After an embarassingly long absence, I have returned to my lonely blog. I have, in a sense, returned, to a former state of relative optimism (by what miracle I cannot say). Could it perchance be that I have finally committed to being a writer in earnest? The first few weeks of my MFA in Creative Writing at UBC have been, as one of my fellow students put it "a shit show," but in some hazy image of mid-autumn leaves and fog I forsee some kind of reprieve. Some form of becoming.
You know when you're feeling pretty self-satisfied and sitting on your laurels of imagined future accomplishment and constructed complacency, telling yourself that one day (when you stop escaping into movies every evening and swatting away the persistent little voice that patiently asks you why you're not doing what you were put on this earth to do) you will in fact be a [insert passion here]? Well, I've been doing that for [insert embarassingly long time here]. No more I say! And I say it again! Every morning ... until I act upon it.
The thing about finally committing to a course of action is that, for good or ill, it transforms your current state of being. You might lose people who don't want to see you change. You might not recognize your life at the end of this detour. Fate seems to be a matter of recognizing readiness. Shit storm? Bring it!
This gale's got nothing on me.
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