Just Write

          Write about anything you want.  Anything at all.  Disregard structure.  Disregard any previous conceptions about essays.  Just write.
         As I sat, staring aimlessly into the white abyss on the computer screen in front of me, I could not help but question why this assignment was creating such a dilemma for me.  There was no shortage of topics that I could have possibly divulged myself into: the pitter-patter of the raindrops lightly tapping on the window, the trees in the courtyard carefully swaying in the wind like graceful ballroom dancers, the fading red bricks of the courtyard wall, yet I still found it a challenge.  Was it that my indecisiveness—coupled with the complete control that has been bestowed upon me—that was crippling my usual writing skills?  Was it solely the lack of interest that I had in the subject?  The more I began to ponder these options, the more one conclusion started to settle.  The source of my problem was the lack of structure.
         Ever since I learned to write—way back in kindergarten—everything has been about structure.  Cross your t’s.  Dot your i’s.  Make sure your sentences have a subject and a verb.  Make sure you have five paragraphs—an intro, three bodies, and a conclusion.  Never before had I been given complete creative control over a writing assignment (over anything for that matter).  It was this newly obtained power that was the root of my problem. 
         My rebellion against structure did not begin in high school.  The roots of my insurgence stem from an experience I had in the 7th grade.  We were being asked to compose a personal narrative—much like the one I found myself struggling with four years later, staring aimlessly at my computer—yet we were given a strict set of topics our paper could be about.  I found a problem in this.  Sitting at my small metal desk with the wooden top, pockmarked with scribbles from the uninterested student, the words started to flow out of my pencil and onto the page, nevertheless I could not bring myself to accept these words as my own.  How could the forced words that filled my paper be really truly genuine?  I slowly stepped away from my desk and walked, with a cautious, slow gate, up to my teacher’s desk.  The room, overflowing with the echoes of the pencils gliding across the paper, smelled of the crisp scent of lead and a slight hint of body odor from the other side of the room.  I questioned her as to what she thought of my paper.  She told me that it seemed like it was fake, like I was writing just because I had to.  This shocked me.  I asked her to allow me to write about a real experience, to give me control over my writing.  She agreed.
As a sophomore in high school, I fought over every essay, every speech, just to gain a minute amount of creative freedom in my writing.  While writing the final essay for the year, we were given a packet of sentence patterns that we were supposed to utilize while writing.  The moment our teacher explained what we must do a fury of complaints arose from the students like a great tidal wave of dissention, smashing into our small blond instructor only to be immediately immobilized and eluded.  Why do we have to use these stupid sentence patterns?!  Nobody writes like that!  None of the comments fazed her.  She merely responded—very calmly if I might add, as if she knew something that we did not know—that we are required to use the sentence patterns to diversify our essays.  The class consented to her will.  At the time, it seemed as if she was trying to hinder our creativity; I felt as if the restrictions placed upon me were crippling my ability to write; however, it was these restrictions that were keeping my writing ability alive.
         These experiences seemed to be meaningless until there I was, gawking at the empty screen trying to write.  I had complete control.  There were no restrictions; there were no suggested topics; my writing was my writing.  It seemed like something was missing; it was as if the words in my head were locked, trapped helplessly inside my mind and structure, the key, was lost.  I explored the internet to attempt to discover a sliver of organization that could set me off on the right track; I scoured for structure, hunting for some form of forced order.  Nothing.  There was nothing.  How ironic it seemed that after I had been rebelling against the rhetorical norms set by my teachers over the years that I would be crippled by their very absence. 
         Discouraged and ashamed at my lack of writing, I tried to think of a topic.  One thing, above all else, was at the forefront of my mind: structure.  It was then that the notion finally hit me.  I will write about not knowing how to write.  To the outsider, it must have seemed crazy; however, to me it seemed brilliant.  The resolution to my predicament was the problem itself.  A slow trickle of words began to bubble into my brain like a peaceful mountain spring, and all of my barriers disappeared. 
         Write about anything you want.  Anything at all.  Disregard structure.  Disregard any previous conceptions about essays.  Just write.  As I began to type out the last of my tumultuous paper my teacher’s instructions crept back to me.  It was these directions that created such a paradoxical situation for me: they were my biggest roadblock, yet my biggest help in writing this paper; I found assistance in a hindrance.  I realized something, as I typed out the conclusion to my narrative, something profound.  In order to grow and develop, I must accept the things that encumber me.