I DON'T WANT TO STUDY FOR MICROECONOMICS THEREFORE I AM REFLECTING ON MY YEAR!

I received feedback finally on something New and Now I'd written. I
haven't the Frank-amended piece of fiction itself on hand to TRANSCRIBE
HER DISSATISFACTION WITH MY WORDS AND WAYS but mingled with highest
praise were along-the-lines-of-these things: This is cryptic, this is a
code you're asking the reader to crack and it's a bit too demanding and
This is a weak, cop-out adjective--say what you mean and choose one!
after my description of a Tribecan tower as "rising windowed, chrysler
buildinglike," among other evidentlyineffective things. I put a lot of
thought into whether or not to capitalize the chrysler and the building
and some (that) odd little compellingwhatever compelled me
aesthetically? or then why? not to. I had been thinking about William
Van Allen and about weight, about structures bearing it well and the
Marshall Fields warehouse which was in Chicago and succeeded at just
that; I wasn't thinking I'll Use This As Opposed to TALL or SILVER--it
wasn't even TALL or SILVER in my mind just a great way to say "like
some structure with larger windows at the bottom that narrow and are
spliced-rising as they spear skyward (and all!). Gosh, criticism! But
if I can't write successful short fiction (though I am certain I've
secured an A, after that (those--that's another story) hugs I got today
(etc.), can't create these little self-sufficient universes in which I
Know My Characters and Flesh Them Out and Show the Setting But Not too
Much and satisfy but also evoke and provoke, then what genre am I
suited for? The apathy one, please, can I write Xanga entries about
school and love forevar, please, even when I'm an investment banker or
housewife/at home this summer, all summer? (Mmmm.)

It's been an awful year: I've met cruel, cruel girls who did things I
bet girls in high school did but that I managed to avoid because I read
books all day and got to go home at 2:40 p.m., my brain constricted in
this weird way that felt like lifebloodpoetryenergy stuff no longer
flowed through it and I was a cookie-eating gym-going penis-discussing
machine, able to write fluidly only about art history and chronically,
immensely, oppressively unhappy but unable to identify quite why.
(HMMMMMM????) In September I had some experiences I'd occasionally want
to dramatize, really, in these silly screenplay mindmoments. October
and November were hellishish, and December cold and filled with a
little triumph and even less introspection. I read Harper's and all,
along the way; I earned great grades etc., there were a few novels for
pleasure but what is it about Mount Holyoke College that makes me
miserable miserable miserable and infinitely out-of-touch with just
about everything? It all improved around when I took yoga, pilates, and
kickboxing all at once and read Edna Ferber novels for about four days
straight because of the snow. I went to New York City and laughed and
had incredible Greek, Italian, peanut butter, and Moroccan foods with
Emily and her exhuberant floormates, one of whom I proceeded to fall
slowly and permagrinningly, deeply and thoroughly and
all-faults-encompassingly in love with. Nicholas!

We find good things to say about even the Bad People, we do accents and
giggle and he's incredible at Physics & other such pursuits but
mainly reading and writing. Our backgrounds are oddly sosimilar and
he's the kindest, most rational but also spontaneous boy in the
universe who understands entirely my mannerisms, my mind, and can allay
silly needless fears before they even arise. Hooray for Nick. Other
things: I'm transferring in the fall, I've decided not to go to Boston
or Belgium for the summer months but rather to spend time at home with
Erin, my mother, others cooking and working at a museum and
soul-searchin' and restorin'. I
don't much like these sweeping summaries! Maybe I'll write lots again
as to never have to do them.