It’s the end of Spring term and, consequently, the end of my first year at Marylhurst University and I find myself in a strange mental space. This term has been one of discovery, of challenge and frustration, of newness and reflection, and of irritation. I’ve felt for weeks that I’m being pulled into pieces by the gravity fields of different projects and aspirations and responsibilities, and while I’m excited by these creative and educational ventures, I’m also conflicted.

This term I took an amazing creative writing class which focused on revising work previously written for other classes. I chose to revise a short fantasy story and a historical fiction piece, both of which I wrote last term. I’ve worked heavily on both. The short fantasy story is close to completion, only requiring a few line edits and proofreads before I send it into the publication universe. The historical fiction piece demands more time, as it isn’t yet finished. These things I know. This is part of the writing process. However, I’m irritated because, while I want to complete these projects, I also have others prodding at my consciousness; the fantasy and historical fiction pieces are only two of five I worked on last term, and all of them are demanding my attention. My science fiction piece flashes in my mind, stirred to the forefront by my excitement over the new Wonder Woman movie, pulling me to develop my bad ass female assassins; my other short fantasy story plucks at my fascination with tragic loss of love and begs to imbued with more, encouraging me to push deeper into loss and grief and and sexuality; my paranormal romance novel haunts my dreams and waking hours, linking heavy metal songs to the brokenness of my main character and his search for wholeness; and then, of course, the pieces I worked on this term are demanding to be completed. I have to choose, and yet I feel that each of them would be simultaneously the right and wrong choice.

Of course, as a writer, I am inevitably whirling with fresh ideas, new projects to which I have yet to commit myself. I want to work on them all, and I could, nothing is keeping me from that, except my own mind. Summer is approaching, and in the absence of classes, I’ve created a schedule of learning for myself: books to read and learn from, pieces to work on, my full package German Rosetta Stone to push through, a lit journal to manage, and an exercise regimen to keep myself sharp and healthy. I’m calling them the Five Pillars of what I want my life to look like, of who I want to be. I don’t want to waste my summer, and in the absence of any educational responsibilities, I know I will be tempted to relax back into apathy. I want to know that I have the discipline, the self motivation, to keep myself dedicated to a schedule of responsibilities I set for myself. I want the assurance that I can not only create a schedule, but stick to it, without the external deadline of assignments.

Next year is my last as an undergraduate student, and potentially my last year at Marylhurst University. I know that graduate school is a must for me. I know it in my heart, I feel it in my bones; I think if my DNA were examined, they would find the strain M F A worked into the double-helix. I also know that I want to absorb as much as I can from each facet of my education, and if I begin an MFA program without an already established, self-inflicted writing/reading/study regimen, I won’t gain as much as I know could. Therefore, this summer is crucial not only to my present, but also to my future. It’s a high standard. Keep me accountable.