The Deadline is Dead

fey
fey
Aug 24, 2017 · 3 min read

Why does fear and writing live so intimately? It (writing) occurs at an automatic level. That is, the mind strings letters into a single unit (word) and multiple units into form (words), then fragments of blob are spewed into what one calls a sentence, then a collection of blobs and BOOM — you either have a coherent display of idea or a nonsensical flow of consciousness akin to schizophrenia. So here I have, for you, a blob of blab.

About time.

There is a moment in every liberal arts student’s career when coursework ceases and class responsibility is astray (hopefully). Syllabi lose their place in the week’s time. Writing is no longer required, but performed out of a matter of personal will. That is, writing in the form of which you are reading now — not a tweet, Instagram blurb or heated text discussion. Writing for the purpose of expression or prose. Scholarly insight relocates from the classroom and into the public sphere of the world wide web for mental consumption. With the hope that maybe someone, somewhere out there feels something. I am human, for the sake of humanity, read the word.

Pressing deadlines made it simple to disgorge blabs of 2000 word blobbery into a document, only a few hours before time was up. “Simple” is deceptive. Surprisingly accomplishable was reality. Somehow I did it. The fear of writing itself was diminished by the inextinguishable flame wavering between my asscheeks: Raising smoke warned not miss the 11:59PM deadline on BlackBoard’s safe assign.

Something so possible, only under the strains of scholar. A relentless fire you keep running from, only to finally crash, burn, and be complete. There was genius being written, at a foundational and curious level of intrigue. A writing which demonstrated the work of years in university, trying to impress a professor with thought processes. Always harboring a fascination in the structure of sentence, because it was something not so simple at all.

Learning “how to write” makes writing that much scarier. The deadline is not the only daunting conception of the grimm reaper waiting for my neck if not submitted — but, the sentence. THE HORRID SENTENCE.

What is a sentence, anyway? Without the notion of a formulaic structure.

What is a good sentence? Subjective question, yes.

For me, the neurotic dyslexic who studied form more than idea, it needs to be packaged perfectly. From the view terminology is one vast container. The meanings ascribed to words carries weight in different contexts. Picking the correct term is pertinent to the process. It assigns the measure of intensity to one’s writing. It is neuroticism at its finest.

When you learn “how to write”, everything goes to shit. You become self-loathing and hypercritical. Each word of the sentence is abashedly scrutinized. A painful procedure of measuring verb strength. Inspection of word count, redundancy, repetition and evidence. An absolute battle with yourself. Why? The “greats”, the “established”, the “noted”, the most “royal” and “noble” writers of the syllabus become a standard — alongside a writer’s manual.

The mind and its desire to match an ideal of what is “good writing” is far too strong a strain. Writing that is not fluid, but crafted to meet a particular standard, is fake. It is dismissive to the power of craft for individual style. Maybe some sort of intellectual dishonesty to the core of one’s ability to string words into form. The blabber is disconnected from the page. Words do not paint expression, but become painfully formulaic… why not strive for both? Craft of perfection and individual style in one’s path for immaculate composition.

Being hypercritical of writing, that is my own, is a mask of fear. There is vulnerability to publicizing your words. It opens a capsule into the time your mind spends contemplating and releasing. So this is me. Here is my writing. It scares me to share this blubbery. All criticalness and meditations embraced, I no longer have the feedback from two eyes and a grade.

)

fey

Written by

fey

pressure and indescribability

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