It's 13:55, and my room is the setting of a hellish, brutal battle. I'm in the midst of the worst case of writer's block, ever. Worst thing is, this is essay writing time, not creative writing time. My essay is due Monday, 4pm. I need 1500 words, a bibliography and painfully accurate citations. My topic: Neo-Victorianism. It hurts, believe me.
So, I'm sitting cross-legged, and have assumed a somewhat no-nonsense attitude to today. No strops, no tears, no Facebook procrastinating for five consecutive hours until stress really kicks in and I sob through the last seven hundred words (don't laugh, this happens to me, A LOT.) Well, this is kinda procrastinating anyway, but at least this is supposed to constructively clear out my head of all that extra rubbish floating around aimlessly.
Two cups of black coffee, three slices of toast and a Drifter (yes, why?) later, and I'm struggling. Seriously struggling, at that. I've made a plan for god sakes, (I NEVER PLAN ANYTHING) and now I've resumed the worst outlook of all: not giving a shit. Resignation is a dangerous prospect at any time, but in final year with assignment deadlines just over the weekend-filled horizon, it is excruciatingly risky. Either I have to somehow conjure up the energy and enthusiasm to believe everything I write to be gold dust, or, more likely, have some sort of lazy courage in my convictions (and my writing) and see what happens.
Word count: 741. Want: more coffee, more chocolate, and probably, a hug. Need: encouragement and/or no distractions. (Well done, successful with that one.)
I'm taking a very deep breath, flicking the kettle back on, and somehow giving this horrendous essay a go. Wish me luck.
I have a feeling, I'm going to need it.