Auntie Mame or Agnes Gooch?

So, last night I thought I'd go out and experience a Friday night on the town. My last Friday night entailed me walking across the lawn to the Boylan's to watch a new episode of the Brady Bunch. (I live the life of a cloistered, Jesuit priest -- sans the alter boys.) But, I didn't want to go out too early, so I sat down and watched Project Jay.

For the uninitiated, Jay is the first winner of Project Runway, and this was sort of a where-are-they-now episode. The man is clearly talented, and although I suspect he and I have absolutely nothing in common except oxygen consumption, I enjoy watching him put his life together. He's trying to launch a fashion line and I was impressed with his vision and passion. He knows exactly what he wants to do and how it needs to be done. He may very well be a genius in the truest sense of the world. The show included several montages of Jay simply designing; designing things that may never see the light of day. And each one was interesting and vibrant. And then the episode ended and I realized I'd spent another hour in front of the television set and had nothing to show for it except some vague admiration for someone I will never meet. And what's more, I simply went to bed. I did't even make any social contacts last night.

So, today is devoted to Jay McCarroll. I'm putting things in priority and at the end of the day, when I head off to another opera, I will have something to show for the day. This post is product one.

If I'm studying writing, then it stands to reason I should at least pretend to be a writer. When I tell people I'm working on a degree in writing, they always ask what kind of writing. Then I have to tell them that I'm not really a writer, that I chose the degree because I thought it had the broadest application to whatever I might want to do in the future. I can go into even greater detail about Ph.D. programs and communications and cultural studies; but I usually leave the conversation there and watch a confused look come over their faces.

The truth is I have written a novel. It's completely unreadable, but most signicantly it is complete. It's also three years old. I have a second one begun, but it hasn't seen the light of day in at least a year, and its subject has grown stale on me, so it may never be finished. Earlier this year I wrote some poetry that isn't half bad, but its not really my genre. Since I began working on my master's degree, I've only written a few academic papers, and none of them sparkling. Allegedly I'm working on a major paper, but I only have fragments and the deadline looms.

My apartment is a disaster. I haven't seen the inside of my gym in a week. I need to do laundry. There is only dry cat food in the house, which Butch is not happy about and I haven't had breakfast yet.

But a writer writes. So, before I accomplished anything else today, I wanted to have one complete piece of writing done. This is my best attempt. Tomorrow I will report just how successful the day was.