I’m writing an article on poetry, and it’s very very hard because I almost never work with poetry and have only a very vague idea of how to that. So I read a lot of people who do great poetry analysis and try to find my way. (Thank you, Jonathan, for your The Poetics of Self-consciousness, it’s really helping. The “censorious final chapter,” as somebody called it, is exactly what I needed.)
And so finally, finally, I’m starting to feel OK about my article. Ideas start appearing. I feel a sense of freedom as I write. This is shaping up to be the most honest piece I’ve ever written, chock-full with “conservative talking points” from Marxists like Dardot and Laval, Bauman, Ventura, and others.
But it’s the end of the academic year, and the world has conspired to try to distract me with inane things I don’t care about. It’s an almost physically painful feeling when you want to write, you are desperate to write, but the world doesn’t let you stare at your document in peace.
This makes me very irritable.