My African America Lit professor offered us the option of doing a creative paper for our next assignment, and I thought it’d be fun to write a play in the poetic-choreographed-black-feminist tradition of a woman name Ntozake Shange (In-toe-za-kay Shawn-ga). Except I’ve never written a real poem before, much less a play. What was I thinking? I spent over five hours at Metro trying to adapt this woman’s form, which she uses to relate her specific experience, to fit my own. You’ve seen me dance. You know I don’t know shit about women. It’s times like these, when I feel so clogged up that all I can squeeze out is trite crap, that I doubt my ability to become a writer. I don’t see in myself what it takes to distinguish my writing from the legions of other late-night artists. I know that’s a horrible way to view oneself, and I’d scold any friend who said what I’ve just said, but I’m frustrated—I should just go to bed.

Today’s saving graces were family, friends, food, and music. April, Mom, Peter Piper Pizza, Kevin, Kriston, Sandy’s, Weezer, The Promise Ring, DMX, Bob Seger, Justin Timberlake, Neil Young, Beck, Radiohead: Thank you.