Emily.

I have one final to go. Only one. And then there are no early mornings missing cups of coffee and rushing out the door and worrying and wondering over what is due and what will be due and if that important professor will like it. Until January.
There will be me and my mornings and coffee and Emily Dickinson because I devour her these days. Also Pooh Bear. I am enamored with Pooh this week.
I am done with this quarter. I am tired of some teachers and not tired of others, but still, I am done. I am especially finished with writing. Doesn't that sound awful? But it's the truth. I aspire to be a good writer, a better writer, but my writing class was my least favourite this term. By far. I think it was the teacher. She's a nice woman, with some good things to say, but I think what bothered me most was the fact that she aspires to be a writer too. I want to learn, I want to be taught, and I want it done by people who are confident, people who are, people who have that self-assurance. My teacher wasn't sure. I like sure teachers. She was young too. Youth is a downfall in my mind; it's one of those red flags that I try to ignore but it screams at me anyway. I blame people for their youth. And then I think, Oh, and what are you? You're young too. But in my soul I'm at least forty.
I think the best writing teachers I've ever had are all dead. One of them is Emily.