Obstacles of a twisted writer in college
I am in the bus, leading to a new destination, to fulfill my life. I would have said to create it, but then it goes against my ideals: “You don’t start living when you become 18. A new beginning comes only after an end, so you just moved to another chapter. Nothing ended for you to start something new, you are just moving on.” Plenty thoughts invading my mind while I try to dry my tears of homesickness without even crossing the center of the city yet. “I will drag myself out of the nostalgia of the naive girl away from home for the first time by writing. Writing has helped me deal with harder struggles before, it will help me again.” Yeah, you semi-optimistic little mind of mine, when will you stop lying to yourself? Who would have thought that you could be so twisted and hard to deal with!
-Most of your assignments will be essays, -the first words I remember being told to me when explaining how the college works.
-That is amazing, writing is my passion, writing is my life,- my little mind smiled happily, and that smile appeared in my face too.
“You have to be that transparent, don’t you? Showing every little emotion or thought. Jump to conclusions without broadly thinking. Don’t move your muscles sweet face of mine, but how can you, like you control your own muscles! Don’t jump into conclusions my strange mind, but how can you, like you control them! Why can’t you be on my side, just once Brain? But how can you, like I control you!”
Plagiarism, in text-citation, works cited, paraphrase, quotes, examples, testimony, statistics… list of words that I used to find magical, as they made an essay make sense, be fulfilled. Without them an essay was as a home without love, just another house, a meaningless building, words thrown from heaven into a blank paper, fulfilling with emptiness an empty sheet. “You jumped into quick conclusions again, didn’t you? This isn’t high school.” Surprisingly I hated high-school, so much meaningless home-works, so many lost teenagers who were overwhelmed with life without truly living it, but I loved the essays. I could write about the system, about the selfish politicians who gain power and wealth in the behalf of innocent citizens; about the hobo that entered the bus and scared the hell out of us, but I felt sorry about and regretted of being superstitious about before I learnt his story; about same sex marriages; about my perception of supernatural and religion; about everything that I could think of. I remember that I could sit in the back and write in my notebook trying to finish that novel I started when I was 16, and about to lose my sanity, while the teacher explained the supply and the demand. If I only knew that I would be dealing with them again in college, I would have left my characters sleep for a moment and pay attention, but although I didn’t I had a better idea of applied mathematics in economy than of academic writing…
-Why do I have to write my ideas the way she wants me to? I want to write about the right of abortion, not about linguistics; I want to write about the right of expressing thyself, not about lies; I want to write about solitude, and lost friendships, and universe, and life…- and I kept complaining and complaining without realizing that I was indeed writing my ideas, in the professor’s way though, but still my ideas. Complaining and complaining and I lost the track of time, I lost myself in the middle of the words never spoken and never written. I put myself in a writer’s block, struggling to find the right expressions. Using different online tools to find the right synonym, the proper citation, the accurate source. I cried myself out of solitude and failed miserably, I laughed my way out of sadness and I failed even more miserably. Complaining about the constrains that were being put into my art, trying to deal with life on my own, I almost ended up in the bottom, without a way out to the top. Failing to deal with the mood swings when the only thing I needed was to grab a pen and a paper and write my heart out, as I did when my grandmother died when I was 10, or that summer of the first “platonic love” when I was 14, or that year when my family was falling apart when I was 16, but I failed doing it now when I was losing myself at being 18. I failed, because I lost the awareness of my being, not because of the academic obstacles put in front of me from my professors.
Maybe I am dragging myself out of the block lately by writing what I feel, maybe I am still failing miserably, but summer is coming, and I will fall in my sweet summer sadness and the happiness of writing will keep me alive.