I’ve had an awesome (self-aggrandizement is excellent, isn’t it?) post about literature in post-1911 revolution China brewing under the ‘drafts’ tag for quite some time already. Namely, two weeks. I was planning to put it up, spit-and-polished, sometime last within the past 7 days, for the enrichment of my non-existent readers, and for my future self who would have likely forgotten whatever insight I’d gleaned.
Unfortunately, my working on it was pretty much conditional on the completion of my World Literature 2 essay, which I thought would be a piece of cake. I had handwritten notes! Not to mention, I greatly admire Lu Xun and relish his writing. (Ironic, I know, as apparently my IB grade in Chinese is not truly reflective of how inadequate I am at the language. Still, I am somewhat able to grasp Lu Xun’s unpretentious vernacular - that, and that I’m working off an English translation.) But alas, I say ‘unfortunately’ because I am sure anyone could take a stab at what deplorable sequence of events happened, and hit the bulls-eye right on. The tendency for imagination to collectively align is a wonderful thing, but it worries me that my procrastination complex (for complex it honestly is) is arousing lazy stereotypes and generally handing out bad impressions; besides, at this critical juncture, it really isn’t wise for me to put off such work.
I can analyze myself to death, and maybe I shall - but I cannot afford such a luxury today. (I should consider taking psychology in college.) There’s a great net called ‘passion’ that’s mitigating my rapid descent into the very bowels of the hidden cirriculum. However, it seems that at the moment I’ve accumulated too much inertia to immediately spring back up.
