Sometimes I find it difficult to explain to others exactly why I am pursuing a degree in writing. No, it is not a generic English degree with some creative writing specialization. It is a writing degree, specifically tailored to those who wish to write. My decision seems a little out of the blue, even to myself. I often question whether or not I have what it takes to ever be classified as a writer. Everyone has that one, unattainable dream, don't they? Now and again I fear that this may be mine. What if I have made the wrong decision? What if I fall short?
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As my first year of college draws to a close, I can't help but feel that conflicting combination of sadness and excitement. To think that four months separate me and my return to one of my favorite places on the planet feels like an inescapable eternity--unfathomable and absolute. There is so much that I will miss once I pack up and move out for the summer: my wonderful friends who put up with my random bouts of energy and obsessive organization; the college's beautiful hillside campus, compact and welcoming; the cozy Victorian dorm I have called home for the past eight months; the delicious local restaurants downtown Burlington has to offer; and, of course, the gorgeous view of shimmering Lake Champlain that monopolizes my writing. To say that I am eager to return for the fall semester would be an understatement. Next year I begin specializing in my major, enrolling in writing and foreign language classes and pretty much fulfilling my dreams. Not only that, but Burlington in late summer and fall is breathtaking. The trees shine with vibrant red and orange hues that dapple the mountainsides and liven up my walk to campus. Although the days become shorter, the sunset never ceases to amaze me. Every evening I watch the sun progress behind the mountains, casting its brilliant rays across the orange sky and bleeding into the cotton ball clouds, staining them various shades from red to pink. I never tire of this daily ritual, as every display is different and even more magnificent than the last. Sitting on the third floor couch in my dorm room, I can hear my housemates one floor below singing loudly as one of them strums the guitar, transitioning effortlessly from song to song with practiced ease. While not all of them are pitch perfect--and some don't quite know the lyrics--they hold nothing back as they belt out the slightly off-key high notes. It's obvious by the way they enthusiastically sing/yell their hearts out to the motley array of songs that they are having the time of their lives.
This post is a little different from the previous ones, providing a bit of insight into my decision to pursue writing.
Last semester in my Game History class, the very first assignment required each student to keep a strict, week-long log recording everything that comprised of day-to-day life. And I mean everything--from sleeping and showering to socializing and resting, nothing was overlooked. The objective, the teacher explained once the week had ended, was to illustrate how much time was wasted every day on trivial pursuits. The message was simple: if you were not working, you were not spending your time wisely. |
Who Am I?Introverted bookworm, vegan foodie, casual runner, writer/editor, envier of tiny houses, Hufflepuff/Pukwudgie, and self-declared nerd. Creating Order From Chaos
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Ye Olde Posts
December 2016
Slice of Life |