Writing About Writing (Again)

There were certain topics that were off-limits for us at Northwestern in our writing classes. One of them was writing. We were pretty much forbidden from writing about writing. And it makes sense. We've all been there--the writer's block that makes you think a little too hard, and suddenly the block itself becomes a formidable villain. And why not? That's the evil that's preventing us from accomplishing our noble task of finishing the essay or poem. It's a "man vs. self"-type conflict, but with the added anguish of inner turmoil from outside pressure.

I am never more creative about the writing process than when I'm staring at a stark white computer screen, vacant page before me, cursor taunting me with its incessant blinks. I am a valiant knight, writer's block is my dragon. I type a few words--maybe they fit, maybe they're nonsense--but I just need to get something on that page. I can't stand the way they look. I backspace. That white void of a page is there again. My mind is empty. I have nothing to say. Sometimes I spin really fast in my chair, hoping to jar something loose. Maybe a thought will escape out my ear in the process and attach itself to the empty page.That never happens.

I tie my hair in a big knot on top of my head. It's my "thinking hair." I let it back down. I don't want to get ponytail bumps. I kick my feet against the floor. I only do this a few times. It sounds obnoxious and I don't want to annoy the people around me. I stare at my fingers. They're cold. They're always cold. I spin my ring around my finger, examine my fingernails. I crack my knuckles--now they hurt and I don't want to type anymore--not that I've typed anything in hours.

This is me in college. With "thinking hair."

This is what my life looks like. This is what my nights looked like in college, every time I sat down to write something. This is what my days look like at work. This is what my evenings look like at home while I'm trying to finish this play.

Where did all my good ideas go?

When I was a kid, I had an endless string of story plots running through my mind at all times. I worried there wasn't enough time left on earth for me to finish everything I wanted to write. Some were definitely stories. Others were books. Sometimes just a line or two, but with a little more effort a poem would emerge. Even a few plays rattled around in that little blonde head of mine. What happened to that girl?

People told her her ideas were dumb. That she couldn't be writer. That she didn't have the talent to get her work published. That her plots were "drizzled" and her characters weren't "round" enough and her settings weren't "defined."

And somehow, that creative little girl turned into a Writing Major, then a Sports Reporter, and then a Communications Coordinator. I churn out press releases and newsletters without needing to spin in my chair. Mostly, I copy and paste, recycle nonprofit jargon, slap on the mission statement at the end, and go home. I stopped "pushing my diction" and "staggering my breath units." It hardly seems necessary. Parataxis defined my college essays...now my supervisor always adds an oxford comma and an "and" when editing.

This play. It's making me crazy. It's the first creative thing I've attempted in years. I'm struggling with it. I'm having flashbacks to all-nighters in Moyer 12. Making a second pot of coffee at 11:37 p.m. because the one I made at 7 just isn't going to cut it. Begging my roommate to pick me up a smoothie and a giant bag of gummy bears from The Nest. Sprinting down the sidewalk in front of the dorms to print in the Student Center, knowing the essay I'm printing now is at least two drafts away from being complete, but I need a hard copy to edit. My eyes just couldn't even look at a screen anymore. Texting Jordan "Help? Christianity and Writing. Riley Lab, 30 min?" and being physically relieved when he texted back, "Yes. Good. Done."

We used to try to scare people when we went to the Stud to print. I don't remember why.

Also, this happened in the Stud. This was my roommate's boyfriend at the time. We were not friends. But he was a germaphobe, so I tried to make him as uncomfortable as possible. At all times.

I'm so thankful that I was able to be in such a competitive and difficult writing program. I am immensely grateful to my professors who pushed me, my classmates who challenged me, and Jordan who pitied me. I'm even more thankful I'm done with that.

These people, my fellow writing majors, were all geniuses. Also, please ignore what I'm wearing. I was really weird.

And now this play has resurrected all these horrible feelings of insecurity and self-doubt and left behind when I threw my graduation cap in the air.

Twenty pages to go, a few character arcs to tie up, and a plot seam to close. I'm close.

But that blank page and cursor sure is taunting me.