Some self-respected writers say that they’ve fallen in love writing. In my experience I’ve sort of fallen into it in an almost I-don’t-know-what-else-to-do fashion. Respectfully, I can say it has been a challenge.
When I say it has been a challenge I’m not referring to the eight-page research paper that we were assigned in an English Composition class. For me, my initial instinct isn’t to delve my emotions into a paper about school uniforms and how they’d be fitting for the public schools’ dress code. My instinct is to solely to reach the word count. The words on the page carry minimal personal meaning at best. The passion is almost omitted and the feelings are absent. That is where my rut began.
I began writing whimsically near the tail end of my junior year. Why I chose the word “whimsically” is because my driving cause began something like this: Boy sees a girl. Boy finds the girl fairly attractive. Boy talks to the girl and see’s that he enjoys being around her. Boy then hangs out with the girl. If I had foreseen this as how I was going to begin writing, I would have made at least a feeble attempt at making myself look and act a bit more coherent, but I didn’t.
As my friend drove his Corolla through her neighborhood that Friday night, I sat in the backseat overthinking basic scenarios. I would have been better off paying attention to the Meek Mill lyrics blaring through the speakers. He was right, there is "levels to this sh*t."
My thoughts went something like this: Is she going to be at the front door or will it be her parents? Do I knock or ring the doorbell? Maybe I should text her to let her know were here. Meanwhile my mouth was full of a culmination of intending expressional words, yet wouldn’t make much sense when spoken. Before I could compose myself the car was parked outside of her house, there she was and there I was wishing we could have been lost a little while longer. To cut the story short my thoughts and mouth never got on the same page. But the thoughts didn’t flee.
When I got home I sat down on my couch and looked at my TV with a blank stare not knowing what else to do. In front of me laid a notebook I had gotten when touring the University of Pittsburgh. I didn’t think much of it since I could barely muster through an essay, but I opened the notebook, grabbed a pen and began writing, about everything. The seeing her across the room (in a nonintentional creepy, stalkerish way), the accumulation of feelings when seeing her enter the room, the unnecessary incoherent thoughts during the car ride to her house that night and every other scrupulous detail that fell in between. I continued to write about her until those thoughts and feelings dissipated, and eventually they do. That looming thought of her that consumed my thoughts was no longer available
Soon, it felt strenuous like a dredging task lay burden on my shoulders. For a while I continued to write for the sake of the story, but eventually I couldn’t find a reason to continue. I wasn’t going to show it to her, feelings I once had were now a distant memory, so what was the purpose?
As I have continued to write I’ve come to notice that passion fades in and out. That you can’t store a no longer wanted passion. That’s something annoying, aggravating that I’ve come to realize—the thought that once stimulated you to write about her is now just, gone. But new inspiration never seems to be too far away.
