September 3,
11:04 p.m.
Hello, Notebook. Looks like it’s just you and me again. My roommate, Josh Moore, whoever the person behind the name was, didn’t show up. Solo again in the concrete box. At least all the shelf space is mine. God knows I’ll need it. I’m required to buy almost five hundred dollars worth of books, between all my class books and my required reading. Majoring in liberal arts is turning out to be rather expensive, especially when one considers that I have yet to sell a single sentence of my work…much less the Beast (as I have taken to calling the novel). But no, I will not be discouraged. So what if there are no jobs for people with Liberal Arts degrees? So what if it’s damn near impossible to become an outrageously wealthy or even just well-known fantasy writer? So what if I end up asking people if they want fries with that for the rest of my life?
Okay, okay, enough. I’m doing what I love and not half the people in the world are lucky enough to be able to say that.
Oh, say, I almost forgot. English Lit. Remember the class I wasn’t going to take until I had to? Well, this year I had to. I’ve been dragged kicking and screaming back to the Beowulf I so despised in high school (not to mention "Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote") by my trusty advisor…but I don’t think it’s going to be as painful this time around. Professor Doug Taylor, our fearless leader, seems like a pretty weird cat. Laid-back, ex-hippie kind of weird. I like the man already.
The class is packed to
the ceiling with freshmen. The only other person I even remotely
recognize is, of all people, last fall’s Lady Macbeth. I
don’t even know her real name; I just know she had the
audience in fits with her sleepwalking number. I sort of wish I
hadn’t burned the program, but I had gone to the play with
Karen, and of course, we know what I did to all my reminders of
her. Ah, the sensitive soul of my inner poet is capable of such
mature reactions…
--Chris