Nothing to Say

The last few days I've begun to have an idea of my perfect day: wake up, coffee, grading papers, snails, writing, bed. This schedule doesn't sound very exciting, no, but it's strangely rewarding, and I'm not going to question that.

I guess there comes a time in the life of every writer where they realize they have nothing to say. For a writer, this is detrimental, but for a human being, this is... bliss. Having nothing to say means that you somehow achieved success: you've reached the pinnacle of human existence. There is nothing to want. Nothing to analyze. Nothing to complain (or wax ecstatic) about. This is good.

Of course, I'm going to say something anyway, because that's what I do. And it's all okay, because no one here is forced to read this, unlike the constipated little papers that I write at three in the morning that my professors are certainly overjoyed to read and grade. See? I can even write sentences like that one, and you can even believe it's true.

The world is so free in cyberspace.

I like writing because it's a form of emotional purging, like if I write all this stuff down but word it just so I can actually rewrite the event in my memory and make it somehow more poignant, or, even, forgettable. The posts are like little creativity babies, like the drawings I used to make in second grade that my grandmother would hang up on her wall as if they were important. Next to the pictures drawn by her other thirty grandchildren (my family was Baptist. And Catholic. Which makes me wonder if my grandmother was ever upset that my father married a fish eater... if she was, her manners were too impeccable for her to ever say so. Directly, I mean. My grandmother was a fine woman.). Writing all these dinky little posts makes me realize that I spend very little time in the process of revision, by which I mean that I write them and immediately publish them and don't generally bother to re-read them before I do so (in case you were wondering what revision meant). I don't do this with my paper-papers, either, but I will with The Paper - the one that's my ticket to graduate school. Once I write a rough draft, anyway. There's still time.

Speaking of The Paper, I wrote one idea-vomitous sketch in Tucson, as well as two outlines concerning different topics. I had a better idea when I was falling asleep the other night, discussed it with a few friends, but still haven't put it down on paper. I'm having trouble choosing. I could write them all out and see which one my advisor likes best... which just sounds like a lot of trouble, but if I neglect them all I'm condemning myself to the fate of Not Meeting Application Deadlines. Which is no fun. The real trouble is that I don't even know if I'm doing philosophy or psychology anymore (and the worst case scenario is that I'm doing neither).

Ahem. Back to nothingness.

Right now: there's wine, delicious fare, beautiful tulips which Lyra has thoughtfully de-petaled, and something akin to silence in this house (actually, that's a lie, but I like to think it's true). Ginger is happily munching on a banana. You can see a picture of Ginger here:


And also here:


And since nothing is pressing upon my mind, not even thoughts about The Paper or wonderings on whether bananas are specifically bad for Corgis, I will end this little blog. Good night.