Finished . . . done for!

. . . but in a happy way. :-)

The goal for monday night was to make it to page 90, and write 9 pages of literary analysis. Somewhere around 3:30, I had made it to page 86, and decided to go to bed and hope the last 4 pages happened during revision. I got the literary analyses finished & turned in tues. afternoon, and had wed. and thurs. to study for my 2 finals of the semester (both of which were on friday!).

Spent sat. rewriting a problematic chapter, then edited and consumed mini-crullers frantically all sun. afternoon (except for the hour i fell asleep), and into the night . . . . somewhere around 4:00 am I wrote a hasty new half-page, threw in a beginning of a chapter that I had written weeks before & hated--and hit the magical page count. And there are only about 4 1/2 pages in there that I detest, and quite a few that I'm happy with; so I came out pretty well, overall.

Woke about around 11:30 today (er, yesterday), and made it to the dining hall, massive stack of paper in hand, in time for lunch. As I walked past the lake & up the hill to the main building, holding my story, I felt like singing. Like I had finished, conquered, triumphed. So I put the paper in the AMP's box, and ate stirfry.

And so it ends:

90 pages
25, 119 words
29 classes
7 semesters

. . . and only 4 more days. Then strange black hats left over from the Middle Ages, imaginary bits of paper, tears and laughter and goodbyes. And this world, which has been my life, will be gone.

It's already going. I'm standing right in the middle, but already it's slipping away around me, and I can't stop it, can't hold on to it, can't even slow it down.

I'm finished. And I want to cry.

love song

I've been thinking a lot lately about the situation here at TFC; and I may post some of those thoughts later, if they become clear and coherent enough for publication. In the meantime, however, I want to sing a love song for TFC.

I respect and admire many of the people leaving and many of the people staying, and the whole conflict continues to distress me greatly. So please understand that I am not singing this song as an expression of shallow optimism, or a facile assurance that everything will be "okay." Rather, I'm singing it because I love this school, and am grateful for it, despite its many faults; and because I love the people here (and the people not here) far too much to brush any of it away.


If you disturb a cloud, expecting rain to fall,
why not expect the rainbow too?
If you've loved a sunrise, or a sunset, mellow, pure,
happiness is surely worth the rain.

Reach out a hand, thumb through your dreams,
touch lightly all your memories.
If a heart has nothing to share, and finds no song to sing,
brush it all away like so much gold.

If you've planned some work, but lost the time to do,
don't curse the work or waste the skill;
if you've a good foundation, just the will to build again
makes quite a treasure of worn-out tools.

If you've sown some seeds, just to see them fly away,
harvest yet may have some fruit to bear;
if you've seen your life grow, when an old thought sprouts a smile,
plowing out the sad gives hope the field.

Reach out a hand, thumb through your dreams,
touch lightly all your memories.
If a heart has nothing to tell, and finds no song to sing,
brush it all away like so much gold.

If a heart has nothing to tell, and finds no song to sing,
take my guitar with your scattered gold.


Phil Wiley, "Gold"

8 to go

with the 82nd page having been reached by me, my characters have escaped from the underworld.

this is a happy development. (well, sort of. the characters aren't exactly happy. but that's a long story.) now i just have to write 8 more pages, and 3 literary anayses, and i'll be done.

i. will. finish. tonight.

after all, sleep is expendable.

Coming soon to a DVD player near you . . . .

Han shoots first.

I grinneth with happiness.