Writers don’t, as a rule, need to do any English papers at university or anything like that. Some didn’t even go to university at all. It’s far from a requirement, and there’s always the chance you could hobble yourself in the academic echo-chamber.
But I’m old now – 30 in just eleven days, oh my god – and I’ve got writing experience under my belt corset. I need feedback, I’d like some writing connections, I want to grow, and thus I am going back to university for a Graduate Diploma in creative writing. Mostly English papers, with a history paper thrown in there for funsies.
I went into the university the other day, to drop off some forms with the dean, and my god has it changed. Well… I mean, has it changed? It’s been about five years since I’ve been there (I used to work on campus) and everything looks so different, and I can’t work out if it’s actually changed or if I just can’t properly remember the place I used to go every day for a year. My favourite café is still there, but unfortunately the art bookstore down the road has disappeared. I feel like pouring out a shot of absinthe on the curb or something.
It’s another month until university starts, but in true neurotic fashion I’m already worrying about it. Essays! Exams! I remember leaving university after my Bachelor’s thinking I never, ever have to do an exam again. What freedom that was. What am I getting myself into?! My creative writing paper involves writing a play. I’ve never written a play! I wouldn’t have the first idea how to do it. (Sister: Just go get a play out from the library. Me: I’ve read a play. That doesn’t mean I know how to write a play!) Also, there are going to be people. I might have to read my own work aloud in public. Oh god.
Enough of that worrying. I’ve decided it’s best to sit myself down and go through New York Sour properly, so I can post it every couple of weeks instead of once in a blue moon, and it will make more sense. I know people probably read it for the sweet sweet hard-boiled inner monologue goodness rather for the actual plot, which is barely existent, but if I’m posting it it should be worth posting. Although on reflection, what was the plot of The Big Sleep, anyway? I seem to recall even Chandler couldn’t remember whether the guy in the car had been murdered or not. I don’t think the mystery is the part that brings all the fans to the yard. But I can still make New York Sour better, for you, for me, for the characters. I’m reading my old notes over, from back when I first wrote it, and find that I had described it as “Pride and Prejudice for fucked up people”. Dear lord. I like some of these lines, though: “He doesn’t care until it’s his business, and it’s not his business until someone hands him a wad of bills”. And this time, I’m absolutely going for the depressing ending.
Because my babies deserve it.