Check this beauty out:
Massive cut, right eyelid. Man, throwing bar glasses is dangerous. That sucker shattered and clocked me right in the face. It’s left a lovely mark, I just wish it’d been vertical. I could have made an excellentBond villain.
Ok, fine, my dog punched me in the face. It hurt about as much as I’d expect a broken beer glass to. Thankfully it was just the lid, otherwise I may have been blinded. Adina needs her claws trimmed.
So, in keeping with my new double-update challenge, here is my average non-literary post of the week, along with a big, scary announcement.
I’m going to grad school. I made a choice, and of course it’s the most hellishly expensive program because I just love being in debt, but they have a 94% placement rate post-graduation, they’re local, I can get there by train, and they promise to spit me out awesome. Sadly, in the world of professional writing, you need to back your credentials with more than, “I’m awesome, and I can spin fire.” I should be working on choreography, by the way.
I’ve applied for a few copywriting jobs and few less fancy ones. My current job seems disinclined to give me a reasonable amount of hours (despite my staying 3 hours later for them today), so alternate arrangements may need to be made.
Now that I’m planning on grad school next Fall, I get the joy of saving up as much as I can, building a blindingly brilliant portfolio of written pieces, and expressing what inspires me and how I inspire others in a 200-word-or-less essay. And hopefully I’ll escape the retail beast.
Surprisingly, my family seems on-board with this absolutely insane idea. This is good. I’ve pulled my Brenau strings and have received some sage advice, and I feel pretty good, if nervous as all hell. I’m still waiting on said grad school to email me with more info.
As I suspected, further education is really my only option. Barring the Experience Paradox, I lack professional writing credentials. Sure, I wrote for a newspaper for 6 months, I’ve done odd jobs for a few companies, but all I’ve ever really written are essays and research papers, and one massively disappointing thesis. They want experience, I need to find it.
It may also mean I get to wear all the new journalist clothes I bought and then never got to wear. Yay fashion!
Next week, it begins: looking for alternate work, choreographing a poi bit to “No Light, No Light,” more belly dancing, seeing The Avengers again, finding a decent pair of riding pants to alter, perhaps buying fabric for Patchwork Beast II: Back in Black, and maybe getting a decent amount of sleep. The last is unlikely.