so i skipped my morning class today. we peer review, and we peer review, and we peer review some more. i’m over reading everyone else’s papers and making comments on them and getting graded on it. i know its helpful. its helped me. but when your mag writing class makes you do it every time, it gets really old.
in other news. . .i’m applying for an internship at a Christian magazine here in orlando. you can check it out at www.relevantmagazine.com. they’re pretty new, so it would be cool to get in on the ground floor. a friend of mine had an internship there this semester, and really liked it, and if i’m going to bust into publishing i gotta start somewhere.
my creative writing class has been driving me crazy. the prof is named salinger, wrote a book not to long ago and the format of the class is really weird. we read something, talk about it, and then he gives us a writing assignment that has nothing to do with the reading. so for everything i’ve written he slaps a b- on it and writes “superficial” next to the grade. but this time he calls my name, i go up to get the paper, and he says, “nice job lindsay.” i look at the grade and it’s a b+. woohoo! movin up in the world. and next to it it said, “some nice images”. i’ve never really had to work hard in a writing class, not that this one is much different because i still write everything the morning before the class, but finally, a b+! maybe an a will be coming my way soon when i have to write my first real short story.
i leave you with something i find to be beautifully written about time gone past. . .
This is a story, told the way you say stories should be told: Somebody grew up, fell in love, and spent a winter with her lover in the country. This, of course, is the barest outline, and futile to discuss. It’s as pointless as throwing birdseed on the ground while snow still falls fast. Who expects small things to survive when even the largest get lost? People forget years and remember moments. Seconds and symbols are left to sum things up. Love, in its shortest form, becomes a word. What I remember about all that time is one winter. The snow. Even now, saying “snow,” my lips move so that they kiss the air.
–Ann Beattie, “Snow”