I didn’t get nearly as much done as I’d hoped I would, writing wise. I’m starting to think I need to revise my expectations of myself. As simple as it seems to write short stories, this is strangely not my forte and thus more complicated than it should be. What’s more, I think it’s just straight up hard to write under pressure. All my best work was produced on a whim, and that whimsy was what made it so easy. To sit down and decide to write something because “I’m a writer, and that’s what writers do,” adds a tremendous, silly pressure! You’d think I’d be able to write better when motivated by the idea of getting into grad school or a more prominent literary magazine.

On the note of grad school, I think I’ve narrowed down my desired options to Oregon University, the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, and the University of Washington. UW is a good “safety school” if there is such a thing when applying to MFA programs…

I might end up putting all my journaling toward my Camp NaNoWriMo word count. That’s writing, right?

It is so hard to stay focused when there are always a million things buzzing around me. I’ve made so much progress these past few months I really want to just lean back and cool my heels. Of course, all that progress and hard work has landed me in a position where I can afford to anything BUT relax! I need a project for me in order to get back into a good space, but I’m suddenly and acutely aware that anything I write “for me” will end up being “for work” and should be up to the increasingly impossible standards I set for myself.

I find myself more and more just leaving everything to “go work on my Twitter profile,” which, though productive, is not the kind of productivity that makes me happy on the inside. Twitter kind of sucks my soul out. I’d probably be going crazy if I didn’t have all my friends dragging me outside this week and forcing fresh air into my lungs.

We shall see where this all ends…