Sigh. This really is not working out well for me. And by "this" I mean my feeble attempts to study. Why can't I force myself to work? Where's my motivation? I know that if I don't get down to work within the next hour and a half, I'm going to end up pulling an all-nighter some time over the next couple of days and then I'll just end up a sleep-deprived bitch who can't concentrate much less think of anything engaging to write in an essay or exam! Oh, wait. Was that present tense I was using?

I shouldn't be so tired. Even though I slept poorly last night, I slept pretty well the previous two nights. Maybe I need some fresh air. Maybe I'll walk to Becker's to get some chocolate. Yes... That sounds like a good idea to me.

I sent a poem of mine to the Arts Students' Council's literary journal. They published a black and white photo of mine last year while simultaneously rejecting a story of mine. The editor said she really liked it, but it was too long. It would have taken ten to twelve pages of the less-than-a-hundred page journal. Needless to say, although I was disappointed, I understood.

I really hope they publish this poem. I'm very proud of it. It's one of the most personal pieces I've ever written. I think it's also one of the best things I've ever written. It's certainly my best poem. When all is said and done, I really should write more poetry. I'm convinced it will help my prose. The problem is that when I sit down to write, my first instinct is to write prose. I rarely sit down and say, "I'm going to write a poem." When I do do that, the poems I write are garbage. For me, any poetry I've ever written as just come to me in a moment of sudden inspiration--in a fulgore. Of course, I have to polish them and that usually takes at least a couple of hours, but the poems I write seem to come from somewhere else. My soul or my subconscious, perhaps? I don't know. I just know that I can't command my talents as much as I'd like. But unlike my present inability to engage in academic writing, it's not because of a lack of discipline.

If the poem is publish, I'll reprint it here. How's that? So now those of you who'd like to read my work have an extra reason to root for me!

Earlier I said I've been reading The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. Perhaps I shouldn't be. Academic excuses aside, I mean. I feel a real kinship with her. But reading her journals is making feel dispirited at the moment. They've increased the intensity of my desire to be out in the real world, writing my little heart out, instead of studying here.

I guess that last sentence is kind of ironic. I'm not studying. In spite of myself, I had to smile.

Reading Sylvia's journals has also increased another desire in me: I want to keep some of my thoughts to myself. For the New Year, then, I think I'll again start keeping a paper journal for myself alone. There are so many things I want to say, to get out of my system, but--as much as I love blogging--I just don't think this is the appropriate forum. It's been great for what I've written so far, but for some things, the really personal things, I want to be the only one who remembers. As selfish as that may sound.

It's odd--the more I write publicly about my thoughts and feelings, the more guarded I am of my privacy.

Listening to "You Know You're Right" by Nirvana.