The Writer has dissolved and reformed, just like a cloud.
As a writer, I am embracing my cloudlike existence.
I am telling myself: It’s okay to change form.
The first semester of my PhD has been a special kind of hell. My living situation has been difficult and unstable, and I’ll be moving again in January.
At first I thought I’d be moving within Tallahassee, and staying here.
But now I am not so sure.
Any minute, the edits for my book will show up in my inbox, and I will need to work on them, and they will bleed into the next semester, and things will be really hard again, and I am asking myself: do I always have to do the hardest thing?
I am asking myself: do I need to be here for five years, praying at the altar of writing composition in order to have any value to the academic system?
I am asking myself: if I want to be a better teacher, why would I stay inside of a system that encourages me to give less effort to teaching, and weighs me down with so much work that each thing I am do…
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