21 September 2002 - 1:43 p.m.

I take a workshop class. I am expected to turn in short fiction. A lot of short fiction. So far, I have managed on piece of short fiction for said workshop. It was solid B+ work, but I can do better. And I will have to, frequently. Frequently is the key word.

I also take a class where I am tutored through my thesis. I am not required to have started my thesis. As of noon, my thesis consisted of the first 46 pages of what I think is a decent novel, probably A- work, maybe better.

As of right now, my thesis consists of 53 pages of the above.

So it's not that I lack discipline. I've been writing all day. I've just been working on the wrong thing.

This is probably analogous to some problem everyone readin this has, and maybe I should have titled this entry "Why I hate life," but I'm trying to convince myself that the universe does not revolve around me and the beginnings of my pathetic career. Because if it did, I would have to be way more freaking efficient.

It's just that I can only be interested in so many endeavors at once. I'm writing an A- novel. I'm taking a film class, and we all know that film is my downfall. I truly believe that I will somehow be denied my doctorate because of it. I can hear the disseration committee now: "Yes, she is pursuing a PhD in film studies, but she actually loves film too much." And I have an idea for a screenplay, but if I actually used my "free" time to work on that, I would be royally fucked. Such is the curse of a fiction-only workshop.

The more I work, the more I get behind. Be glad I wrote an entry about it while it's still funny.

What I'm wearing:

What I'm reading:

What I'm doing after this: