Writing for Academic Publication and that novel I always meant to write

So I have started this course at Brighton University called 'Writing for Academic Publication' which is a bit like 'Writing the Greatest Novel in the World Ever' in terms of the 'gulp - I can't seem to write a word' intimidating task factor. I have just re-read my vintage at goodwood diary which is clunky as hell. Turning to Susan Stewart I find the notes I made two-ish years ago are scant (and a bit embarrassing)- realising a trip to the bookshop would be wise I am suddenly very happy to have a distracting task.
Factoring in some TV watching also seems crucial, but I know it isn't.
Still, when I am away from my desk the idea of writing this paper seems really exciting - I guess I just have to limber up like a ballerina.
Part of the problem I think is the fact that the Vintage festival itself threw up a few issues in terms of identity and (I am searching for one of those American words like 'closure') legitimacy (that's not the one, but it will do): Who am I, why am I writing this, am I creating a nice critical academic distance from the things that matter to me in order to make an emotional raft for myself? Where does the vintage-fan end and the researcher begin?
So when I sit down to write my paper, I feel like there is a version of me saying 'aw, look at you writing your little paper: tinkering with these ideas won't save you' and 'making something out of nothing, just like Seigfried (see the entry under 'Criticism' http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siegfried_Kracauer )' and then another one says 'as if you could even write about nothing with anything near the elegance of Siegfried you silly girl'.
I have to remember to transcend these, to leave the suitcase of critical papers at the door and just write - just write!

Clouds

There are fronts of pressure about at the moment, mostly vague or imaginary. I have a paper to write for a conference, I feel like I haven't read enough, I have a paper plan to email to the Writing for Academic Publication module lady .... These things can be done, and they will not get clogged together in a ball - I will untangle them and set them on a table like a dissected squid.
Jen said we shouldn't compare our own progress with others' with words like 'I haven't done enough': she's right, and I will keep this small truth as a spot of blue sky amongst the flat grey.
Now for the closest cloud, my paper on Vintage at Goodwood. Using diary in critical work has thrown up a spectre recently banished from other areas of my life - 'Do I sound like an idiot?'. No Critical Distance left to run: no dusty Frankfurters or Brummies to hide behind.
In a world of tweed and institutional wine, my little musings will be quite light - I'm hoping though that they'll be dusty and authoritative in their own future - a good vintage! Life placed in an imaginary past needs to be looked at, but by me this will be loving.

cor blimey

I have no bees in my bonnet - just here in the bibliotheque (can't spell French words, blarg) reading about snow globes and teddy bears.
Being back at Goldsmiths is very strange though, so many little things are the same; the paintings in the stairwell of the library, Essentials convenience store, Southern Fried Chicken. All a little too familiar for me to relax in just yet, there are a lot of very distant memories - was I really an acetate version of myself then, or is it the fug of memory?
I think that these memories are so connected to my ex-husband, and friends I only see once every tow years, add to their fadedness. Somehow though, it isn't sad because this place is becoming a part of my current life, and there are fresher memories - is this Sturken's repetition? Is it healing?
I certainly don't have any souvenirs.