procrastiwriting.

In six weeks I complete my writing degree.

Confession 1: I never actually enrolled.

I’m just doing it (nike would be proud)

Half way through my first year of college (I like to think I’m still American), I decided that because I still didn’t know what my actual degree was  - development anthropology, what are you ? – I wanted to do writing as well. I’d also just fallen in love with Marley and Me. They were writers.

I wanted my life to be Marley & Me.

And so I’ve just done it.

I cracked open the majors guide and did all the appropriate subjects, without actually enrolling, or telling anyone. I think I’m a double agent, when really I’m probably just an idiot.

So I should clarify, in 6 weeks I may or may not have a writing degree.

A writing degree. What even is that?

I was the last one in my Year 4 class to get their pen license, so surely – a writing degree is an absolute nothing. What is a writing degree? Congratulations, here’s a printed piece of paper – you can write. So can I.

How do people judge stories, when surely (I naively first thought) it’s a matter of opinion?

The answer to that question, I have found, is harshly. That’s how people judge. With crinkled noses and dream crushing words.

But it’s been fun.

I like writing people. I like going from development, to writing subjects. Development people, by some gross stereotype have dreadlocks, and beards, and sometimes don’t wear shoes to class. They spend their holidays in Tibet, and their weekends in the throngs of inner city anti-slavery demonstrations. They smell and have ambition.

Writing people, on the other hand, simply think they’re wonderful. They wear skinny jeans and named cologne. They read George Orwell and Christos Tsiolka for fun, and blog – about life, politics, places they’ve never been and over-priced inner city, indie, hidden café’s.

 In one class, of which I base this entire stereotype, in the first lesson – we went around and named our favourite cultural theorist. As I nodded and they critiqued, I quickly googled what cultural theory was, decided I hated it, and copied someone else’s answer. That class, like a lot of writing in general I find, is about confidence, and pulling things out of thin air.

To get writing assignments done I’ve watched 500 days of Summer for inspiration. In the end, I wrote about luck and paper cranes, inspired by the ones that hang from her lamp. I’ve bounced on bouncy balls, paced around my house, gone for a run, sat outside and ripped entire drafts in half.

I’ve also been escorted out of Bunnings, as part of this degree, when I needed to take photos for a scene of my screen play. Instead, I was told that it was illegal and taken from the building. I cried and I’m never going back there ever again.

I’ve been told I have no plot (true), I’m not allowed to make up words (whatever) and I’ve asked myself, many times, how somebody who is about to graduate as a writer still doesn’t know which whether is weather, and or how to set up dialogue.

           “Do you indent it?”

“And start a new line for every character?” and where on earth do the full stops go. Am I allowed to use these things – whenever I like, or are they only for special occasions.

Every writing student has this epiphany moment, where they, in a strike of genius – decide to write a story about writing a story. Your teacher will hand it back to you, sigh and say everything not with words but with the raising of her eyebrow,

Go back to high school, idiot. Start again.

It’s hard with writing because you get into little worskshop groups and critique each others pieces. And what you quickly understand is that you actually like these people, and you feel terrible if their stories are terrible, and you constantly battle with yourself – how do I say it’s awful, without being awful? And so you scribble on their margins, “have you considered taking out this character?” when what you really think is, OH GOSH. GO BACK TO HIGH SCHOOL, IDIOT. START AGAIN.

Because writing students writing isn’t just their writing, it’ their babies. It’s a little piece of themselves in the outside world. And when you take that and read that, and hate that, you’re not just saying – this is boring, you are saying, you are boring. You’re not just saying, try again, but try again in life, you’re in the wrong degree. And you want these people to like you because your baby, who you love, and who is all you and vulnerable and out in the world, is being critiqued by them as well.

You spend months going over the same lines of dialogue, and you call yourself a crazy person. You study, learn and hate genres. You create hybrid genres trying to be awesome, and they turn out awful.

You thank the Lord you have a double major and this is not your only option.

Things I like to write about: the truth. Made up things. My own life, the lives of others. My ridiculousness. My passions. Jesus Christ. Travels, missions, babies, food. Men, pick up lines. Places I’ve been, places I want to go. The meaning of life, the awfulness and appreciation of the small things. All and none of these listed things.

And so in 6 weeks I may or may not be a qualified writer. I’m not really sure where that leaves me, or where it’s going to lead me.

Maybe I’ll write a book.

Or for a magazine.

A cook book (God help us all).

A newspaper, an e-journal, or maybe I’ll just blog.

Having a writing degree means you can write 900 words about having a writing degree without actually saying anything, thus proving the point in the first place – you have no plot.

In six weeks I (may or may not) complete my writing degree.

where I am writing this.
outside in the sun.
because I tell myself I'll be more productive there.
when really I just vent instead of doing my work.
YO SUNSHINE!

Mmmm procrastiwriting.