It's happening now.
I'm talking about the part where I'm looking at these books and these highlighters and these stacks of index cards and I'm thinking, what am I doing?
Just what in the name of Lord Alfred Douglas am I trying to accomplish here?
People ask me all the time about my master plan. Enquiring minds wanna know...why did you decide to get a master's degree? Why Literature? Why now?
My answer: Because it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Do you want to teach? Not particularly. Do you want to be a writer? Meh. So what are you going to do when you're done?
Truth is, I like learning. I love it. I love it better than new clothes and IKEA and taco bell. I love a good pen and some paper and a professor who knows what she's talking about. I love that homework requires a blanket, a highlighter, a good book, and NO pants. Anything I can do sans trou, you know what I mean?
Problem is, I hate school. I hate worrying about final papers and exams. I hate being assessed. I hate the prospect of getting a *gasp* A minus. It's like the academic equivalent of a Juno Award. You know, nothing to be ashamed of but still not particularly impressive.
So right about now, in the middle of "writing" a paper that in a few days I'll hand to a professor who will then decide whether or not my weeks of toil measure up, I ask myself, why oh why do I do this to me? Is it because I have no master plan? no ambition? no babies? no better things to do?
Probably, a little.
But is it so bad not to have a plan? I mean, I have wishes. Someday I'd like to have a dishwasher and cable. A laundry room. You see, I'm incapable of looking too far into the future without inadvertently inducing a mild panic attack. I'm talking uncontrollable weepiness, irrational instant messages to my spouse, foot stamping, and such. Like Paula Abdul, kind of. It's ugly. So I take it one quarter at a time. It's safer that way and much more flattering, I can assure you.
Ask me what my plans are for the next 10-12 weeks. Now that's a question I can answer.