I’ve been dying to write. This quarter, I’m taking three classes and, for some reason, I feel like I have to have all of my reading done before I can write. I’ve spent some time writing, it’s true, but not as much as I’d like. Today, I finally finished all of my reading for the quarter (next week is the last week of classes) and tomorrow, I have “writing” officially on my to-do list. But, as soon as I crossed the out last reading assignment, I got a little nervous. I have to write tomorrow.
My freshman year of college at American University, my roommate Tracey laughed at me when I declared that I liked reading better than writing because at least when you read, you don’t have to think. I guess what I meant was that you absorb, you take notes, but the output is minimal. I’ve learned over time that this shouldn’t be true, but at least at the time it was for me. Now, reading is just as active as writing, but it’s still a lot less scary. Tearing apart, thinking critically, figuring out how ideas fit together while reading still makes you less vulnerable than putting the mess of ideas in your head into a coherent linear format that will then be read, torn apart, criticized and “figured out” by some other reader. I like writing. I like creating a story, a narrative, making some sort of an argument, trying to grasp connections and identify disconnections, but it feels like more work than reading. After a day of writing, if it was a really good day, I feel physically drained. I feel like I’m one with that written page (screen?) and I’m communing with my computer and all of the ideas that have been slowly leaking into my brain for the past 28 years (but mostly the past 2). It can be intense.
So, I finally get to write. I guess I better prepare myself.