Today I’m distracting myself from Ty leaving. I’ve tried video games–whenever my life starts getting shaky, I turn right back to my old friend Dragon Age–and I’ve tried planning for grad school and I’ve tried figuring out the bureaucracy involved in registering for the conversion class, but the only thing that has worked so far is that particular sense of panic that arrives when planning for NaNoWriMo.
Since starting college, I’ve been feeling like my creative writing ability has gone down the drain along with my sense of normal personal hygiene and my ability to eat an entire box of Cheesy Taco Hamburger Helper without gaining weight. I can’t remember what it’s like to write the literature, only what it’s like to criticize it. But you can’t apply reader-response criticism while writing. Or formalism, or deconstructionism, or any other method from my toolbox of tearing texts apart. Instead, you have to just make shit up. You would think college would be making me better at that, given how often I’ve written five page papers in the hour before they’re due. Unfortunately, this is not the case.
Now, whenever I try to write something that isn’t a paper, I feel similar to the way I felt on that high school exchange trip when my French host sister tried to take me out dancing. All her fashionable friends were boogieing down, while I just stood there awkwardly flapping my chicken arms and waiting until we could go find a bathroom that was still open so I could pee.
It was not a pleasant night.
But you know what I mean? Writing is hard and it makes me feel like a dummy. This is why Ty leaving is good: it means that I am in that state of depressive emotional abandon where everything I do makes me feel like a dummy, so I can do anything! I can rule the world! I pulled a title out of my ass this morning and I stuck a plot up there in the NaNo form without any consideration for what anyone else would think about it. It’s almost kind of liberating.
Now if only I could decide whether that’s healthy or not.