I Hate Writing
I’m a writer who doesn’t write things down. I think of supposed insightful things I can say about my favorite book or our current economic crisis, promise myself that I will get to writing about it, so to practice this craft, and then I just . . . forget. I, instead, worry about life — mostly my status as an unemployed j-school graduate. Typical, I know.
I hate writing, and yet I was a literature major as an undergrad and studied journalism at a graduate level. Six years of pure torture, I would say. My writing ritual hasn’t varied much actually, though my workload gradually increased from daily, paragraph-length “journal entries” for Freshman English to 40-page literature reviews that would take days, actually, weeks to write.
I don’t know what it is. I would wake up knowing I had to write, go about my day absolutely dreading the moment I would have to sit in front of my computer to type my brain out.
And then the moment would come.
I look at my computer, very similar to the way Mayweather looked at Ortiz right before the clang of the first bell this past weekend. I mean, I have to show this Mac of mine who’s boss, right? I edge in closer and closer. Sit in front the guy, and then . . . blank — K.O.’d instantly. I would spend the rest of the night nursing my pain; trying to make my assignment sound easy, unforced, and perfect.
The headaches still occur today, four months after graduation. I realize I need to become stronger — Mayweather-status, actually. I aim to be just as obnoxiously confident, powerful, and perfect as he is. “Knock-out” people with my writing, if you will.
Now back to alleviating the headache I developed writing this post.