The Last Packet

As I near the final page of my term essay I begin to feel the flutter of relief in my belly. The butterflies in my stomach could be the ulcer I have been working on all term or the fact that I'm always hungry (this I trace to the massive use of my brain). Most likely though, it is the feeling of satisfaction that comes with finishing something.

The setting of goals is something I have always been good at, the accomplishment of said goals is another matter. The good thing about being in a writing program is the monthly deadline of work that keeps the writer in a productive mode. I had set the goal of having at least two stories done this term. I have none. Initially, this left a bit of a hole in my confidence. What exactly have I been doing the last five months? And how in debt am I again? But now as I come to the end of the term, I begin to think the work, although not finished, has been brought to a new level in a way that I don't fully understand. I have had to rethink what it means to accomplish something.

When friends ask what I've learned so far in school, a shiver passes over me because I don't really know how to answer that question. I only know that I am more aware of what I'm putting on the page. So although there are no stories to send to the New Yorker yet, there is only the knowledge that I've worked hard the last five months and that my writing has improved.

Maybe next term will bring about those two finished stories, after all, I have a thesis deadline to think about. Whatever tomorrow brings, I can celebrate the fact that new stories were written and that more ideas have sprung to mind. Maybe accomplishing something just means putting one foot in front of the other, for as long as possible. As people, that is all we can hope for.