Predictably, whenever there are a billion other things I should be doing, I have tons of things I want to write about. I will make a list here so I can come back to it when I am overcome by post-finals turkey-induced ennui.
– women/women of color/poc in sci-fi (I know Joy wants to read this!)
– (un)hottest things ever (also known as, when boys call me “smart” as a compliment instead of actually engaging in an intelligent conversation with me, I know they only want in my pants. on the other hand — )
– when old dudes won’t SHUT THE FUCK UP and talk even when they know nothing in group situations (church book club/buffy discussion group, for example) and how I do not know how to deal with that aside from raising my voice in a manner in which I feel is rude. On the bright side, book club is at MY place next month, and I am going to make everybody hold the stick when they talk. NO ONE talks without holding the stick. Because apparently, we are in preschool.
One thing I do want to say before I forget about it: I was helping the ex-boyfriend through several revisions of his NSF application over the course of the week, and I made many a note in the margins. (I only discovered Track Changes in MS Word this year, and can I just say, it is my FAVORITE THING EVER?????) Anyway, he had a lot of sentences where I was like “there is no reason for these words to be this big” or “ACTIVE VERBS” or “you are an engineer, stop using the word ‘green,’ this is not Real Simple, ok.” Admittedly, the last issue is not germane to this discussion.
He pointed out that these things are easier for me, because I write all the time. To which I was like, “really?” Because, in my head, I only count my fiction when I think about writing. If it’s a not a story, it’s not really writing, in my book. However, I do write in my online journal all the time. Sometimes, multiple times a day, even if it’s just to say, this icon is the best icon ever (made by timewaslost @ LJ):
Also, I write a lot of papers.
I am generally reluctant to call myself a writer, because I always feel like everything I write is too short and TRAGICALLY UN-EPIC. However, this realization makes me happy and filled with the joy of the Medusa. Or something. 😉
This is why the internet is great. (See: Here Comes Everybody by Clay Shirky, which you should read.) WE CAN ALL BE WRITERS. HINT HINT HINT, my feminist theory compatriots! 😉