So, I went to back to school last year. I did my first Masters degree straight after my BA. Then, I dripped idealism. My outerwear was an insane cockiness regarding my future, namely, that it was mine to conquer. Fast forward a decade later and the cockiness has been tempered, replaced with a quiet confidence and awareness of self.

Many people thought I would find my current course a breeze, after all, 'you're a writer so you'll sail through those essays.'

For the record, I am not finding it a breeze. I have a BA in Politics and an MSc in Development Studies. The Masters programme I'm currently undertaking has core modules in sociology and anthropology.

I do not have a background - academic or otherwise - in sociology nor anthropology.

I cannot bypass these modules. I must take and pass them.

To be honest, I find myself wondering why I'm even on the course. There's a lot to learn and trying to orient my fiction writing brain in the structural order befitting academic writing sends the poor thing into cerebral meltdown.

But I must persevere. Because I owe it to my patient tutor, a woman I've actually grown  to admire. Because I've started the course and I intend to bloody finish it. Because I've paid for it, damn it.