So, the teacher in question recognized his mistake and made it so our papers were not due until the end of the week, we can e-mail them any time after Wednesday, load off of my mind.
Now all I have to do is study for the final, make a power point tonight, and tomorrow, study just the same. Then after class on Wednesday work on the paper at the office and type it up when I get home. Oh! The length was also changed, it is not 8 pages DOUBLE spaced, instead of single. Bless his angel soul.
I want to clear up my opinion about this man, as much as I doubt his dedication to the teaching profession, I am very certain he cares about the students. He is not a bad man in any regard, and what he lacks in the teaching gene, he soars at in his research and work on stem cells. I do not doubt his passion for the subject matter, nor his passion for getting people to agree with him, I only doubt if he is made for this profession that requires a certain amount of care and availability. My previous post made it seem as if I disliked him as a person, which is not the case, I just dislike his style of teaching.
I have about 25 minutes before I go into work, where I will do nothing except wait for something to do, and then end up doing nothing, because there is rarely anything to do. I'm a bit concerned because I'm not 100% sure where my paychecks are going, because I haven't received a single one. I should probably get on that.
I can't wait to have a bit of extra time, so I can throw myself back into my writing. I miss so much the days where I can sit and look at the shambles that are currently my play. I've been avoiding admittance that I'm stuck in a vortex for a while by consuming myself in poetry, but at the end of the day it really is the lives of Theo and Amanda that pull at my brain. I am so stuck at realizing why they are losing their words, or why it is their story and not someone else's. All I know is that there is something about these two characters I've created that I can't let go of. They have a story to tell I just don't know what it is yet.
In my playwrighting class I remember being told I can't be afraid to hurt them. I'm trying so much to push them to the limits they need to jump, but for some reason the text is getting lost in that struggle. I sit and stare at my scribbled corrections on the hard copy script and I honestly can barely understand what I meant by "no." or "NOT RIGHT!" I know when I made the notes I knew exactly what I needed to change, but after waiting so long, I feel like the reason I started writing this is lost in the fog. All I remember about the process was that I haven't lost Amanda's monologue. It was the first thing that came to me as I was sleeping and a woke up and wrote it down right away. It stemmed the entire piece. I don't know what I wanted it to say. I don't know what the story is anymore. I refuse to just throw it aside but my epiphany simply isn't coming.
I asked two of my former classmates to help dramaturge the play, but for some reason it doesn't seem to click. Their answers look like gibberish to me, and I know that it's not their intention, they really took time reading and e-mailing a response from states away, but my mind simply cannot comprehend what I wanted to change, or what needs to change.
I write because I want to be that person who takes someones breath away. I want to take my own breath away. This is a completely selfish and immature reasoning, but I don't know how else to acheive the peace that my sore typing fingers need. If I don't write I feel unaccomplished, no matter what I clean or sing or watch or how much homework I do, it's writing that calms my mind day after day. And perhaps being selfish is the only reason any of us do anything, but it makes me sad for my writing. I want to write for others but I seem to be only writing for myself.
I really wish I could just sit down and have all the poetry that I work on form itself into the plot of Amanda and Theo. But it's not, nearly a year later I am not even close to finding a resolution, and it's eating away at me.