I have “Don’t Stop Believing” running non-stop through my head this week. I blame this on my textbook, Believing: An Historical Perspective, the title of which frustrates me no small amount because I’m not used to saying “historical” without the h-sound. Ah, British English.
Last night, before class, I had coffee with M, whom I hope will become a new friend. He’s in my prose writing workshop and grew up not far from my small hometown in Pennsylvania. We had a lovely time chatting; I felt immediately comfortable around him. I hadn’t realized the age difference until I saw his website last night: eight years. M was born in the Eighties! I feel a little old, especially as I review what I was saying about my musical tastes. I had just assumed we were close to the same age. Age doesn’t really matter, past a certain point, but I still have a bias against people who are younger than me, mainly because I supervise so many of them at work, so I tend to take on a maternal consideration of their well-being. Ah, maternal instinct.
Work has continued on its insane pace, which fulfills me a great deal while leaving me exhausted by the time I collapse into my usual seat on the ferry each night. Nights on which I have class are especially strenuous, because I don’t escape the university experience for a full twelve hours. I haven’t regretted moving into the City, though, regardless of the commute. It’s about an hour and a quarter each way with my ferry/Muni combination, but I get to do things like write this entry, work on homework, or, more often, nap. Ah, naps.
My cheapo Pelikan Future fountain pen has been writing much better than the Rotring Core I bought in Vancouver. The Pelikan is red and (unfortunately) came with blue ink; I like seeing the variance of ink on notebook pages. Writing with ball-points becomes such a chore after writing with a good fountain pen. Even rollerballs can’t compare with the ease of a nib and wet, wet ink on nice paper. Ah, fountain pens.
I have a prose piece to turn in for my workshop soon, and can’t decide if I should just work on my science-fiction thriller or start something new. When it comes to prose, I feel emptied of ideas. I started a short story about a couple on the ferry write what you know, right? but it was much better in my head than it is on paper. While waiting for the ferry today, I solicited a fellow commuter on what she likes to read most. She said suspense and mystery, which makes me want to work on my old story, but I am extremely stuck and don’t know how to get unstuck. Perhaps it’s time to ask some friends to read it and give me feedback. Ah, writer’s block.
The three-day weekend is nearly here. I don’t have anything planned except the Giants game with the MSG on Sunday. I’m not a fan of the Giants, nor am I a fan of fans of the Giants, but who could pass up free box seats to such a pretty park? I’d like to see “Garden State” this weekend, too, but while money is tight and Netflixes in abundance, I can’t really justify the expense. Ah, money.