Dear World:

( THIS )

Definitely turning out to be my song at the moment. Stop beating down my dreams! Stop fucking laughing at my ambitions in the certainty I'll never attain them! Stop mocking me for doing things that have no material reward! And for god's sake uni, get me out of that fuckign class which masquerades as novel writing but should really be titled 'How to Prostitute your Abilities for Money'. I came here to fucking write, not sell. And the constant reminder than I have to work my arse off to sell- WHAT IF I DON'T WANT TO SELL YOU DOGFUCKERS! IS IT SO INCOMPREHESIBLE THAT I WANT TO DO THIS FOR NO OTHER REASON THAT I FUCKING WANT TO?

Gods, please, please make it so my characters have physical form, then Mengele and I could go to uni with ten canisters of Zyklon B, two machineguns and a flamethrower and sort this out once and for all. And nothing of value will be lost. I spent an hour and as half today critiquing two girl's efforts at tabliod journalism.
This is how high-school massacres get started I swear. They make you feel that you're useless, you see everyone else bending over for buggery and cannot maintain the least respect for them and finally it just seems like a mercy to put them out of their misery.
Thank the gods for poetry, that's all I can say. No pressure, no pain, just sit down and write me four haikus about the seasons. This is how you do a haiku, now try.

A Year in Water

In spring the snow melts
And our January footprints
Will turn to water.

The Vilinus summer
Flows the water of our steps
Under the high bridge.

The red leaves drift down
To the wine flowing river
Their hands touch like ours.

If it grows colder
And the seas freeze over
I could walk to you.

Peace, goddamn PEACE and fucking quiet for once in this place. No plans, no deadlines, no reminders that you'll probably fail in getting published as a poet because HELLO that's not why people write poetry. Plus, zen poetry is a great way to calm down when confronted by the utter idiocy of everyone around me. It's impossible to be pissed off while writing zen poetry. I tried, this was my result:

Pen cuts the paper
With my killing rage leaving
Torn words on the page

And:

I Ching
Coins flash in the light
I turn to the page and find
That fools run the world.

I'm still very fond of the second, but when I read it to my teacher she thought it was very funny. So much for rage. But it maddens me that all this year the more I've attended this novel writing class the more I've lost interest in AIoM. The fucking class that's meant to help me write is killing any desire for me to do so. It's not the critique (although having my work looked over by people with swiss cheese for brains is more useless than insulting) it's the assumption that it's really all a waste of time. IN THE FUCKING CLASS. BY THE FUCKING TEACHERS. IN THE FUCKING WORKBOOK WHICH I DON'T WANT TO TOUCH OR EVEN GO NEAR.

There are showers for such people.

Dear World:

( THIS )

Definitely turning out to be my song at the moment. Stop beating down my dreams! Stop fucking laughing at my ambitions in the certainty I'll never attain them! Stop mocking me for doing things that have no material reward! And for god's sake uni, get me out of that fuckign class which masquerades as novel writing but should really be titled 'How to Prostitute your Abilities for Money'. I came here to fucking write, not sell. And the constant reminder than I have to work my arse off to sell- WHAT IF I DON'T WANT TO SELL YOU DOGFUCKERS! IS IT SO INCOMPREHESIBLE THAT I WANT TO DO THIS FOR NO OTHER REASON THAT I FUCKING WANT TO?

Gods, please, please make it so my characters have physical form, then Mengele and I could go to uni with ten canisters of Zyklon B, two machineguns and a flamethrower and sort this out once and for all. And nothing of value will be lost. I spent an hour and as half today critiquing two girl's efforts at tabliod journalism.
This is how high-school massacres get started I swear. They make you feel that you're useless, you see everyone else bending over for buggery and cannot maintain the least respect for them and finally it just seems like a mercy to put them out of their misery.
Thank the gods for poetry, that's all I can say. No pressure, no pain, just sit down and write me four haikus about the seasons. This is how you do a haiku, now try.

A Year in Water

In spring the snow melts
And our January footprints
Will turn to water.

The Vilinus summer
Flows the water of our steps
Under the high bridge.

The red leaves drift down
To the wine flowing river
Their hands touch like ours.

If it grows colder
And the seas freeze over
I could walk to you.

Peace, goddamn PEACE and fucking quiet for once in this place. No plans, no deadlines, no reminders that you'll probably fail in getting published as a poet because HELLO that's not why people write poetry. Plus, zen poetry is a great way to calm down when confronted by the utter idiocy of everyone around me. It's impossible to be pissed off while writing zen poetry. I tried, this was my result:

Pen cuts the paper
With my killing rage leaving
Torn words on the page

And:

I Ching
Coins flash in the light
I turn to the page and find
That fools run the world.

I'm still very fond of the second, but when I read it to my teacher she thought it was very funny. So much for rage. But it maddens me that all this year the more I've attended this novel writing class the more I've lost interest in AIoM. The fucking class that's meant to help me write is killing any desire for me to do so. It's not the critique (although having my work looked over by people with swiss cheese for brains is more useless than insulting) it's the assumption that it's really all a waste of time. IN THE FUCKING CLASS. BY THE FUCKING TEACHERS. IN THE FUCKING WORKBOOK WHICH I DON'T WANT TO TOUCH OR EVEN GO NEAR.

There are showers for such people.