It's already halfway through Term 1 and not a lot has happened to be honest. I've decided to apply for an MA in Publishing, so I'm filling in my application at the moment. As much as I love my university at the moment and don't want to leave, I've decided that London is where I want to be. And it's where you have to be, really, if you want to be involved in the literary scene at all. Gosh, that sounds so pretentious. The literary scene.
When I started uni I was pretty sure I wanted to do an MA in Creative Writing after my degree, but I've decided against that now. I'm not sure it's worth it; it costs so much money, and I can't really see it getting me a proper job. I can write any time, and I don't need someone else to tell me how to do it. All that'll do is make me churn out books exactly like Ian McEwan. I have moments when I wonder whether I'm selling my soul to the corporate machine by taking the career path rather than the academic path after uni, and several people have told me I'd be capable of doing a PhD, with the implication that I'm 'wasting my talents'. But honestly, as nice as being an academic and pottering around reading old books and drinking coffee in library cafes and having intellectual discussions would be, at the end of the day it's the recession and I need a job.
And if have a proper job, and have money, I can afford to have a nice flat in London and potter around second-hand bookshops and subscribe to literary magazines and go to the theatre and buy lots and lots of coffee. I will always read literature, and try and educate myself in my own time, even if I'm not directly involved in academia. Plus, as good as I am at essays, I can't deny that they make me thoroughly miserable. I love them when they're done, but I'm not sure it's worth the gaping chasm of despair I fall into when writing them. I sit there for hours, staring at the screen, gulping down endless cups of tea and tearing my hair out, thinking that nothing in the world can make me happy until this essay is done. I don't want to do that for three more years!
So, publishing it is. But if I don't get onto the course I'm applying for, it's back to the drawing board. I'll just have to be a starving writer and live in poverty and squalor, wandering around the bleak city streets desperately searching for my next meal or a stub of pencil with which to scribble down my profound ideas, like Raskolnikov in Crime and Punishment, but without the grisly murder and all that. If that's meant to be, it's meant to be. Things will all work out for themselves in the end, right...?