The more I write about my travels, the more time I spend editing, revising, crossing out words and adding new ones, shifting my writing style entirely from a laid-back, slang-ridden chirping to a sort of technique that you too might understand if you happen to be over thirty years old. And I’ve come to remember that slaving over one sentence is, in fact, satisfying, particularly when I think, hey, I’d read that. The more I study and become exposed to various authors and genres, the more I push myself to match their quality of work, and with practice, I become increasingly convinced that the whole impossible ‘writing-for-a-living’ gig could one day be possible.

Yes, I am busy. Yes, I have limited access to Internet during my travels. And admittedly, even when I do have access, I avoid the web, with all of its distractions, from the mundane Facebook updates of fellow Gen-Yers to the temptations of checking Rotten Tomatoes’ score The Rum Diary (50% fresh/rotten, in case you were wondering).

But in all honesty, those excuses aren’t the reasons why I stopped updating this blog. I haven’t been publishing posts because I want people to take my stories seriously. It might a year before I’m satisfied enough to send my first article into a magazine or literary journal, but I’m developing enough faith in my writing to believe that with dedication, hard work, and patience, the fruit of my labour might be worth something. I’m not saying that a blog is below my standards—on the contrary, right now, I don’t deserve to be paid for my work at all. Even I must admit, though, many blogs are embarrassments to the profession of writing. They are terribly composed, completely egotistical (I know, I can’t exactly talk), and not worth anybody’s time. Obviously, I’ve finally accepted the existence the ugly side of the Internet, the Praise-Me-Though-I-Don’t-Have-Anything-Interesting-to-Say district of Internet-land. And to be honest, the work that I’ve published to this blog is never my best. I rarely spend more than one revision on it. I think I have the potential do better. Does that make me self-absorbed? I’m not sure. Is it a selfish desire to be proud of your work? Perhaps… but does that make it wrong?

In a nutshell, this has been an update on why I haven’t been updating. I’ve been writing, but I have loftier goals for my words-in-progress. I figure that after beating them to a pulp with the delete button and numerous goes at cutting and pasting, they deserve better than to be on Tumblr*.

*What will happen to InTransit? No idea, but despite everything I just wrote, I’m not ready to give up blogging quite yet. So stay tuned, hermanos y hermanas. You might find something interesting in this space in the next month or so.

It’s 2:00 a.m. on a Thursday night, (or Friday morning, depending on your point of view), and I dash to the building next door to grab my clean laundry. I’ve nothing but leggings, a tie-dye t-shirt, and cowboy boots to shelter me from that aggressive wind, but as I go back inside, I’m reassured that I’m not the craziest person here. I consider waking the young man in smart dress who is alone and snoring on the floor of the administration hallway, but instead quietly tip-toe over him.

As much as I want to say that I’m shocked, this is pretty typical Cambridge behavior.

Man, it’s good to be back. Bring it on, Lent Term.

“But Kasia, are you dead?”

No, but close. Consider: ill for the past three weeks, and I finally went to the doctor. Learned that I have a fever, probable ear infection, and caught a virus that has very possibly reignited my asthma. The asthma that I had when I was eight years old.

Keeping up with essays, let alone a blog, has been a struggle. Sorry, homes.

Here, have a photo:

Community living at its finest. Me, a little while ago, in the shared kitchen, stocking up on my Mexican food. This photo is only interesting if you are aware that I am the worst cook on Earth. I set my fire alarm off back at home just by forgetting that my tea kettle was boiling.

So homemade Thanksgiving should be fun.