Which is maybe why I've shied from having a blog for so long. I had one at the beginning of college, but as I became a less repulsive person, I started remembering repulsive monologues that I had posted onto my blog and got really self-conscious and wanted to delete them, which I did, and then I stopped making a journal that other people could read. Actually, I stopped making any kind of journal, which was a bad idea since I'm supposed to be a writer.
I went to Emerson College to learn to be a writer. Then I graduated last spring, which I guess means that I'm completely a "writer" now, especially since I don't have a "real job." This fall, I'm teaching advanced ESL at the school down the street from me, but that's just two nights a week; I'm also the intern for Rose Metal Press, but that mostly means I check their PO box in Brookline; mainly I am unemployed and mooching off of my parents while living in a duplex in Lower Allston, and no one will hate me more than I hate myself, if only because there is peace of mind to be found in superlatives.
The following items might or might not prove that I am allowed to call myself a writer as my main identity:
- I go to Cantab's open mic on Wednesdays and usually read.
- I will do a poetry feature at Stone Soup on the October 6th.
- I'm going on poetry tour with my friend Sam Teitel next year.
- I am disappointed that all four of these lines did not end up being the same length.
Anyway, the best part of me calling myself a writer is not that you get to see that I am a little pretentious and then feel like you're a little better than me; it's that there's a distinct possibility that some of my posts will be poems/short stories/interesting to read, and not just longish journal entries like this one.
In closing, I refer you to Tao Lin's blog, which is the website that led me to making this blog.