I have been working on a critique since Wednesday. Usually I can churn out my ideas within a couple of days--mostly because during any given week, the only time I even have free is the weekend. So I surprised even myself when I started mapping out this paper practically a week before its due date.
Now there are less than twelve hours until I must surrender these perfectly-printed pages to the God of all English teachers, and as things currently stand, my offering for him is looking to be weak indeed. If my classmates and I were farmers and our papers were crop yields, I would be the shamed grower whose entire surplus fell victim to a plague of angry, voracious locusts.
How can a book that I find so fascinating and engrossing, that I have practically tabbed to death, be so incredibly difficult to comment upon?
Perfection, it seems, is best left well alone.