I call myself a writer, but the truth is I rarely write.

I often want to write. And I feel I have a lot to express, but when it comes down to it I just have a hard time finding the words.

I become so overwhelmed by the vision I have of the result that I end up being too overwhelmed to start. Oh, and then I end up missing deadlines and hating myself for it.

It sounds strange for someone who seems to constantly procrastinate and drop the ball on writing assignments to call themselves a perfectionist – but that’s just it. I’ve come to realize that it’s my perfectionist tendencies that ultimately inhibit me.

The problem is, I set the bar so high. I know that I want to write something important.

Writing for the Odyssey is a great example. Realistically, I could sit down and write lists of Starbucks orders for the holidays or a “Signs He’s Just Not Into You” pieces in probably fifteen minutes. And I could meet the deadline and maybe get shares and be fine. But I don’t want to put my name on that.

I want everything I write to be something that really gets people thinking in a different way – something they can finish reading and close their computers and carry on with their day, but it will still be with them, in the back of their mind, slowly shifting their perspectives and giving them a new view of the world. Something like that can’t just get done in a week.

It needs to be inspired. I find myself planning time to write – even blocking off hours on my calendar for it. And I feel the pressure of deadlines and the people waiting for me to turn something in, to turn anything in. Because anything is better than nothing. And on time is better than late. But I don’t want to just cross it off like another thing on my list because to me writing is and should be something so much more than a “to do”.

So instead, I use my blocked off time and I stare at my laptop. I go over all of the topics that have been bouncing around in my head – a response to women who claim to not be feminists, an explanation that feminism is much more than just bra burning, an argument against this supposed “post-racial society,” a commentary on the meaning of life being a chance to make the world better than it was before you existed in it. I can’t just sit down and write these things in an hour and then get up, take a shower, and go to class. I can’t finish a tedious assignment class that makes my brain cry and then expect to come out with some existential piece on the meaning of life.

I try to be inspired. I sit in a clean space. I light candle. I heat some tea. I put on comfy clothes clean warm socks and snuggle up with my laptop.

Nothing.

What I’ve started to learn about writing, though, is that the idea of a writer having a moment of inspiration and coming up with the next Great Gatsby is a nice thought and perhaps possible. But for most writers that isn't actually the case.

I'm realizing that writing is more "practice makes perfect" than some spontaneous revelation one must wait around for. And if you do choose to wait, well, you may be waiting for a long while. As Stephen King said, “the only way to get better at writing is to write”.

So today I sit here, in the same place with the same candles and tea and socks, and I force myself to move my fingers on the keys. At first, the result was more or less incoherent rambling. And then I got to this. And honestly, writing this taught me a lot about myself and my process. So, it really is true - you can only learn from trying.

And who knows, maybe one of these ramblings will turn into a famous existential piece someday.

I'll only know if I try.