I realized a long time ago that I had a problem, I am a really short writer. I imagine everyone with this problem is like me. We cannot get to page lengths. We fail at writing novels or long dissertations. I saw the signs of this problem even before I took classes this semester. Fourteen pages required became a meager looking seven in my history classes. Where my professors looked at me bewildered but gave me an A anyways. Things like “good narrative sense,” and “research rigor is strong” were among the good comments that I have received in my 4 years in this university. But despite my writerly accomplishments I have also run into a few people whom, no matter how hard I tried to please them, would get stuck and confused on my lack of fluff. Currently these classes, are not that sort of classes for me, and for that I am thankful. It is hard to bullshit my life and I am not about to. Taking two writing classes and noticing the duality of fiction and non-fiction and how it relates to me has shown me this. I don’t even add unneeded words to my fake writing.
I’ve noticed that my fiction voice is not that much different from my non-fiction voice. My mind talks to me in quick and sometimes almost beautiful fragmented images. It is hard for me to fully describe them at times and even now all I see are beautiful fragments of things that I want to write here. Unfortunately they’re not saying that I deserve an A. My indecisive self that is still not sure if I am a fantastic writer is telling me that to be a good writer I need to average 20 pages a day of pure poetic voice. Indecisive Self says that when I reach that goal I should write an assessment letter. But until then I should keep my mouth shut and keep working on perfecting my essays.
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