I’ve been feeling a bit down on myself lately.
It might be the stress of finals, it might be other things, I really don’t know. I feel like what I’ve been doing this semester is not why I’m at college or why I came to school…
I’m a writer, right? I have been since I was little. I’ve been telling the same story, about how I’ve wanted to be a children’s book publisher since I was seven years old, and how I wanted to go to Emerson for their Writing, Literature and Publishing program and when that didn’t work out I came to Ithaca to study writing. And now I’m here at Ithaca, and I’m in their Writing program, and I’m studying grammar and taking a class on how to write for yourself and on argument and rhetoric… And I haven’t written anything substantial all semester.
That is *~*THREE WHOLE MONTHS*~* of not writing anything that I find worthy! Or writing anything at all! I can’t even remember the last time I wrote something good!
It’s like every time I sit down and try to write something I like, or try to work on something to submit to either an online magazine or a publication here at school, everything flies out of my head. It’s like I don’t care anymore. And it’s not that I don’t want to care– I would give anything to feel something, or to feel like writing something. I just can’t.
What is the point of me being here and studying writing if I’m not doing any of it at all?
There was this girl that my dad went to high school with, whose son ended up going to my high school. I wasn’t even aware that the son knew who I was, until my dad ran into him at my high school one time and mentioned my name. And he said, “Oh yeah, I know Amanda. She’s a really good writer, right?”
How did he even know that? Had he even read anything I’d written before? Just the fact that people know me as a “really good writer,” or as a writer at all used to make me beam with pride because I knew that I deserved that title and was that title. But now I feel like I don’t deserve it.