Gwan Ta Kawlidge, Wair Thair Iz Nawt Privacy

This week I managed to convince the local community college that I actually do live here and qualify for the in state tuition prices.  I also completed a FAFSA and have an appointment scheduled with the nice people down at the counseling center to talk about what I want to do when I grow up.  (like *that* is likely!)  The FAFSA is about financial aide, which I presume I won't get any of, but it's part of the dang process, can't skip any steps, it only upsets the bureaucrats!  So now the IRS is involved.  Argh.  It's probably all fine, but all these things want my Social Security Number.  And the borderline rude person behind the counter at the college the other day gave me eyebrow when I wanted a student ID number that WASN'T my SSN, even though the paperwork all says that they are HAPPY to do that very thing.  I guess I'm some kind of unnatural Luddite, gingerly angling for privacy in an increasingly "transparent" world.

In theory, they also have my transcripts from the other place, and I may need to take placement tests.  The chances of my needing Bonehead English are remote, but I apparently need to demonstrate that to somebody.

In the meantime, I might take a class during the short summer session.  I would claim it was to jump start my brain, but look at what I'm considering:

There is a class titled, simply enough, "Chocolate" and is further described in the catalog in the following manner; "Studies the history and manufacturing of chocolate as well as the practical uses and techniques in working with dark, white, and milk chocolate."

Yes, this is a For Credit class.  Admittedly, it's only ONE credit.  However, it probably doesn't have much at all to do with my *brain*.  

Thank You Strunk & White

My counselor wanted to know if I kept a journal.  She said something to the effect that because I read so much, I should be able to write.  (she actually said that I'm "well read", which I had to edit out here, I just couldn't face it.)

While when I am inspired, I think I probably write reasonably well, I usually don't have much of any substance to say.  I know a couple of "real" writers, people who *work* at it and get published and *paid* and things.  I'm not a writer, not in that fashion.  I certainly don't have any stories beating on the walls of the inside of my head, hammering to get out. 

Back in the day, in various schools, I got good at padding.  Five pages on <insert some boring topic name here> when I only have three facts?  No problem, I am your huckleberry.  Instead of stories, I have marketing.  And I'll be the first to admit that I like words and phrases with curlicues and filigree and lace trimmings.  I'll come all over Old British Novel stylistically, which is just wrong.  Sigh.  So, out in the real world, when self-editing, I have to cut and cut and simplify like mad.  Strunk and White would be pleased.  At least, I hope so.

I am a reader who is capable of occasionally making it go the other way.  Crafting something out of words feels immensely complicated to me.  It's a variation on the smorgasbord problem.  There are so many fabulous words and you can put them in almost any order.  It's intimidating. 




Note - I do this blog just to put things somewhere, to try and bleed off the steam as it were. 

Duty Is Another Four Letter Word

Well, I fell into another hole.  Or the same one.  Or something.  My analogy is not working well for me today.  Of course, very little is.

I'm a mess.

The Law of Attraction business that says that somehow one has chosen the life one has?  That's really aggravating.  I don't know how to un-choose, or choose differently, not without stepping all over other people.  And, of course, I'll always choose to damage myself before I will damage other people.  Well, maybe not always, but when it's folks I care about?  In a bloody heartbeat.

I suppose if this is a blog it should have a topic, and be erudite and reach conclusions.  They are mini essays after all.  But I'm circling around inside my own head.  I have these obligations, these duties.  I don't know how to make them palatable, and I don't know how to get out of them honorably.

Duty.  There's a concept.  Maybe a whole essay, right there.