After months of academia I find myself itching to write fiction. Characters old and new are pushing to the forefront of my mind, clamouring to be heard and acknowledged and given a life on the page. But instead I find myself stuck in the middle of writing an annotated bibliography of Medieval Literature despairing of the need to add three more books or articles with a looming deadline of … TOMORROW!. I picked a subject close to my heart, forests, but ironically can’t see the trees for the wood.
I see a pattern emerging near the end of every year of study that means at a certain point in the second semester I start to switch off. The thought of one more essay, let alone another three, has me questioning my motivations in getting a degree and I can be heard muttering the words, ‘You know what? I really don’t care what I get’. Completely untrue, of course.
The uni gleefully ramps up the torture by throwing in the stress of final year module choices with its dire warnings of limited places and first come first served scare tactics. Basically, this results in hundreds of terrified, wide-eyed students sitting at their laptops from 6am on registration day, fingers poised to press the submit button the moment choices go live. Inevitably, the system goes down and panic ensues. Next year’s third years are traumatised before they even begin so when someone whispers ‘Have you decided what you’re doing for your dissertation?’ their eyes glaze over and they retreat to a darkened corner of the library with psychosis.
And then some joker tutor thinks he can ask for an essay plan with just two days notice. I don’t think so, mister. He isn’t getting it.
To my horror I’ve also discovered that it’s been so long since I last posted here that WordPress have changed the format. I am so far out of the loop I might as well be on Pluto. Oh well, back to the treadmill…