August 03, 2005

The worst part about not graduating this summer as I was supposed to was explaining things to my parents. “Yeah, I’m a fucking failure,” I said. “We know.”

The best part is that I get to take one more course — one that I’m actually interested in. This afternoon I opened my mailbox to find my distance-ed package from Athabasca. I opened the box on the sidewalk, sweating with anticipation, to find inside four creative writing manuals that still smelt like inspiration and glue!

I haven’t been doing enough writing lately. Or reading. The next couple of weeks will be full of words, and I’m nervous and excited. You see, I write simply dreadful stories. Blogs haven’t thought me how to write — they’re too much about instant gratification. Yours. Mine. I always suspect that if I write another sentence beyond this one you’ll stop reading.

Besides, there are people who write more creatively than I ever will — some ever write emo poetry. I’m nothing like that, but I’ll have fun playing with words for a month. My stories won’t have a point and they’ll be full of ass and swearing. I’ll show them to you. Maybe you’ll like them.