Hello, sorry I haven’t blogged, et cetera, et cetera. But I’m here now.

This is the second last week of second semester. So basically, I complete my first year of university next Friday. Wow, it’s gone so fast I feel like I’m in The Sims 2 University. The academic year goes fast there too.

The books that I ordered from Angus and Robertson [an Australian bookseller] came yesterday, which was a pleasant surprise. Now that I’ve completed my last really huge assignment for the year (I do have a Psychology essay and HRM newspaper article diary to submit next week, but they’re small potatoes compared to this group assignment), I can read the last four books in the Gossip Girl series! (They stopped stocking them in the bookshop for some unknown reason. Probably ’cause they’re trashy).

I get to relax for a few days now, which will be good for my health.

Now to the part that I’m not sure I wanted to post.

I’m trying to write something. I don’t actually write much, even though I have been told I should be an author. I write poetry on average once a year. I’ve had good story ideas that maybe one day I will get to.

But what I’m writing… it’s not a novel, it’s probably not even a novella.

What in the hell is a novella?

And it’s not a memoir, because I can’t remember every single detail of my life to the letter. But it is a piece of autobiographical writing, based on the last four or so years of my life. And when I publish it… wherever I publish it, it’s going to hurt a lot of people.

Or maybe I’m flattering myself that they care.

But whatever. I need to write these things down. I need to tell my story. It’ll be like catharsis or something. The style is inspired by The Bride Stripped Bare in how it’s written (I’ve only written one chapter so far, though). If you’ve read Bride, you’ll know. It’s told in an unconventional way.

And it’s hard. It is hard to write this… thing. I mean, it’s not hard, as in I can’t write, I have writer’s block. I have the material for it. Boy do I ever. But it’s hard because memory is sometimes painful. This is reliving the last three, four years of my life.

I want to write. I know I can produce something I will like, but I don’t intend to publish as, you know, a book. But it will go somewhere. It won’t be posted here, but if you’re familiar with fan fiction, you can probably cotton on to where my story might appear. Now all that’s left is to write it. Chapter titles will be one word each.

I don’t intend to convince you that my life is interesting enough to write about, but to write will be to deal with it.

I mean hey. It almost worked for Sylvia Plath.