Still not happy
Jul. 15th, 2005 06:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
starzkiI guess it's time to stop crying and whining and start working.
It's just so frustrating that I can be good at some things but other things that I really like doing are a struggle for me.
I'm plugging away through The Hotel New Hampshire again. I'm crazy in love with that book. I almost missed my stop both on the bus and on the train today because I didn't want to put it down. Then I get home and am thumbing through my new issue of Entertainment Weekly and find this whole huge article on John Irving. I read it and my obsession with him makes more sense.
I found that his first four books are the books of his that I most love. I even named the Puppy after one of his main characters. I found out where his father and sex issues (but not his obsession with bears) came from, kind of. I found out he was taught writing by Kurt Vonnegut. I worship Kurt Vonnegut. I would be a sputtering puddle of fangirl tears, happiness, and horror if I ever met the man. So it makes sense that he taught another author to write in a way that makes me adore him, too. I don't know why, but realizing that there is a personal relationship between two of my favorite authors makes me want to cry, it's so perfect.
On to the crying.
My advisor emailed about all the comments she has on my first extremely rough draft (too much to go over on the email, so maybe she could drop them by this weekend) of the article I've been agonizing over.
I don't think I can do this. Writing is too hard. I don't particularly like doing it, either. It's just so much stress and high expectations for myself. I can read, damn it all. I can digest thousands of pages a week and remember the gist of most of what I read. I can also do all the math. But the writing...
Maybe I should just quit. I'll tell the advisor that she should stop wasting her time on me and spend it on someone who isn't so hopeless. But that seems like such a waste of the time both she and I have already put into me, getting me this far. And I love the work. I love what I do. Everything but the writing. I'd rather open a vein, sometimes, than sit down and have to write.
It's just so frustrating that I can be good at some things but other things that I really like doing are a struggle for me.
I'm plugging away through The Hotel New Hampshire again. I'm crazy in love with that book. I almost missed my stop both on the bus and on the train today because I didn't want to put it down. Then I get home and am thumbing through my new issue of Entertainment Weekly and find this whole huge article on John Irving. I read it and my obsession with him makes more sense.
I found that his first four books are the books of his that I most love. I even named the Puppy after one of his main characters. I found out where his father and sex issues (but not his obsession with bears) came from, kind of. I found out he was taught writing by Kurt Vonnegut. I worship Kurt Vonnegut. I would be a sputtering puddle of fangirl tears, happiness, and horror if I ever met the man. So it makes sense that he taught another author to write in a way that makes me adore him, too. I don't know why, but realizing that there is a personal relationship between two of my favorite authors makes me want to cry, it's so perfect.
On to the crying.
My advisor emailed about all the comments she has on my first extremely rough draft (too much to go over on the email, so maybe she could drop them by this weekend) of the article I've been agonizing over.
I don't think I can do this. Writing is too hard. I don't particularly like doing it, either. It's just so much stress and high expectations for myself. I can read, damn it all. I can digest thousands of pages a week and remember the gist of most of what I read. I can also do all the math. But the writing...
Maybe I should just quit. I'll tell the advisor that she should stop wasting her time on me and spend it on someone who isn't so hopeless. But that seems like such a waste of the time both she and I have already put into me, getting me this far. And I love the work. I love what I do. Everything but the writing. I'd rather open a vein, sometimes, than sit down and have to write.
