Since I wished, some day, to become a writer, it was time I knew what I was going to write. But as soon as I asked myself the question, trying to find some subject … my mind would cease to function, my consciousness would be faced with a blank, I would feel either that I was wholly devoid of talent or that perhaps a malady of the brain was hindering its development.I know how you feel, mate, as I sit procrastinating at my computer with numerous projects or subjects I feel I should be capable of writing on before the start of term, but which seemingly convert into large, vacant spaces the moment I try to think of them. But at least you managed to make up for lost time in the end; as for me, I only have three weeks until the start of the teaching year in which to get any serious writing done.
Labels: Proust, University Life, writing
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