I’m intrigued when reading blogs of the writer’s lives. I’m most impressed by their diligence to continue reading great novels and blogging, while crafting manuscripts of their own and I’m envious that they incorporate this into what seems to be already full lives.
When, if not now, will it be my time to write? I spend my days thinking I am missing the proverbial boat. This year, I finally returned to college and graduated this past May. I’m still unemployed, looking for work daily. All these months have passed and I’ve yet to begin.
Am I waiting for senility to set in so I can forget that I am a writer and be relieved of this enormous goal I’ve set for myself? What will my fellow writer’s out there in the world of ‘wordpress’ say of my procrastination?
My professor, Jason Tougaw invited me to hear him speak at the Neuroculture Lecture Series, at City College, introducing his book: Autobiography of a Brain: Mind, Body, Memoir (Not yet available). When he greeted me and asked me how I was, was he expecting me to say: “I’ve been busy crafting my manuscript”? That would have been much more interesting than, “Fine”.
It was so nice to have been included in this group of PhD fellows. Apparently, or I would like to believe: he has more faith in my perseverance than I do. He knows I have a story to tell and I am excited to fantasize that he’s waiting to hear it. Or was I invited because he knew in addition to my major in English, I have a Psychology and Sociology background and that I might (and was able to) understand the concept of the autobiography in this new neuroscientific market. I can’t wait until it is published!
After hearing his first chapter, in retrospect I might conclude: I was invited there to be in his audience because he may have surmised, that I’m also: a survivor of a fucked up past. And one chapter wasn’t enough… I want more.