually will leave me a better writer than I was before.
This is comforting, because real analysis so thoroughly took over my brain this semester that it was hard to envision college leaving me as anything other than a blob. (A blob who is better at proofs than she used to be. And who has forgotten how to write actual numbers--when we started using numbers again I had to try to write an eight three times before my hand stopped automatically doing an infinity sign instead. I could not make this up.)
Which is all very well and good but does not get any more work done on my real analysis midterm. Or my music organized for the choir rehearsal tonight. Um. I will do that eventually, honest.
I am not wholly happy with the state of the two chapters I'm sending, but hey, I've gotta send it out sometime. May's well be now, right?
Last night I wrote my annual poem. It usually happens around this time of year. This time it's a sestina and I think it actually has a turn. It's interesting; even though I have been working very slowly on stories and novels during college, doing something like writing a poem lets me see how my writing skills and even just my brain have been developing. I am starting to believe that college actually will leave me a better writer than I was before.
This is comforting, because real analysis so thoroughly took over my brain this semester that it was hard to envision college leaving me as anything other than a blob. (A blob who is better at proofs than she used to be. And who has forgotten how to write actual numbers--when we started using numbers again I had to try to write an eight three times before my hand stopped automatically doing an infinity sign instead. I could not make this up.)
Which is all very well and good but does not get any more work done on my real analysis midterm. Or my music organized for the choir rehearsal tonight. Um. I will do that eventually, honest.