I’ve been struggling the past two days to get going on my essay due Friday. I really am stumped, and it’s times like these, I’m realizing, that I really do not like writing. Sitting alone for hours and not coming up with anything worthwhile because of a) lack of motivation besides shame in a poor grade and b) cognizance of the many ways in which the paper can be done wrong but the few in which it can be done right is quite uncool, perhaps, if you will, as uncool as a submarine with a screen door.
Composing SMS text messages to boost my morale during these trifling times prompted me to realize that the beauty and allure of writing only makes itself apparent when it is not demanded by an outside official figure. That just sequesters the fun right out of it. Only when writing is done on behalf of the writer is it most effective, fun, and indicative of the writer himself.
To prove this, I could ask myself to create a short story, and I could expeditiously come up with a tale about a bandito and a peasant seamstress who fall in love much to the dismay of her father, the deputy of the town and a capricious robber baron. Ask me to write this paper on the themes of my class, and I fall by the wayside.
My inclination toward writing of my own will could stem from a lack of maturity, where I’m still stuck in my rebellious stage and frown upon all sources of authority. I think Mr. Bacon made mention of something like this the other night. I think it is more so, however, that I become sheepish when writing for someone else because I feel that I have to exceed their standards and, you know, make my mom proud and all that. I don’t really want to do that. I like to write freelance style, shooting from the hip with the things that catch my fancy. Those are my best pieces, the ones I get a kick out of writing, and the ones that compel me to deem myself a fan of writing.