I found out today that a lady I work with is going after an MFA in poetry. This lady has two kids and a full-time job (and not an easy job). And she is going after a freakin MFA. I felt a mix of feelings while talking to her about it: jealousy, admiration, regret...blah blah blah

My attitude towards writing has really changed. The compulsion is still there, but my attitude has changed. I am not sure what this means, but this description seems to fit. And I'll probably delete this post anyway, like I do.

I had a fun, long conversation with her, though, about poetry and writing, and then somebody scary came into the room, and I directed the conversation out the door and to a prompt but polite conclusion in the hall. It felt good to talk about all that stuff. First time in a long time. It felt a little silly too though. I used to be all about the writing shit, but now, I don't know what the hell I'm doing. The idea of submitting stuff to journals or going after an advanced degree or doing anything writerly like seems like somebody else's life. But the compulsion to write stuff is still VERY STRONG in this one.

I am not sure exactly what I want to do with this compulsion. I should deal with it like any other disease, probably. Whenever I have relapses, I should seek treatment.

I still have this blog. This is a good place for bloodletting and deal with that nasty writing bug.

You see: I have to write...even if it results in my being homeless and having to write on old Whopper wrappers with pencils stolen from lottery ticket counters.

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