Decisions on the loom. Loom, in both senses. . . a mound of black wool that needs to be made into a carpet.
Finished work today, stacked books. . . hundreds of books. Moved books, carried books, alphabetized books, seperated books, ate books, peed on books, shaved a book, punished a book for being a stupid book, sat on a book after it sat on me, mind-boggled a good number of books, buggered one book good.
Now that I'm finished my degree, I'm so not into doing any of the things that is has taught me. Obviously. If I was in the mood, I would've phrased it as such: I don't want to apply any of the skills that I learned in school.
I've heard from many a folk that once they graduated from their writing degrees, they couldn't write. . . somehow I hope this happens to me. I could be a walking tragedy, and I'm only twenty-four. Nah . . . I'm currently sketching ideas out as we speak. School was about a million projects at once, and now I can focus on one at a time.
Here's a plan:
June:
Write "Beware the Ides of Julie-Anne March" on tour.
Send out poetry for rejection.
September:
Send out poetry for rejection.
That's about it. Now that I'm done school, I feel as though I need to educate myself, so I'm going to learn a massive amount of songs on the guitar, read a lot of works, and not worry about producing volume for awhile.