Writing.

It's what I'm doing. Although surprisingly not as much as I'd anticipated writing once the semester ended.
As if it's so much harder to write now that I'm not avoiding something.
During the semester I would write to escape from class, either while actually in class or sitting somewhere around campus. I'm sure my professor's didn't really appreciate it, which is probably why I failed all of my classes this semester.

I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm a great student, I really am. I won't brag, but let's just say I was doing very well in school.

And then this semester happened and it all went to poop. Evidently this happens to me in the spring. According to my incredibly concerned mother, every year in high school right around March, I became a complete and utter loss as far as school was concerned. Spring fever, legit. Luckily for me, I went to an itsy private school that exercised only the most delicate control over my attendance.  I honestly don't remember that ever happening before, the whole 'gonna-skip-school-cause-its-soo-pretttyyyyy' which is basically exactly what I did this semester.
It stands to reason that I'll only be taking online classes henceforth.

What can I say. I'm a vagrant at heart.

I'm working on a new short story 'cause I'm frustrated by Emmett's story.
It's about a girl who does something crazy and is sent to a loony bin for 6 months, only to be declared legally sane. When she returns to her hometown, she's even more of a pariah than she was before.
I got the idea (though that seems so arrogant to say. I feel like I'm taking all the credit, but it wasn't really me,) last night whilst playing my 883rd game of solitaire on my ipod and generally stewing against the world.
I haven't really been a fan of people lately. I'm still not a fan of people.

Anyways, I heard the first line of the story in my head:
"The only downfall to being declared legally sane is that people ask you to justify your actions."
It's a narration from this girl's p.o.v., and it's actually turning out really weirdly. There's a pastor involved, and its all very strange. It's currently named 'dunno' because I dunno what it is. I guess we'll find out.

In other news, the short I posted a few posts back about rain was casually handed to a published-author-friend for her to take a look at. I'm slightly nervous, but halfway hoping she'll think its so great that she'll hand it to her publisher and say "Here's the next J.K. Rowling," or something similarly fantastic and outlandishly extravagant. I'll make millions of monies and won't have to get a crappy nine-to-five to support my writing habit.
Because that's totally how it happens, yeah? Right, guys? Right.
So we won't know what she thinks until Monday or Tuesday. Bated breath and crossed fingers.

See, that's one part of writing that I really don't like. I start to feel like I'm writing for someone else, like I'm writing for approval. Which, of course, I kinda am if I ever want to be published. (Even though I'm not 100% sure that I do; text is a dying medium imho.) But when I don't get that approval, it shatters my fragile little writer's ego, which is about the size and strength of a premature baby bird. A very very small baby bird.

Sigh. It's a hard thing to have to accept, that my writing does not flow from my fingers perfectly formed and ready for print.

But judging from the track records of greats like Stephen King (who supposedly had to upgrade from a nail a railroad spike to support the huge number of rejection slips he'd acquired by the age of fourteen. showoff.) or J.K. Rowling (who was initially rejected by 12 publishing houses before eventually getting the Sorcerer's Stone published. Love herrrr.) I might as well get used to rejection. Endless, soul-devouring, ego-crushing rejection. *shudders* I can do it...

I think I'll just go read some webcomics until I'm happy again...