This is one of the odd things about being a writer. I am now doing something, voluntarily, that I thought I’d left behind when I left college: research.
Apparently, being a a writer means research. Apparently, I’m finding myself once again at a table in the library huddled over several large tomes, making notes and taking down page numbers. The only difference between this and any given college paper, is that no one else gave me this assignment. The whole thing is my idea. I’m beginning to think I’ve gone mad.
Don’t get me wrong. Despite never having finished, I really enjoyed college, and the day I stop learning is the day I die. It’s just that the reason I never finished was the bloody research projects. Three years in, and I was still trying to get past first year art history, but every time I went to write a new paper my brain went: bored now.
Of course, that’s the difference, isn’t it? And even when I am interested in the subject, which I almost always am anyway, I’m not necessarily interested in the format I’m expected to deliver it in. Let’s face it, I’m always going to be more interested in learning something for my own benefit than I would be in order to make the grade.
So I’m delving back into the books, going wherever my errant mind will wander. Wish me luck!