I ran into my former fiction composition professor, whom I loved dearly, in the hall of the English Department today. After sitting down for a talk to catch up, I expressed to him the difficulty that I’ve been having with my book - he’s been feeling it, too, with his long-time coming novel - and explained the consuming frustration that I’ve been having with it. He essentially said that while it comes and goes in spurts, it never really goes away.
As the conversation progressed, David Foster Wallace’s death came up. Ted noted that Wallace, too, was a philosophy student.
Proof that no matter if I become a writer or a philosopher, the future is grim. Is it too late to have a quarter life crisis and become an engineer?
