I’m swamped: Papers. Applications. Emails. Oral drills. Worksheets. Briusov. Blok. Akhmatova. Geothe. Flaubert. Hong Lou Meng. Saikaku. Higuchi.
And then I have these bursts of ideas for fiction, flowers in the midst of the muck. But I am sorry flowers, I do not have time to tend to you. You’ll just have to do your best in the mud.
But wait, is that not where you bloom best, dear lily? Even while I struggle to find time to even imagine fiction, you grow in the dark, and take root in the muck of my life.
Or maybe I am just making excuses for why I have no time to write fiction.