I thought I was
done writing personal essays in High School with my college applications. Those questions were impossibly obtuse, for
example: If you were to write a 400 page autobiography what would be written on
page 257 or name what flower best describes your personality. Please just give
me facts, give me theories to refute, in other words give me a research
paper.
I don’t think my
lack of enthusiasm with writing about myself comes from a lack of insight. On the contrary, I feel like I can articulate
the inner workings of my mind very well in speech; I am awesome at
interviews. The problem arises when I
try to translate my thoughts to the page.
I am suddenly struck dumb at the sight of a blank computer screen. In High School I even attempted to dictate my
essays to a voice recorder and then typing up what I had said; needless to say
this resulted in very scattered essays with no concise point.
I am dreading
writing about myself, dreading the creativity necessary for such an
endeavour. I have a distinct lack of
creativity in most areas of my life—style, decorating, personality—I want to go
into a creative industry in the future but I want to manage the “creatives” not
actually be one.
Open prompts are
particularly intimidating for a non-creative such as me. Even when writing research papers if the
professor doesn’t give a clear question I will inevitably spend a few days
bouncing between ideas for my thesis before settling on one based on the
critical writings of others. There is a
certain amount of handholding necessary for non-creatives that creative people
do not need. “You want me to write a
poem in the style of Emily Dickenson? Blurgh!” These types of projects in high
school always filled me with dread whereas the creative types were always saying
things like “Can we write our paper on Othello in iambic pentameter?” I have an appreciation for the creative arts
and really admire those who have imagination I just cannot seem to master the
application of my own creativity.
I have always
loved other people’s writing. When I was
a child I used to get in trouble for staying up past my bedtime reading by my
nightlight. I had and still have piles
of books on my bed side table and keep a running list of books I would like to
read at some point in my life. In theory
my extreme love of books should yield a love of writing but I’ve only had
disappointment in the latter field. I
have visions of myself as a writer akin to Hemingway with a scotch and
cigarette in hand at some cafe in Paris writing novels that change the face of
literature. I dream of one day being a
war correspondent writing about conflicts in far off lands like Martha
Gellhorn. These, however, seem to be simple pipe dreams brought on by an
unhealthy attachment to made for television HBO films.
When rereading
my own writing I find that it is lacking; it lacks the bravado and originality of
James Joyce, the political prowess of George Orwell, the plot complexities of Charles
Dickens. I have no great philosophical
backing like Ayn Rand. My writing lacks
the tragedy of Thomas Hardy’s work and Leo Tolstoy’s morality. The humour of Oscar Wilde and the satire of Mark
Twain have no bearing with my own writing.
I cannot produce a social commentary like Upton Sinclair or Jane Austen.
It is not that I
have no attempted to write, I have many times. This can be observed in the
piles of 2 page filled notebooks and journals that fill boxes along with my old
high school essays and elementary school drawings of my mother and dog.
Sitting down to
write this piece I force myself to work even though the internet begs me to
search something random on Google. Thoughts pop into my head but they are
hardly relevant: “Why are bullfrogs named “bull” frogs?” “What was the name of
the first monkey in space?” These are
the things that come out of my creativity not any prose to rival
Fitzgerald. Eventually I force myself to
turn off the wi-fi application on my computer; this only proves to be a brief
deterrent to procrastination.
After staring at
a blank page for a few more minutes my anxiety grows to a point where my
“fight-or-flight” instinct kicks in and I choose flight. I procrastinate some more. My Itunes library
needs to be rearranged and while I am at it how about I create new playlists
for different events. How about one for skiing? Done. Excercising? Got it. Going to the Dentist? Okay, boss. Shopping
for plastic boxes at Crate and Barrell? Finished. Finally I run out of ideas and the playlists
must be abandoned.
I return to the
blank page and decide that my document first needs a name. So my document is
now saved as “Writing Assignment #1” and I have added my name to the top
left. It is a start at least. After another fifteen to twenty minutes
staring at the screen my eyes begin to wander.
They land on my book shelf where dust is accumulating in a layer thick
enough to cover up my family’s framed Christmas card photo. Well, this won’t do at all will it? I simply
cannot work in such a dusty environment. I climb out of my chair—after saving
my document of course, don’t want to lose all my hard work. I go to the hall closet and pull out a rag
and a spray bottle.
I begin to
clean. I hate cleaning. It says a lot
about the essay due if I am willing to clean rather than work on it. The situation must be desperate if I would
choose this form of procrastination.
I wipe at the
dust on the shelves and scrub as though trying to get Mr. Clean to erase the
work that I still need to complete.
Another hour
passes and it is finally midnight and I am forced to address the paper before
bed. I set myself a deadline and I will
adhere to it. I start simple by writing
down simple thoughts that have popped into my head while cleaning the sink and washing
the dishes. These bullet points will
serve as a guide. Little by little I
will complete this assignment because that is my only choice. I must face my fears. Even though my fears revolve around creative
writing and not fighting a mythical dragon but at this point... I would rather
fight the dragon.
No comments:
Post a Comment