Dog Days

I’m tired. My brain is fried. I have 5 more classes in my MA program and it’s getting harder to stay motivated. I see the finish line. It’s not far, but it’s not close enough. December 19th cannot come fast enough.

So far I’ve enjoyed and done well in the program. I’m very proud of the effort I have made and the success I have had so far. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t burnt out.

I’m taking my last literary theory class I will have to take and I am beyond excited. I came into my MA thinking I would pursue a Ph.D. in English upon graduation and write these incredibly dense and highly edumacated articles on literary theory, rhetoric, and analysis. But fuck that. I fell in love with creative writing over the past year so now my focus is there. I’m looking at MFA and Ph.D. programs now in Creative Writing for next summer/fall (I’m taking a 6-month hiatus from writing next spring, my brain needs a reset, I’ll be working on my journal but that’s about it).

It can be lonely reading about old dead white writings as a black writer. They are talented. I get it but I can’t connect. Not with the world as it is. I don’t give a fuck about what they’ve done. I can’t see how those words and all their opinions in my world can affect me. The world is changing laws to disenfranchise the black vote, with corruption abound and littered all throughout politics. Black bodies continue to be murdered and brutalized. And I’m supposed to give a fuck about Canterbury Tales.