I’m currently stuck inside the box. Said box is keeping me from finishing a rather crucial essay. And by finishing, I mean starting.
This is me being stuck inside the box –
The essay is on The God Of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. Which is an excellent book. But it’s worth 50% of my grade, and I suspect this is what is somewhat freaking me out. I’ve not had such a high percentage reliant on one piece of work before. Cue mild terror.
As an aside, The Appraisal went reasonably well. In the workplace I put on my hyper-upbeat face, in contrast to my cynical bitch face (what can I say, I’m a Gemini) – so that tends to help my case when my work ethic etc etc is being assessed. In a quintessentially back-country kiwi fashion, heck yes!
(I myself am a city (well, suburban) girl born and bred and know nothing of such lingo except as inserted into the ironic jargon of the modern day K Rd hipster.)
Peace out. There is trauma to be written about. And I suppose, when it’s over, and I get a possibly abominable grade, I will then have trauma to write creatively, rather than academically, about, for my own point and purpose. AKA using it as impetus for the poetry that my delightfully sixteen-year-old character Ruby will be writing over the course of her novel.
