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December 10, 2003
Too Much Now
"I know you'll do just fine," she says on her end of the phone. "You're such a good writer."
"Yeah," I mumble, not really believing the words myself. If I'm such a damn good writer, why can't I bring myself to write another paper for the end of the quarter? What's so hard about polishing off ten weeks worth of grueling essay writing with a final, twelve-page minimum paper?
If you have to ask, you really have no idea.
I think people confuse my pleasure for writing for something else entirely. Being good at writing doesn't necessarily mean that I get excited over the idea of critiquing and analyzing works of twentieth century literature. And being good at writing doesn't mean that I'm always ready to sit and knock out page after page of literary madness. It. Just. Doesn't. I hate writing term papers just as much as the next person; there isn't anything enjoyable about it at all.
I like writing when it means I'll get the chance to write what I want to write about. Prompts that ask me to discuss the purpose death and mourning in Haitian and Dominican subcultures don't cut it. I must have knocked out close to thirty pages for this class already, and I'm about ready to stab myself silly trying to conquer this last monster. Craziness. Total craziness. If this were an essay asking me to describe the lingering effects of a male dominated society on "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," heck, I'd be all over that tiger. I can do Mary Tyler Moore. I could even write you a brilliantly composed thesis correlating obesity and schizophrenia on a show like "Seinfeld," but you don't see anybody asking for papers like that, now do you?
TV understands me. TV works. Everything on television is solved within less than thirty minutes, given commericials... If only I could pluck through my essay that quickly.
posted at 5:01 p.m.
