I’m combing through my backlog, trying to recover what I can from my writing since my beloved Macbook finally gave up, and went down with all the contents of my hard drive (which I was dumb enough not to back up - my fault entirely).
It’s weird looking back. I feel guilty now for not upkeeping this blog, partially because I had a good group of followers who I like to think enjoyed my posts, and partly because I probably would have posted more of my writing that I could have recovered. I haven’t written a lot lately, a few short stories here and there, but that makes it feel all that much worse, knowing that I only had a small amount to show for myself over the past year and it’s more or less all vanished.
So what now? I guess I can restart. I can start writing again regularly, this time I can actually try to mean it. I don’t have any reason not to. I’m in England for the next 4 months. I’ve got tons of new experiences to use in my writing. I have new people and places to write about. I actually have a bit of time on my hands now for once. This might be the “bright side” people talk about in really shitty situations.
Unfortunately, if I do get writing again, I don’t think I’ll be posting anything that soon, as my computer is still stuck on the “white screen of death.” (It’s really an awful, hopeless name, isn’t it?) I don’t have the money to fund both my travels and a computer that I will need for homework and everything else, so I bascially need to chose between a new Macbook or traveling through England, Italy, and Scotland next month. Ha.
Don’t expect anything too soon from this blog though (you can, however, always check out my other one). I think for now I’ll delay writing for a bit more and continue to mourn my computer.
I like buying used books. Sometimes the used books have coffee stains in them. Sometimes they have ripped pages. And sometimes the used books have clever remarks or observations in the margins, like for example, “not the end” scribbled after the book’s last sentence. I feel like I just read the Half-Blood Prince’s copy of Vonnegut’s Deadeye Dick.
2.5 books into my holiday reading, and I love reading for fun and not for class.
Came across this while doing some light research on a paper I’m going to be writing on the censorship of Harry Potter in America. Very exciting business.
What is not exciting business is this blog, which I have been extremely absent from due to my lack of having a life/free time/inspiration. But you can follow my other blog where I post a bit more frequently.
Here’s a half-assed post/excerpt from a project for school. It’s pretty sloppy, and I’m not even completely satisfied with it as a school paper, but I really like this picture and I wanted to post it. It kind of sucks how I don’t even have time to write anything presentable anymore. On the bright side, my midterms are now officially over! Oh, but, I have to start writing and handing in final or term papers next week… The lack of relaxing time between midterms and finals is ridiculous.
The threatening skies from earlier had turned darker and more menacing, and it had begun to rain, thunder, and lightning. I wanted nothing more than to be home, to get back into the metro, back in my car, back to the West Island, back in my room where I could curl up and enjoy the storm from my room while watching the hockey game with my dog. Home is what I wanted, not the cold streets of Côte-des-Neiges. I found my way to a main street in the area, where the buildings and trees were less dense, giving me a spectacular view of St. Joseph’s Oratory and it’s awe-inspiring dome. Home. I suddenly remember when I was a kid, going to the park a few blocks from my house. At the park there is a mountain where I used to race my parents or brother to the top. There you can see the whole surrounding area, and I can remember it as if it were a map, or a small-scale replica of the suburban streets I grew up in. And from the top of the mountain, I would point to barely discernable shapes way off in the distance. On a clear summer day, you would be able to see the distinct outline of the Olympic Stadium, and you would also be able to see the sun hitting the tip of the green dome of St. Joseph’s Oratory, even all the way from the West Island. It always intrigued me, how visible the Oratory was all over Montreal. Sometimes, depending where you are, it’s as if you could just look up and see the glowing green dome at night, perhaps one of the most distinct symbols of Montreal, and despite any religious affiliation one may or may not have, you would be reminded that you’re home. Even though they may not be the streets I grew up in, or the parks that I played in as a child, Côte-des-Neiges is a part of Montreal, and is as much my home as any other part of this city.