Tuesday, 18 October 2011

All Quiet on the Western Front

Dad comes home from work, so I know that my afternoon has been officially wasted. I stare at the cursor, that taunting, dancing cursor, and at the words I just wrote. "YOU SUCK, WHY DON'T YOU JUST GIVE UP NOW AND FLUNK OUT?" Encouraging, I think to myself. It's all uphill from here. Up-mountain. Up-vertical incline. There is a sick feeling in my stomach, like I need to throw up or eat something. Possibly at the same time. Yet another impossible feat to add to the list of things I must do.

When Dad knocks on the door, he doesn't wait, he just opens it. "Hello" he says, and I reply "I am going to fail uni." "Why?" he asks. "Because this essay is making me physically sick and I can't write it and I want to smash my head into the wall!" I say, forcing the words out violently and feeling the tightness of my own jaw. I hastily delete the swearwords that I have written on the page. "Oh," he says sarcastically. "That will help." He leaves the room then, and I hang my head. You win, I think, and delete the derogatory comments I have written about myself. I think of writing something encouraging instead, but that seems very sappy, and instead I write a loose theme for each remaining paragraph and click save. 834 words out of 2500 on that Nazi no one really cares about anyway. And where is that girl who outlined her argument off the top of her head in conversation last week? Why has she gone away and left me to write this alone!? Cow.

I know I have to leave this room. This room smells of discomfort. This room looks like poor lighting and frustration, and over-organisation to the point that I cannot move. I look longingly at the copy of Gone with the Wind I am partway through. What would Scarlett do? But that's not helpful, all she ever seems to do is steal other girls' beaux.

Tomorrow is another day, I think, and close the document.

**************

It's that time of the year again. You know, the part of the year where I literally have to sit on my hands to stop myself from tearing all my hair out. Yep. It's the end of semester. But this time, it's a special end of semester. It's my last semester as an Undergraduate.

Unfortunately, that means the pressure is on, and I haven't been writing much lately. I have still been going to writing group meetings, however, and last week, Issue 2 of COMET all went online, and if you haven't checked it out, you should. You can do that at http://cometwriting.blogspot.com

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