Oh, little blog. I haven’t forgotten you. Well, actually, I did, in that forgetting way that’s not really forgetting. You’re like that weird skin tag on my elbow about which I keep thinking, Yeah, I should get that checked. No offense.
Truth is, I’d much rather be jotting down rambly bits about writing. It’s November, which in semester-land means, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S HOLY, WHY DID I ASSIGN SO MANY PAPERS? Teaching. It’s nothing new to say that it can be a creativity-killer, but I’ll beat that poor old horse some more. On second thought, no. That’s boring. I’m so bored with talking about pedagogy et al that I could yank out my vocal chords and wing them across the quad.
I know, I know, it’s always a balance between paying-the-bills work (job-job) and writing (work). I say this all of the time, and it’s true, but I’ve lost the balance for the moment. I’m the fat kid on the teeter-totter once again, hanging lower, feeling the slitted gazes of others. (Ah, grade-school recess: the puke-inducing, scrape-the-skin-off-your-knees merry-go-rounds, those weird double-helix-looking jungle gym things that some kid always fell off of and broke his arm, the metal slides that burned the backs of your thighs…)
I’ve taken in my head (and sometimes aloud) to referring to myself by my last name: Okay, Chancellor: Get a grip. Okay, Chancellor, where’s your son-of-a-bitching purse? So, New Plan. Okay, Chancellor: You will write here with great frequency. First thing, before the day takes over, before the light of day if needs be. Give yourself the space for it. Type until something comes. This is how you write. This is how you write. This is how you write.