Only Eight More Class Days. . .

School is almost over for the year; only eight class days remain.  (And then finals, but they don't worry me.  I don’t have to take 'em, just grade 'em.)

 

Oddly, however, we seem to have entered some sort of temporal anomaly here in the U.S, or at least, in my little corner of it.  Time has slowed to a glacial pace.  These last weeks of classes are never-ending.  And the damned committee meetings. are multiplying like tribbles.  Only they aren't nearly as cute.

 

Thanks to all my LJ friends who offered encouraging comments about my recent problems with writing Janeway.  I've decided that I can't quite bear to be done with her, so even if my next couple of stories are repetitive and redundant, I'll stick with them.  Maybe I can write myself out of the slump.  I always tell my students that you don't know what you want to say until you write it out.  Writing is discovery, I say, in that maddening English-professor manner of making useless statements with an air of great profundity.  So perhaps I should practice what I preach.

 

That is, if time ever starts moving again, and I manage to fight my way through all the meetings and papers and exams and graduation festivities and awards banquets to that nirvana of FREE TIME that (supposedly) awaits me at the end of all the work.