I used to take great pride in my imagination. I rarely had problems coming up with new ideas for my writing, but now, I feel as if someone's killed my muse with a claw hammer. Twelve pages into a short story, and my urge to create is miserably let down by a lack of inspiration.
Sadly, this malaise is spreading to other parts of my life. I can't for the life of me finish Les Miserables, something I swore I'd do before summer ended. When my cousin Josiah, a film student in Los Angeles, visited, I saw how far behind I was creatively. He showed me a few of his short films, all very good. I'm a little concerned that I'll have to drop my creative writing major for a regular lit major; I don't think that I could meet deadlines or write creatively for a grade.
Instead of bitching and moaning, I should probably get out there and actually do something. I abandoned a plan to hitch-hike a little bit this summer--nothing huge, just up to Chattanooga or something. If I'm lucky, I might still get the chance. We'll see.
At least the future holds some hope. Next summer, my parents are planning another cruise on which Josiah and I would be given free roam of things. In addition. We're planning on backpacking Ireland as well. It would be great. Bringing nothing of value and being in an unfamiliar place. Just some disposable cameras, a little cash, clothes, and a credit card or two. We'd visit the pubs, see the cathedrals, and perhaps even sail over to to Scotland. That's something I'd like to write about.
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