That is a pretty accurate description of how I feel after my creative writing class every day. Found it here.
"The first time I heard Heartbreak World by Matt Nathanson, I was watching a train go by, wondering if I should climb aboard or throw myself under it. I'm pretty sure God decided to talk to me that day."
It needs work, obviously. But I didn't think it was quite as wretched as Sir Eliot did.
I so do not want to suck up to this guy, but turns out he was the fiction editor for some fancy shmancy literary magazine and he's got contact info and clout... for the right student of course. All this time I thought he was just some washed up poet and I never hid my eye rolls and heavy sighs. And now he literally detests me and anything I write. Today he was seriously offended that I suggested we name the chihuahua (for a writing exercise) Michael Angelo (yes I know it's spelled wrong. It's part of the silliness). I mean, come on, that's funny. Right?
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