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.