Episode Seventy Five – More On Writing

I should be reading La Fée Carabine right now. I was doing so well: I read half of it yesterday, and then today I managed 50 pages before lunch and 50 pages in Starbucks before translation club, which leaves me with 60 pages left to read before class tomorrow. Two hours’ work, tops. The light appears at the end of the tunnel, and I’m so close…

But there’s one problem: I have PMS.

Not the painful kind, thankfully, although I have a hot water bottle on standby just in case. No, I mean the emotional kind, the kind that makes me think of all the things I could be doing but I’m not, all the things I hope to do someday but I have to wait, and how much I want to go out dancing.

I also want to start writing a new blog. “Say WHAAA?”, I hear you cry. I know, right? Preposterous! I already have two and this is the first time I’ve updated either of them in about two months. The subject of this imaginary new blog is student living, but paradoxically enough, while I’m still a student I’ll never have the time to keep it updated (you’re currently scrolling through Exhibit A), and once I’ve graduated, I won’t really have the right to blog about being a student any more.

But I need to write something. I feel incapable of sitting through 60 pages of someone else’s words, brilliant as they are, and writing nothing of my own. Maybe I am supposed to be a writer after all. Maybe I’m supposed to be a literary translator. Maybe I should start two new blogs: one about student living and one where I post my translations of extracts of the books I’m reading for class.

And here we go: this is precisely the problem. Once every 28 days, my hormone-riddled little brain explodes into excitement and promise about what lies ahead, or what might lie ahead, or what might happen right now if I could only calm the fuck down. But I can’t, and if I did I would realise that instead of starting a new blog about what I’m going to do after I graduate, I should be working on actually graduating, starting with reading those 60 goddamn pages of La Fée Carabine.

That might be the most difficult part of the final year of study. The light at the end of the tunnel, the excitement for what awaits me once I make it there, the questioning whether I’ll be able to survive it, the anguish knowing that in these four years I’ve barely scratched the surface of my métier, and the knowledge that, for now, I have to stop staring at that light and just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Yours angstily,




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