"An Education Isn't Always By The Book": Changing Courses at University

Whilst reflecting on second year at the University in Glasgow, I could describe it all through a number of memories; my friends' arms wrapped around my shoulders, whispering how glad they are to have met me; the taste of unfamiliar lips on mine; the sensation of glucose coursing through my veins at 1:30am in the library, forcing my eyelids open and keeping my head above the keyboard; the uneasy feeling that the endless snow had worked its way into my jacket, and into my shoes, and somehow into my bra; the laughter over one drink after another drink underneath the dim glow of Glasgow's most charming pubs; the tears that stung as I laid eyes on the email revealing my English lit essay result, and the depression that followed it.

Indeed, there has been no constant flow of good fortune, nor has there necessarily been the alternative to that. Yet in many ways, second year has been the most fun I've ever had, and the most comfortable I've ever felt with simply being myself; I feel loved, supported and appreciated for the young woman I am. My virtues and flaws are acknowledged and accepted. My friendships are equal; I never feel like I'm 'chasing' somebody, or that I'm the one falling over herself in the pursuit of a tiny snippet of conversation, only to feel like the fool when the person isn't there to help me back up.

But second year has also been a time of crippling doubt, and the dreadful sense that very soon I will have to make a decision I'd really rather not have to face.

I'm not confident in my degree subject, and to be honest, I never have been. Like I said in my last blog, I love books and I love writing but at university my grades have been consistently mediocre. Even after locking myself away from everybody else, ditching social occasions for the library, calling in sick at work to give myself the extra time on more than one occasion, I've still not achieved what I need to enter third year, and it's unlikely that I'll get there. With all that, I kind of fell out of love with the course along the way, too - I resented reading. For the first time in my life, I just did not want to pick up a book.

But I've made my decision.

Due to the flexible degree programme here in Scotland, I'm going to be switching to a sociology degree. I'm on my fourth year of studying sociology in total and have found it consistently inspiring and enjoyable. So really, it's only 'game over' for English Lit, not Glasgow in general. But it's been a difficult process to accept, and I can't say I haven't punished myself in the mean time; comparing myself to my more academically successful friends, wondering what my English teachers from school would think of me if they saw me now - the girl who would jump out of bed in the morning at the thought of their lessons.

But why punish myself any more? Like the quote in the blog title states, an education isn't always 'by the book'. For what I obviously haven't learnt in seminars, I feel no less enriched. I have a greater understanding than ever of how it is to simply be a young woman in this century - my academic results could never quantify that. There's no essay entitled 'How To Be A Good, Fulfilled Human Being' with scribbles and question marks in glaring red ink. There were never any lectures on the education I've really had whilst my academic one interested me less and less by the day.

I have learned that I cannot ever fully alleviate the parts of myself that I so frequently wish didn't exist, only learn to work with them; some friends really are going to be there for ever, and some have apparently just been checking their watches this whole time. I have learnt that being deeply introverted does not make me boring; hey, I can still churn out a damn good column. I have learnt that I need not be validated by male attention. In the hardest lesson of all, I have learnt that I can plan for my life all I want - you know, do my masters' by 23, move to London by 24, find the right man by 26, be a mother by 30 - but the truth is, that's just not realistic. I have never felt so uncertain about what lies ahead and that plan has been utterly jeopardised. I never anticipated having to feel like this, asking myself these questions and wonder where it all went wrong. It's not worked out.

But that's not to say that it won't work out at all. Between you and me - I'm hopeful. I really am.

How To Get Out Of A Creative Rut

I think I've dealt with this all wrong.

That's not an easy confession, mind you. If I was going to write sad Tweets and slip some unreasonably morbid comments into casual conversation, I would at least like to, you know, own that. Making it sound sassy and cool and clever - some real "tortured soul" kind of rhetoric, like I'm the sort of chick who wears black all the time and sits in boutique cafes smoking and looking terribly, terribly sad. That said, I'm not sure anybody gains followers from their excessive use of ":(" and "D:" in all their social media posts. In fact, I'm certain of it, and this is me throwing my hands up and saying that me doing so recently just isn't right.

"It is the measure of a man [well, a lanky, rosy-cheeked twentysomething] to admit when he is wrong" Well, let me admit it - I have been absolutely wrong in how I've dealt with this writer's block.

The fact is that I'm a creative; always have been, right from primary school. I don't know the first thing about plants and I still haven't grasped basic arithmetic (just thinking about long division gives me a headache to this day...) but what I have always loved is the freedom of creativity and expression. I don't feel I have anything new or original to say on this really, but the phrase I'll essentially repeat from the millions of writers, artists and musicians before me is that I liked to express myself through art, and to me words paint the most vivid and brightest pictures of all. I want to both admire beauty and to create it.

This continued long into my last few years of school, even during the final examination months in which pupils are generally driven mad by their intense desire to be absolutely anywhere but inside the classroom. A common whine from resentful GCSE English students is "maybe the author used that word because he just wanted to?!" or even "seriously Miss, you're just looking into this too much!"

Looking back on the numerous occasions in which those comments are made, I am literally mortified by these comments. Everything in a text is purposeful, an author has used every word, every metaphor, every use of a comma for a reason. But what exactly is that reason? It's literally just down to you and your own interpretation and even now to this day when my English Lit degree drives me senseless, that is still absolutely fascinating to me. I sought answers to that question in the confident knowledge that whilst my answer might not be the *right* one, it is at least my own.

But what happens when the creative fails to create?

In this case, the creative gets a bit...peeved off. Actually, that's a bit of an understatement. The creative opens a Word document and cries when no words are formed, the creative doubts her own abilities and compares herself to her more consistent friends, the creative has to fight off that sneering voice in the back of her head whispering "you can't do it. You're not worthy, you're not capable, who are you kidding? You could never do this for a living"

This blog output gets less frequent as time goes on. Sure, I have half formed ideas, but it's just that they never quite get finished, and putting those ideas into words that might be interesting or amusing to read is a surprisingly tricky experience. It's incredibly infuriating, especially since I regard this blog as an extension of what actually goes on behind this lank, overgrown fringe of mine. And if nothing's happening right here on this very page, then what the hell must be going on behind there?!

It feels...empty. I make one dot on the page and then tear it up again in defeat, dissatisfied and disheartened. But right there, that is my mistake.

My mistake is in assuming that because I am more creatively inclined, it is my divine right to create. Saying those words out loud, those petulant, overly reactive words - "but this is MY THING!!" - is not helpful, they don't somehow summon the "powers above" who will appear just to enable me with some original ideas and inspiration.

I have to work for my ability to create, not just sit there and wait for it to happen to me. I need to go out there and find it. I need to look beyond the "meaningless" interactions I encounter every day. I need to make more mental notes, ask more questions, remember things that stand out for whatever reason. I need to stop comparing myself to other writers and punishing myself for not being "up to standard".

"We are what we repeatedly do" wrote Aristotle. What do I repeatedly do? Tweet and ruin my mascara out of frustration. I think we can all agree that's not okay, so it's time to "do" something about it. Perhaps even starting with getting a new mascara, because I didn't pay a fucking fortune to get panda eyes.