Living alone, can allow you to see the world, as it really is. It's like looking through a dark tinted window, however the dark tint allows you to see the things you don't want to see.
And what I see, is that I am a pariah.
I had a reading event for the MA course, where we had to listen to a writer, and then discuss their work, then workshop ours. I felt like a pariah because for the majority of the talk I felt irritated, like I didn't really want to be there. I felt stuck in some middle class elitist world where we all gather around people and congratulate them for their accomplishments. And I felt uncomfortable in myself, because I knew that it wasn't a good thing, to think this. I'm terribly aware of things like karma, and negative energy, and these negative thoughts I was having finding their way back to me later in life. But I can't help what I think and feel, and what I was feeling, and probably will still feel is that:
Writing a book is a great accomplishment. Writing a good book is an even greater one. I will read a great book, and enjoy it. But for the most part, the most I will ever want from an author is to know the release date of their next book or possibly their autograph in my well read copy of their work. An essay or article to read somewhere. And then, my GOD that's it.
When I have to hear the same old bloody redundant questions, that really have no real answer, I start thinking "I could be reading a [good] book right now." How do you write? How do you have time to write? Do you write in the morning or the afternoon? Your characters are terribly realistic, do you draw them from real life? What would you say your biggest inspiration is? Life itself? Well, that is fascinating.
Fucking hell, develop a personality, a clue, and your own existence and live it. Sweet Jesus.
I feel bad, because I don't ever want to be a negative person, or dismiss someone's work, or merit in their field. I just get irritated when I start to feel boxed in. And like the water sign I am, I start to move on, change shape, and become someone else, and go somewhere else, namely... Not Here.
After the talk I cried on the bus ride home. I realised that my thoughts were disparate with my classmates' and that mentally, there had been a break with the MA course. I was not like the others in my class. I was not positive, and willing to learn new things.
I feel that I'm missing something, that I will regret something in these feelings. But on the other hand, I can only be myself, and lying to myself and contending with bullshit only makes things worse.
People in my class keep asking me where my new writing is, and the only response I have for them is that my writing is not a commodity. I think I've had enough of sitting in rooms with coffee and word documents. I get it. I've done it now. For three years. I don't know what more is to be had from being told that I'm a skilled writer, that I have interesting characters or concepts, other than to get published. And then, I see, that there is a hint of arrogance in my attitude, and I have to stress that I'm not arrogant. I just have this idea somewhere in my head, that I'm not looking for praise.
I'm looking for something else.
I can't tell you what that something else is though, not yet. It hasn't formed in my mind yet. When I can see it, I will share it.
Maybe I'm just overworked.
This post is titled Escaping the Nightmare because I'm still in it. Real Uni doesn't finish for another TWO weeks, and I'm very worried about meeting my remaining deadlines [FOUR]. I'm starting to lose hope that I will be able to pull it off.
Meanwhile, that water element of mine is making me want to seek change sooner than soon. I keep imagining alternate realities, of a happy existence in Paris, or Tokyo, or Los Angeles. A life full of cooking and interior design, and change, change, change.
Two weeks till the end of Real Uni. And 26 days till Summer.
Back to work I go.
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