WHY I DON'T WRITE
This piece was an exercise for Writing 220 that led to my eventual creation of the Why I Write essay. It was really interesting to write about why I don’t write, especially when I knew that I would be writing an entire essay on why I do. This turned into a stream of consciousness type of rant, and I think that I was able to capture exhaustion and frustration well with this style. I think that this piece is one of the best representations of me as a person, and it also captures my voice and personality well. This was one of the first times I really committed to the stream of consciousness style, and I realized that it felt very genuine. This realization really influenced how I approached the rest of my writing for the Gateway course.
I don’t write because I am too tired. Too tired to process thoughts and put them into words and onto a page. When my brain is mush and my mind is so exhausted that it can’t even stay in one place long enough to identify an idea to commit to words, I don’t write. I can’t write. After a long day of class, my eyes are glazed over from trying to make sense of what has been projected on a screen and my brain is exhausted from trying to catch and hold onto information that has been thrown at me too quickly. It’s that “I’m too tired that I’m not even tired and my mind is racing and I can’t settle on a thought long enough to know what I’m saying” kind of feeling, and that feeling prevents me from writing. Writing requires a clear mind and a little inspiration, and without these, I don’t write. Without some kind of prompt or guide or question to answer, I sit and stare at a blank computer screen. The cursor blinks at me like cats blink at you when they are asking “What do you want?” and I look at the screen not really knowing what I want. I guess I want my ideas to shape into words and then into sentences that make sense to others even if they don’t make complete sense to me.
I don’t write on a blog, constantly logging my thoughts, and I don’t write in a journal, organizing my ideas into pretty lines in a pretty book. I wish I did sometimes. But I don’t write because I don’t have anything to say. Creativity comes to me in the form of sentence structure and wording, but unfortunately it evades me when it comes to writing spontaneously. In the way that matter cannot be spontaneously created, neither can my writing. I don’t write when I don’t plan, because without a plan, I have nowhere to go. Without the comfort of some kind of road map and some idea of a destination, I am too afraid to venture into the unknown. I don’t write because I am afraid to commit. Spoken words disappear into the air, but written words must be deleted. Deliberately removed, backspaced or erased. Because I want things to fall perfectly into place on the first try—a rather unreasonable wish—I don’t write. In-class writing is not my kind of writing, and because I don’t have to option to not write, I do. If I could choose, I wouldn’t. The sound of frantic scribbles from around the room plague me, and I try my best to scratch some words onto the page. Sometimes even when I really try, I don’t write. Nothing comes to mind and nothing comes out of my pencil that seems to lack the magic that everyone else seems to have. As the clock tick tick ticks, my mind remains blank. It is in these moments that I wonder why I don’t write.
However, in this particular moment, I write.
I don’t write on a blog, constantly logging my thoughts, and I don’t write in a journal, organizing my ideas into pretty lines in a pretty book. I wish I did sometimes. But I don’t write because I don’t have anything to say. Creativity comes to me in the form of sentence structure and wording, but unfortunately it evades me when it comes to writing spontaneously. In the way that matter cannot be spontaneously created, neither can my writing. I don’t write when I don’t plan, because without a plan, I have nowhere to go. Without the comfort of some kind of road map and some idea of a destination, I am too afraid to venture into the unknown. I don’t write because I am afraid to commit. Spoken words disappear into the air, but written words must be deleted. Deliberately removed, backspaced or erased. Because I want things to fall perfectly into place on the first try—a rather unreasonable wish—I don’t write. In-class writing is not my kind of writing, and because I don’t have to option to not write, I do. If I could choose, I wouldn’t. The sound of frantic scribbles from around the room plague me, and I try my best to scratch some words onto the page. Sometimes even when I really try, I don’t write. Nothing comes to mind and nothing comes out of my pencil that seems to lack the magic that everyone else seems to have. As the clock tick tick ticks, my mind remains blank. It is in these moments that I wonder why I don’t write.
However, in this particular moment, I write.