Welcome back. Sit your butt down. Pull up a pew. Help yourself to a plate of my arrogance.
Where were we?
September:
So I mentioned last time I had a mid-twenty-two-years-old crisis and signed up for Napier’s creative writing course. Yes. Good. Well, I started and met the folks there. Super crew. It was terrific to meet some proper people after a five month absence from civilisation.
I launched into a period of active reading at this point, having ran out of money to buy books. The university library was packed with postmodern genius, so I gorged. Perfect.
Nothing else happened this month.
October:
Nothing much happened this month either. No, I lie: I got an appalling grade. I passed, but was scarred by the hollow reminder of how appalling I am in the halls of cleverness. The important fact was that I aced the creative writing assignment. The academic papers on literary theorists I wanted to get over and done with before falling into a coma.
It’s not that I dislike literary theorists, dear deformed reader. I dislike writing essays on literary theorists. Over the last three months, I’ve learned to admire the work of these folks. (Admire in the sense of taking an interest during class and wiping any memory of their existence from my mind afterwards).
November:
Fun times to be had on a psychogeographical exercise, which I blogged about. It was my birthday on the 7th as well. I got books. And socks. I have amnesia about what happened the rest of the time. I might have been mugged by badgers. AGAIN.
December:
OK, so it hasn’t been a remarkable hive of activity over these last few months. I’ve been dragged through a shredder backwards with my writing but it’s been excellent having the meat cleaver treatment so I can be blasted from familiar patterns of writing and attempt to grow extra wings of talent.
My second literary theory essay grade was also terrible, but again, my writing piece aced things. I see a pattern developing. Creative writing = good. Essays on literary theory = awful.
Still, I’ll have deep and intense feelings of inferiority for the next two months. Which is OK – business as usual.
I’m looking forward to duck and stew this Christmas, and enough socks to kit out Nairobi. Goodnight, travellers!
I remember my first attempts at writing essays on literary criticism in graduate school. I think I might have thought about suicide a few times, but the first year is a blur.
ReplyDeleteYou have a great attitude toward your marks, Mark. I'd have gone into the professor's office with a machete. Oh, I could tell stories. Bloody, bloody stories.
Flying off to the States now.
Thanks, Chris. Don't sneak up on Momma Allen this time. Bon voyage!
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