I love writing, obviously, passionately. The logical outlet at my school was to get a writing minor (we don’t have a major), and I had one class left to fulfill my requirements: Advanced Fiction, or Fiction 3, or as I am quickly coming to call it, The Place Where Pretentiousness is Palpable. It’s bad. Really bad. Between the two students who sit in the corner and snicker and make faces at any remark they find lacking (and then write notes to each other in the most obvious way), and those whose noses immediately crinkle at the word “genre,” and those who think their sixteen unpublished works of genius qualify them to judge everyone…it’s bad. I’m fighting, you guys. Fighting for YA and for unfair stereotypes now latent in a culture in which the general population is so black and white that there’s no territory between “literary” and “crap” (real words used in class). Someone grant me the strength to NOT spring across the table and beat anyone with their own moleskines*.
On a nicer note, I wanted to email my agent realllly badly, because I’m restless and she puts up with me, but I resisted! And then, my sad excuse for discipline was rewarded and she emailed me! Nothing terribly exciting, but I’m glad I resisted the temptation. I didn’t even have a good email excuse.
Off to the gym. Finally on the mend after being sick for the last week and a half. Hopefully I’ll be able to breathe on the treadmill.
*Nothing whatsoever against moleskines.