Pragmatism

It's like restraint; it's holding back. I hate it. I truly hate holding back. But, I think it's a good thing. But I'm not sure. I am deliberately holding back the ambition with the novel. I don't expect it to be published. But, I want it to be really, really good. It won't. It's the first attempt at writing a novel. It's bound to be crap. I might not even finish it.

I'm not writing this as an author-to-be only. I have been struggling with this project as a warming up to be able to go back to the university. I've tried to do that a couple of years ago and failed miserably. Twice.

And for blatant reasons. I tried to continue where I dropped out many years ago and that meant starting the advanced class of social anthropology.

It failed, because I hadn't been reading for a decade. Well I had read half a Donald Duck story when I was baby-sitting a few years earlier.

The next time, same course, I got the reading part working better, but not the writing, because I hadn't written anything in a decade. Zilch. Some notes before going to the supermarket.

And there's plenty of writing expected at the university. I couldn't even decide to write in Swedish or in English. 

Which I have now.

More on that tomorrow.

And it failed because I hadn't left the house more than on the rare occasion and had no routine for getting up, getting dressed, and all that.

You have to crawl before you can walk. At least I don't have any tendencies for getting socially phobic, which I should after living as a recluse, with my socially phobic husband for years.

So I have returned from the dead and I have started to activate the social network. I'll write some more about how it's like to actually be able to say the famous "The rumors about my death..."

And now I've spent a year reading and writing daily. In English. And I have also gotten closer to some answers to the questions: Is writing anything for me? Am I good enough? The latter is not a relevant question because I can work on it until I am. Or until I die, whichever comes first.

But do I want to do this?

I haven't given up on the novel after more than a year of daily struggle, on my own. There's no teacher, or employer, or anybody else pushing me; I probably do want to do this.

And now I'm going back to the university. I applied, while I was thinking of something else, at the very last minute a few months back.

I got in, but haven't really thought much of it; I have hardly looked at the letter lying here on my desk. I can see it in the corner of my eye.

The course is about writing.

Creative Writing in English.

Half time. (Restrain!)

Starts next Monday.