Write Way to Live Wrong – Poor Student

Looks like the old adage that ‘you never stop learning’ is true here. I just didn’t think it would be too much like the school-learnin’ that I’ve found myself returning to again and again. Academic school is usually the antithesis of real life but yet I find myself writing reviews, editing articles, dog-earing books (as opposed to an earring on a dog), doing historical research and even studying for a test!

And yet, it always seems like I’m working on the wrong things. Living up to my erratic series ‘The write way to live wrong’. I’d love to be working on my fiction right now but there’s so much to do and prepare for and find. New job… nay, new career. But I’m qualified for so little. Everything is now specialized which makes everyone not special. And solipsistic society crumbling over it’s own over-accreditation. But maybe I should save the rant for another post.

I guess the takeaway here is sometimes you can be busy and productive as you can possibly be and it still won’t be enough. As we spread out to find the things we love and the niches we can fill, the harder it gets to keep up with everything. This is especially true for the stereotypical life goals that are ever-present. A friend recently told me that they were going to get a single section of a plain, spiked fence to put in their cramped apartment to say they’ve reached that goal of having a white picket fence in their lives. I like this. Sometimes the ridiculous is the only way to face the constructed, chaotic order that is life.

Now, back to the billion projects. Wish me luck… especially for the test… of life… and my actual test.


Introducing: Micro Mondays

I’ve been meaning to start a few recurring segments on this page so starting today Mondays will now be Micro Mondays. In these posts I’ll look at the microscopic side of writing. Whether it’s the Little Free Libraries that inhabit the different neighbourhoods of the city or the advent of microfiction or looking at the books for the micro-adults (children) I will be putting on my ant-suit and shrinking down to take a closer look.

Today I’m going to share an unpublished piece of microfiction I wrote a few years back about the horrors of those tiny pests you can’t always see. I hope you enjoy Tiny Bites

Itchy. Above the skin. I can feel them. On my arm hair. Small bites smaller than the eye can see but still my nerve endings go off like hundreds of mini fireworks. I scratch. The red skin fades to white. Relief. The discomfort moves. Merges with the skin. They crawl. It crawls. The whole sensation crawls. Powder. Bath. Water. Collar. Liquids. No solution. On me. On my clothes. In my bed. The scrapes become scratches become slices become lacerations on my skin. The opening allows them to get under.

Fleas. Flee!

My cat casually paws at its neck.