There are a lot of things I really need to get over, but one of the main ones is my self-consciousness when it comes to the things I write. I’ve always been rather apologetic about being a writer (a poet, no less), like I’m worried about being seen as pretentious, or useless, or a wannabe. Or maybe I’m worried I am those three things.
I won’t go on about that.
More than anything, I want to be a novelist. But I’m spending most of my writing time on poetry these days. Poetry, which nobody reads and doesn’t sell and will put me on the fast track to living in a cardboard box. Worse, I’m now turning my short stories into poems. Okay, just one, but that’s a pretty insufferable creative writing student thing to do, right? Maybe. But I am a student, if an oldish one, and I suppose university is the time to experiment.
There’s not enough time in the day. I feel rushed. The shortening days of autumn are the pathetic fallacy in the background of my life.