Next year seems to be approaching awfully fast. A little bit too fast for my liking to be honest. It's fast-approaching and seemingly distant at the same time. Sometimes I look around me and wonder how on earth I am going to survive this country for another 7.5 months, and other times I look around me and find it hard to believe that 4.5 months have already passed me by.

When thinking about next year, one of the first things that always comes to mind is what the hell I am going to be doing with myself. I can see myself in Grahamstown, with a job as a journalist at Grocott's Mail, running around and interviewing people and coming home to my awesome boyfriend. And whenever I picture a job at Grocott's, I don't just picture myself as a reporter. I can see myself doing some of the other things at the same time - Lara Salomon: reporter, photographer, editor, ruler of the world.

I did a little bit of editing at my time at Grocott's anyway. It wasn't too bad. It was quite fun actually, holding someone's article in my hands and trying to turn it into something printable without changing the essence or the style of the person who had written it. Trying to take someone's hard work and turn it into something more. It is a powerful feeling holding a person's pride in your hands and knowing that you can make it even better. Or at least, you can have some part in making an article amazing. I quite like the idea of editing really. Or I did.

Today I have edited seven stories. Seven out of the twenty seven that I still have to edit. 37 pages out of the 127 that need to be edited by me by the end of this week. And I hate it. These stories are ones that I have read over and over and over again. I am tired of them. I want to throw them in a corner and forget about them, maybe come back to them in a couple of years time, but that's about it. Instead, I have to scour over them once more, dissecting them, looking at each page, each paragraph, each line, each sentence, each word and make sure that there is nothing wrong with any of it. It is dreary work. I hate it.

And so, instead, I have spent two hours reading over seven stories and spent an hour being inspired to write my own. Perhaps I am more of a writer after all.