Meta-Writing: A College Assignment

Since middle school my only method for writing was to sit in front of the computer and wait for genius to strike. I couldn't continue unless I had the perfect introductory sentence. I couldn't write anything until had a witty, interesting, or unique start to every paper I wrote. I loved to write, and considered myself a good writer; but I just couldn't do anything until that first sentence was on the screen. That first sentence would prepare me for the rest of the paper. It would set me up, set my mind up, for the rest of the paper. My writing process has always been the same, and even when I was taught how to effectively write outlines to turn into drafts to turn into final drafts...I still resorted to my original approach.

When entering high school, I continued with my writing technique. I breezed through English classes and writing classes, and all of my classes. I was told I had natural writing talent and I joined extracurricular writing clubs and became an editor of my school's newspaper. I wrote in my free time, I wrote to avoid, I wrote to confront, I wrote to grieve, and I wrote to celebrate. I wrote. And I wrote, and wrote, and wrote. I stared at the computer screen until that first sentence was created in my mind and forced out through my fingertips and appeared on the blank page in front of me. I always had a general idea. I always had a basic plan. It was always in my head.

As my assignments got bigger and longer, my method finally changed. It evolved into an even more delicate process. It still started the same way, but then I began taking breaks in the middle of my writing. I would write and write and write until my thoughts stopped. Then I would take a break and I would check my email or go get a snack. Sometimes, if time allowed, I would stop writing for the remainder of the day. I would walk away and let my focus wander from my assignment in the hopes that something would trigger a new and inspiring surge of words for me to continue pouring onto the page.

I graduated from high school with a focus in journalism and creative writing and planned to attend college to become an English teacher. My passion for writing had surged and consumed my every ambition. I was a writer, first and foremost. Yet, college was nothing like I expected. My first semester of college I attended the State University of New York at New Paltz and after flying 3,000 miles away from home to try and find myself, I realized Oregon was where I belonged. My inspiration was in Oregon. My history and passion and skill were all tightly bound to Oregon. I flew back and started attending the University of Oregon, and yet I still didn't feel right. My writing was forced, and I was miserable. I transferred again to Portland State University and the first day of classes felt like a sigh of relief.

I was back in my element. I was in Portland again. College classes were hard, but I was still relying on my tried and true writing method. I would sit at my laptop and wait. The topics of my papers were getting more and more challenging. Yet, for every assignment I would go through the same hoops. I would sit in front of the blank page until creativity hit and then empty it all out over the screen. And when I couldn't write anymore I'd walk away. My grades weren't as perfect as they were in high school, but I was still above a 'B' average. Writing was becoming forced. Writing was an activity I did for classes I hated. I wrote papers about things I didn't care about. I wrote essays on theories that didn't make sense to me. I wrote reflections on books I had no opinion on. Through all the transferring and forced assignments my passion for writing was transformed into something ugly. Writing became a chore.

Currently, I'm a senior and only a term away from graduating from college. I am not getting my degree in writing, or even English. I still love to write, but it’s not the same. I still sit in front of the screen, waiting. For every assignment, it's always still the same procedure. I open a new document and click on the blank page. I type my name, maybe my professor’s name and the class title. Sometimes I type the date, but some professors deem it unnecessary. If I know I'll be typing more than one page, I create a header. Click view, select “header,” type in last name, click “insert page number,” hit enter and type a title, highlight the title and click the “center” button, hit enter and wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. An idea? Type it out; listen to how it sounds being typed on the keyboard. Read it aloud. It's not right. Highlight and delete. Wait. Wait, wait, wait. A better idea? Quickly type it out and anything it brings along with it. The process is always the same.

For the very paper you're reading now, I used it. For the paper I wrote last week, I used it. For the paper I write every week, I use it. I've used it over and over and now feel as though it's using me. I don't know how to write without it. I cannot create outlines on paper. I cannot draft an assignment without the introductory sentence that sometimes takes so long to come to me that I'll be sitting at my laptop for twenty minutes waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting for anything to strike my hands and instruct them to type until the ideas stop flowing and I begin to wait again; I’m waiting, waiting, waiting, again, again, again – and then, I rush back with more ideas waiting to be included on that white screen, to be included with the rest of the words and presented on their own piece of paper and assigned a grade, a value, for everyone to see. I wait. I waited then, between that last period and that letter “I,” I waited. Waited for the words to come out, like they sprout as if from nowhere. If measurements were taken between the length of time between my periods and beginnings of sentences, the time stretched out would reach from here to next year.

And now, when my words begin to come out slow like molasses, I can feel the end. The words are tentative. The well is drying. The ideas have stopped. The race is finishing. I have nothing left to say.