The Minuet of the Robots
I am finding that I lose motivation to do things sometimes. It is an amazing epiphany to be sure. Now that I am expected to write stories (and even a real novel!) for the MFA program, I find myself less and less compelled to actually sit down and come up with plots and story and all these things that are supposed to make up the grand scheme.
I think back from time to time about the years I spent right here! With my 300+ entries. It sounds almost ludicrous now, to think I wrote three hundred anything. Yet there they are, melodramatic and lacking in quality and oh-so-tortured– representative of the times in which they were written.
Perhaps that is true of all art: our ZEITGEIST is inexorably implanted into all we create, no matter how we attempt to escape it.
Is this what I need to accept in order to create again?
possibly. i’m beginning to come to terms with the fact that as an english major in my third year i’m allowed to write about things. i tried to completely do away with ‘beautiful’ language in my writing, i thought it sounded sap-crappy. i think that’s why i haven’t written anything of worth on my own in a few years. anyway, i guess that in the right hands beautiful language doesn’t gag me.
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ps man open diary has gone down the shitter
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