In the tradition of great Confessionalist poets, I give you “I suck at being an english major.”
Heh-hem.
How I really feel is:
I haven’t read a book in weeks
A letter arrived in the mail and I pretended rejection doesn’t hurt
Mixing past and present tenses is something to avoid when writing
Ran into a college reading Aristotle’s Metaphysics in a cafe
I haven’t read a book in weeks
Well, one. Off and on, during lunch breaks
I try to write and stare off into everything I’m supposed to be doing
This book said toaster coils should glow blue and electrons are aware of each other
Inspiration always crosses to the other side of the street
Haven’t gotten around to posting all those rejection letters on the wall like I said I would
Writers make it seems so easy
Literary critics are the only ones I can read without feeling threatened
There may be only one way to skin a cat but there’s only one way to write a book
You have to write it.
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