It is possible that this semester may finally kill me. I usually say that about all my semesters, but this one may take the cake, at least for the first eight weeks. And again for the last two weeks. And I've only made it to 2 of my 5 classes so far.
You know it's a bad sign when the professor dubs his class, "HEL" (History of the English Language).
It is so good to be back in the swing of things, I really do love it here. On a sad note, the bushes outside the theatre office have grown, so it is harder to see out the windows. Aleah, if she were here, would tell me that it's probably a good thing, keep my creeping on passing people to a minimum. I just love to people watch. They are fascinating...
In my playwriting text book that I read last night, the author talked about the difference between wanting to be a writer and wanting to write. Wanting to be a writer draws up a romantic vision to mind: a large desk, book shelves filled, cup of tea, us happily scribbling out a few pages of our latest and greatest. Wanting to write is more disheartening: the frustrations, the pain, the headache, the hours spent writing, the realization that tomorrow it will be exactly the same, yet your love of words doesn't let you stop.
I'll be honest, my mindset towards writing is still pretty romantic at this point. And for now, I think that's okay. I don't have hours to devote every day to writing. Probably a very good thing. Then I'd really die.
It is just a very interesting idea in my head still. Why do I write? Why does anyone write? And what value does my writing have? My playwriting class was asked that question yesterday, and we had no answers. Hopefully I'll find one eventually. Quite the journey I will be taking this semester.
Until next time, why do you do what you do?
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