Things have been taking up a lot of my time lately.  I'm graduating soon and the prospect of graduate school looms in the distance.  There's been a dip in the first round of excitement that usually accompanies the first few weeks of school.  Now I think I can write.

It's funny, trying to spit something out onto your keyboard without any direction in mind, like driving with no destination.  It's meditative--my mind starts settling on questions like "why are we here?" and all that business, then I go back and re-read what I've actually said and notice there's really no substance.  Perhaps writing without direction is like driving without a destination--wasteful.

The aforementioned prospect of grad school has left my mind swirling with thoughts of my future and, considering this trite that I am writing into a little white box and will eventually post on the black expanse of the internet, I may be being naively optimistic when I think it's bright. 

I think about graduating with a degree in English.  How conceited is that?  I'm studying the intricacies of my native language in a college that's really only known for its football.  I talk to foreigners and I ask them what they studying and they tell me "English."  Instead of saying "Wow! Me too.  Don't you just love Mark Twain?" I tell them that I'm an engineering or a biology major.  Don't judge me.  Haven't all Americans lied to foreigners at one moment in time?

But I have been proud of some of the stuff that I've written; some is posted here, some is not.  My problem is that it is limited.  If I really want to write for a living, I need at least 12 pieces circulating for publication at one time.  But that takes time...

_A