It's been four months since I've posted anything on here. So, in an effort to clear the webs and wipe the dust that have accumulated in my webspace - here I am, writing. Well, posting. Who said anything about actual tortuous, edited writing?
I've planned a wedding. I married the most handsome, hairy, steadfast man. I have gone to Paris and had crepes with aforementioned man. I started a job I swore I wouldn't go back to. I reconsidered where I will work come September (end of August?). I have almost perfected my cat eye. I have continued to walk in Bradbury's world's of Martians, rocket men, immortality, and death. Sylvia Plath's life is next on my list. I cannot get enough of Annie Dillard. She is a yogi. I sit and listen.
I am going to get my MFA in Creative Writing. Who am I writing for? Myself, mostly. Does this mean I am selfish? self-centered?
I don't tell anyone. I say, "I'm considering an MFA in Creative Writing." They'll expect too much of me otherwise. They'll expect success. And, god knows, that kills me.
