ask my publicist
The first workshop was fine, it turns out, though things may change once we move beyond the introductory. The problem was that as soon as we left class the nine-month graduation clock started ticking. A group of us ended up drunk at the undergraduate bar, morose about the short amount of time left to acquire publications and agents and book deals and so on before we're regurgitated back into the real world. This stuff shouldn't matter, of course, but it's hard to ignore. So the pressure cooker's back on. Also, for the first time since last month's split I am having frequent dreams of loss, and consequently I wake up maudlin and torpid and don't leave my bed for a while. I guess that while on vacation I could put it out of my mind, to an extent. So shit's hitting the fan, sort of—but for the moment I am still able to write, for which I should be grateful.
The Anatomy of Melancholy isn't actually about melancholy, apparently; it's about everything.
What else would you like to know? The coming Alzheimer's epidemic? I'm still not drinking out of aluminum cans, though that's probably a needless precaution.
