Here @ school. It’s the “crunch” time of the semester where essays and research papers are coming in and students are getting overly anxious about their grades. Oddly enough, the first 13 weeks of the semester, no one seemed to care about their grade, now with everything in except a research paper and a final, everybody and his or her mama wants to know how to better their grades. My answer: LEARN.

N.E.WAY, there’s an online women’s literary journal that I’m trying to submit something to. They have a special issue on women mentoring women through text, and I’m trying to work on a prosey-non-fiction piece of sorts. I have always been a fan of women writers. Being a woman and a writer might have a lot to do with that. My main interest, it appears, seems to be with dead, white, women writers who committed suicide: Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Virginia Woolf, Anne Sexton, and Sylvia Plath, being the forerunners of the group.

I’m not quite sure WHY they move me so much except for the fact that their writings are universal. Real. I don’t have to be a woman whose husband cheated on her. I don’t have to be depressed or born in the mid- to late-19th century. I can still “feel” the works, the words, the voices. It still rings true, despite being “not” white.

So, I’m trying to work on a piece about a crazy black chick being locked up in “The White Room”…with a positive yet sobering twist to it.

We’ll see how it goes.

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