A lot has been whirling through my head this week — seemingly impossible final assignments, never-ending lists of tasks, what to do with my soon-to-be graduated self, the plot of a surprisingly good book — but what has taken up residence in my mind this almost wintery day is a magical place: Seattle.
Well, what I think is magical. I’ve actually never been there myself, but that’s not the point.
In trying to balance this crazy week — massive project due, preparing for another night of putting together the newspaper, writing and lots of editing — I found another delight in reading. I read all the time: assignments, fellow students’ stories, other blogs, news articles and my nightly chapter of whatever novel I can get my hands on.
But while jumping from blog to blog this week, I found a link to a book excerpt I just needed to read. It’s Steven Pressfield’s “The War of Art.” This find was unexpected like a punch in the face yet refreshing like cup of cold water after a two-mile run, which you should know I never do. I break out in a hate-induced sweat just thinking of long-distance running.