The Personal/Artist’s Statement Nightmare
I have had enough today. My head is swirling, my stomach is sore and my children are driving me to nervous breakdown land (it’s real, I haven’t made it up, they have rides and everything).
Anyhow despite my ill health and impending nervous exhaustion, I have had quite a busy day. I (husband really) have fixed the bugs on the new charity site. Yes I finally decided on the name, got the domain and I’ve even designed the logo and everything, Look!:
I’ve dealt with numerous emails to do with arts/charity stuff. Sent out many more emails about the above, and then I’ve stared at screens.
Why, have you already lost it?
Yes I have but that’s another matter. I have stared at screens as I have 2 very important things to write. One is the blurb on the charity site to entice trustees to the cause. No I am not getting anywhere fast. I have all the good advice and intentions of those already working in the charity sector/ members of other charity boards going round in my head and much of it is conflicting and all I can think is
After finding the academic reference I was missing yesterday I was so joyous about the new course I’m applying for and then it hit me. The thing that all people applying for courses up and down the land dread:
THE PERSONAL STATEMENT
It’s ridiculous I know. I know and understand why I want to do it. I’m an intelligent person; I’ve done this 4 times before (left first degree as homesick, applied for a new one, did an MA, almost did a PhD…I should know what I’m doing: scoff) and I shouldn’t be frightened.
But I am. I think it is my fear of failure that is stopping me. The fear that I am kidding myself. That Prof Dewdney, head of art and media at my second Uni was wrong, that my MA supervisor was wrong and trying to be nice. That I am crap and a fool.
So I sit here, staring at a screen. Getting more and more annoyed with myself and wishing my children would please just be quiet and that Moo would please just not be autistic for a second and would not hurt his sister and that she wasn’t so clingy and that I didn’t feel so ill and that I could just write these bloody things.