So, I tried it out on myself. Sometimes I like to be an artist.
I've thought long, and hard about the degree that I'm working towards.
Most of my thoughts follow this format:
"Oh, neat. When I get out of school in a year, I will have a little piece of paper that tells other people that I know how to word my sentences."
And then, I usually feel sorry for myself, and then I get over it, and then I think about how little I care which degree I have, as long as I have one, and I never have to go back to school ever again.
(Apparently I need a lesson on how run-on sentences shoot a writer's credibility.They're never going to give me that certificate... crap.)
I'm not very good at reading my work out loud for a room full of people, or talking about it in great depth. Or, really, in any depth at all.
Typing it, and publishing it on the internet, however...
I guess I don't have a problem with doing that. The proof is in the archives of this blog.
This semester, it has been made perfectly clear that I will be forced to write things down, make mistakes, expose myself to people I hardly know, produce a whole lot of nothing, and turn it into a piece of writing worth reading.
Good writers write what they know. So, here I go?
(Good poems don't necessarily rhyme... but I've never considered myself to be any sort of poet. So, I guess I'm allowed.)
Here's to being raw; here's to pursuing refinement.
I have needed a New Year's resolution for two weeks now.
Guess I found one.
Also, I feel like I should say something about the racy images above.
And, I'd like to say that I am not naked.