Writer's Block

I have this big essay for my English class due tomorrow at midnight. My roughdraft was hardly helpful because my research premise was faulty and I didn't realize it until I'd already started writing and I had to have a roughdraft due by midnight that night so. . . I just wrote. And now it's kind of kicking me in the rear end. I met with a Writing Fellow and was given a better direction for the essay, and I now have enough research to fill the required four pages, I just need to formulate the research into a cohesive, arguable, interesting essay. And it's due tomorrow at midnight. And I have major writer's block.

On one hand, I want to have another roughdraft finished by tonight so I'll at least be able to turn in a semi-polished copy tomorrow. On the other hand, it's not due until midnight tomorrow so I don't feel the pressure I need to whip this sucker out. And this conflict in my head is distracting me from more important things (i.e. my essay).

So that's the backstory. Now I'm going to type whatever comes into my mind so I can hopefully take down this wall that's in my head and get an essay written tonight.

It snowed today. I like the snow today. Don't know how I'll feel about it tomorrow. I don't usually like snow. Christmas music. I should be writing this on Word so all my typos (most of them, anyway) will get autocorrected. I hate autocorrect on my phone sometimes. It makes me say weird things that don't make any sense. One time Brittney was trying to tell someone she'd be there in a sec and her phone corrected it to sex. She was embarrassed. I would be too.

I miss Brittney. She'll be back in a little over a year and I can't wait. I miss my missonaries. They're wonderful and I miss them. I was going to serve a mission, now I'm not.

I want to be a librarian for an elementary school when I grow up. I think that would be the best job aside from mother that I could ever imagine. It would be wonderful. I'll talk to people to see how I'll be able to reach that goal. I don't like being checked out. Please stop undressing me with your eyes. It's not doing either of us any good. Look back at your computer screen, your homework, and I'll go back to my research.

I need to be better at researching. Wish I'd payed more attention back when we had all those guided lessons about it. Life was easier back in high school. I wouldn't go back. High school is over and I'm glad.

I saw my old roommate today. She's engaged. She's happy. I'm happy for her. May. Spring wedding. It's going to be beautiful.

Sometimes I feel like I fall for the wrong people. Why? Why do I do that? I should be more careful where I let my heart go. But it's easy for me to love people. People provide companionship.

Sometimes I don't want companionship with certain people, though. I need resolution to problems. I'm having a hard time because we haven't talked about the explosion. I feel like the explosion is still going on and I know it's just in my head but the lack of resolution is making me paranoid and I hate it. How to let go?

Browning and Dickinson were both Victorian poets. They had similar enough subject matter and I think my writing fellow is sitting across the library from me. I don't know why that's distracting. Anything and everything has become more appealing than writing this essay. Especially sleep. Snow makes me sleepy. I like the snow today. Dickinson writes about a fly. Browning writes about a slimeball of a monk. Can't you see the link between the two? Do I really have to explain it to you? Also, I feel the pressure to do really well on this because this is my biggest class and it will heavily affect my GPA. Right now I have a B+ and I'd like to do better. So every essay gives me a lot of stress because I feel pressure to do extremely well. I need to let that go. I need to write because I'm discovering something new and exciting. Not because I need a good grade. If I enjoy what I'm learning through my research and writing, the rest will come. Everything will work out.

Dickinson was scared of abandonment. Aren't we all. She was obsessed with death. I learned that in high school. High school again. Our school was remodeled and the old one was torn down. I missed it for a really long time. Lots of memories. But there were good memories in the new school too. I was there for two years. I confuse Yeats and Keats even though they are different as can be. It's their names, I think. They aren't pronounced the same, but the spellings are similar. My shoulders hurt. Both poets write about life not being perfect and the perfect image being marred by something else. Already wrote about that. Tie into thesis. Victorian writers were honest and accessible. That's why I see a syntactical similarity between the two poems. Write about that. Fix it. I'm not proofreading this. Too much thought involved. I can write four pages. I think I've got it now.


The end. You're welcome.