summersummersummer

One of my favorite instructors wants to work with me this summer. Came up to me and everything, said those words. I want to work with you this summer. Here’s what we’re going to do. And we agreed to a plan and sort of sketched out an idea of what was going to happen, and it looks like I’m set for my writing intensive this summer.

I am trying to not shriek with glee. I am trying to not shake with tiny little trembles of terror. Because this instructor is a secret sweetheart with a soul of pure living gold, but has a reputation of a being a hardass, which is lived up to, every day and in every way when he is in Instructor Mode and your ass will be kicked, and hard, and you best be living up to expectations.

He has a lot of expectations for me. A whole lotta lotta. Which is a whole lotta deja vu and fucking terrifying. Except this time, I’m not panicking and terrified (and it is very funny, how in that entry I talk, in a very sarcastic manner, about how I haven’t quit school, and several months later, I actually do! Ha. Ha.). I am excited. I am so excited to work with him and I am so excited to be writing again. I’ve had the urge to write, and I don’t even know where it came from, this urge, but I’m not going to argue.

I set up writing dates with my friend H., itching, burning, other metaphors for herpes to write, and I am sitting here in a café on Cole street, post-date, sipping a mocha, having just finished thirteen hundred pretty good words of stuff, and I feel good about things. Hope, I’m full of it.