On the last day it was due, I finally finished my Photoshop class and took the final with a 94%. Yeah me! I’m so overwhelmed with relief that I can’t even face sleep, even though I’ve been putting it off for a few days now.
I was planning on finishing my last class late last night, but I got distracted with a new ipod shuffle one of Bear’s vendors gave him, so it ended up taking me a little bit longer than I planned. That left me with one last class and a final, on the last possible day, with plans this evening and no sleep at all at 4 am. So I decided to bite the bullet, power through the remaining Photoshop, and then sleep as long as I could instead of risking missing any deadlines. I’m now completely nocturnal.
Very little in this world gets me as excited as a finished project, and I’m on the roll of a lifetime right now, or at least what feels like one for me now because my standards are so very very low. Not only did I just finish all those home renovations, but now I’ve knocked out this class, and in my breaks between photoshopping I’m nearly finished with that big nasty messy advent calendar project. All that’s left is to glue the tiny hinges on the tiny doors.
Now that I’m drunk on my feelings of righteousness, I’ve made a decision I’ve been putting off. It’s been a while since I wrote for the 50 Book Challenge. Not because I haven’t been reading, oh no. I’ve got books 31 – 42 finished and glaring at me with recriminations every time I sit down at the keyboard. No, I’ve been putting it off because I don’t think it’s fun anymore. I really enjoyed the changes it brought me in my reading; I thoroughly enjoyed reading a book more critically knowing I’d have to have something to say about it afterwards, it was the having to have something to say about it afterwards that I didn’t like. I’ve discovered I’m just not a critic. Books are way too personal to me to bother with all that. It’s too internal.
And critiques are all so wildly subjective, is there even any point to sharing them with someone who didn’t ask? Even critics I like form opinions so wildly far off from mine that I wonder why I bother seeking them out at all. This guy hated a movie I was really moved by, and this girl listed as two of her favorite books two books I hate with a force that defies reason. And a book she hated was one of my favorite finds of the year. It just goes to prove that there’s no accounting for taste. Mine or anyone else’s.
So enough of that. If I find a book I loved, or for that matter one I hated, maybe I’ll still write something, but I never realized how much work it was to come up with an opinion for something totally meh.
