All the Work While Crying — Sahagun, Spain

Today is the deadline for my first mailing for grad school. I've completed the reading. I've written the literary critique essays on the books. I just have to finish, my uh, you know, writing writing. The stuff I am supposedly creating from my writerly self. The stuff that I've been referring to as my REAL writing for a few years now. You know, not the news writing or the blog writing or the lengthy email writing, but my REAL writing. 

So I got myself a private room at a hostel. My VERY OWN BATHROOM even. And I bought some super snacky snacks.

The very exciting place where all of this happens. I know, it's got that European, bars on the windows, prison dormitory kind of charm.

And I have limited my freaking out time to a reasonable amount. And I have begun to work. Except for right now, obviously, because I am writing a blog about how I am working. And also except for the hour I spent spreading out all my backpack contents while listening to some podcasts, because in here I can't bother anyone else with them. And also except for the time I spent staring at the back of my eyelids in the shower. And looking for an ATM and snacks. Except for those times I am working and it's going really, really well. I have only eaten two of the eight cookies in the box I bought. I think I will need the other six later when I'm crying over my iPad. Because of, you know, how well it will be going. Let me reuse a favorite diagram.

I am in Sahagun, a city that feels strange to me but I can't tell if it's strange because I'm so jacked up on deadline anxiety, or if it actually is weird. The first hotel I came to, the one advertised most aggressively online that I thought I was destined for, was all locked up and quiet. Which is a shame because I was looking forward to the sauna. Which is not great since I am supposed to be writing. So maybe it's good that I'm staying in the hostel attached to the convent, in my private streetside room, where I hope the piety of the nuns will seep up through the tile and improve my writing efficiency. I think that kind of thing happens, right? Isn't that why people go on "writing retreats?" Those magical things where you are away from all your other life so you can get shit done? I think it is possible that those things would work for other people. But I'm pretty sure I would just wander around, looking at trees and eating cookies, until the very last day of the retreat. Then I would weep, and pull my hair out in my little private room, and produce all the stuff that proves I am a productive person. A "writer." 

I think it's possible that I should stop using air quotes when referring to my life's dream. It seems a little, "passively aggressively self-deprecating." And I prefer to be up front about that crap. For instance: I'm a fraud. Because cookie crumbs and good intentions do not a writer make. Too maudlin? Yeah, probably, but overstated bouts of insecurity are a good motivator you know? Besides, the night is young and full of potential...and there's always the nuns to bounce ideas off of. 

"Donde esta THESAURUS? No? Necessito INSPIRATION. Esta M&Ms and Diet Coke por favor? Magic 8 Ball? ROPE?"

No no, just kidding. I have a little more faith than that. It will get done. The great pit of deadlines never fails to arrive, and always, out of its musty depths, emerges something to put on the page. And I've had 250 miles to consider this particular story. 

So, into the ravine.