MAJOR writer's block.  All week.  I keep trying and failing to write

something for Creative Writing class, but nothing comes.  My thoughts are

preoccupied with the two big C's: Catherine and Cancun.  I'm really

worried that the class is turning writing into just another school-related

chore:  I spent tonight cleaning my room, sysadminning my computer, baking

cookies. . . anything but what I should do.  Just like I'm wont to do when

some academic terror is looming over my head.  I really feel like I need

this vacation;  perhaps circular thinking, since I suspect that this

vacation is part of what's occupying my thoughts instead of writing.  Oh

well.  I keep getting inspired to write the things I WANT to, but then

postpone it because of the guilty feeling that I should be writing

something for class.  But I'm not inspired to write something that will

fit the guidelines of what we should be turning in for class.  Which means

that writing I do will be for my professor, not for me.  Which makes it

schoolwork, which makes it uninteresting.  Which makes the writing I try

to do sound as forced as any essay I write for class.  Which makes it

suck.  Which makes me scrap it and start over.  Aiyeee.  

Boy, I better be good at this writing thing, or I don't know WHERE I'm

going with my life.  Sure, I'll be able to afford to live next year,

although not as comfortably as I'd thought, because my cheap housing plans

fell through, and I'm left scrambling to find a place to live in

Berkeley's increasingly ugly housing market.  I think I'll consider

alternatives, like somewhere in Emeryville near BART.  Hopefully, I'll be

able to buy Matt's unused car off his hands, expanding the realm of

possibilities in my living options.  

God, I didn't leave the house today.  I need to start exercising.  I don't

know what's been up with my recently.  I haven't been unhappy, just

unmotivated.  I really can't figure myself out.  Not that I'm unique.

This desire to simply become rich without much effort overtaking my life

is something I've seen mirrored in other people I talk to.  Disillussioned

with our fast-paced, strive to keep up modern world.  Looking for a way to

slow it down, it seems by accepting less responsibilities.  Relaxing more.

Maybe that's why I rest so much, in reaction to the flury of activity I

feel I SHOULD be in, to keep up with all the aspects of my life.  My

professor said to me that being a writer is a full-time job, and it's one

that I'd be happy with.  



Easier said than done, boyeee.