into the air

I’m just gonna put it out there - I loved having a blog. Wait, that might not convey exactly what I feel. I loved getting to write on my blog. It felt so personal and really cool to just have a collection of my own writings there before me. After we got our first couple of posts out, and Dr. A reassured us that we can use our blogs for pretty much whatever, I felt occasionally inspired to write freewrites. And by inspired, I mean I think I was procrastinating writing some kind of paper for one of my writing classes this semester (I unintentionally took 4 WI’s. how that ever happened, I have no idea…). Some other ideas hit me while I was struggling to focus the thoughts for my papers, and so I logged into the Metamail and just wrote. Ahh… freedom of expression. It’s a beautiful thing.

Cool Blog thing #1 - Tracking my own progress. Honestly, I don’t know if I’m completely satisfied with my progress this semester. I don’t know where I stand as a writer. Maybe I’m so confused from the different types of voice, creative writing, and business and research method writing I’ve done this semester that I have no friggin idea about what actually defines my writing. While I wish I could have or see confidence in my writing, I’m glad that it is readily available to me through a blog. I think it’s one of those things where I’ll look at this a couple months from now, and really get a perspective on my writing. There’s something about the time disconnect that gives me a more self-reflective ability. Kind of like reading your old journals from the 5th grade. Man, those are awkward…

Cool Blog thing #2 - getting to read others’ blogs. Seriously… one of the sweetest assignments we’ve had this semester. I didn’t even see that coming until we started reading them, and suddenly I was addicted. I know we get to read others’ works in writing workshops, but it’s different. First of all, I got to see the final products of my workshop companions - which was cool, because I felt like a had a more one-on-one connection (literally) with their writing. Second of all - I got to see everyone’s personality coming out in their writings. Really sweet. Third of all - I realized I’m not alone. I mean, that’s a given… but really though. We all struggled, and we all changed in different ways.

Though I really liked the involvement we had with each others’ blogs at the end of the semester, I’m not sure it would have been the same had we read everyone’s blogs periodically throughout the semester. For me, it was better to read them at the end because then I really gained perspective on where everyone has been this entire semester. Sure, it was time consuming - but it was really cool. Overall, I enjoyed having a blog. I hope I can still use it…? It’s great to have our works readily available, or to have a space where we can write just for writing’s sake. That’s what’s great about having this thing is that we can be uninhibited. This is my space. I can write whatever the heck I want. You know, I know Dr. A never gave us limitations when writing these, but I wish I had taken an assertion in my own voice more in the beginning of the semester. I noticed that a lot of people’s reading responses were about their own thoughts on the reading, but they didn’t let the author themselves take ownership of their thoughts. The thoughts were the students’ thoughts. I don’t think I accomplished this in all of my own writings. I think it’s something I recognized now at this point, and I hope to continue to acknowledge that it is okay to write in my own voice. Like I’m talking. It’s kind of fun, actually.

Anyway, my point is that we are able to write what we want to write on these bad boys, and for me, that has really helped with my overall progress as a writer. I’ve become more comfortable on this page with putting my thoughts out there and literally knowing that others will read them. But for some reason, I don’t care as much anymore. Maybe that’s my sense of newfound confidence. I don’t know… I’ll see how it plays out.

I don’t really know where to start. I guess, for starters, I can say that I really enjoyed reading everyone’s blogs. It’s difficult for me to only pick a few because everyone stood out in their own way. I can literally hear the voices of everyone in our class coming from their blogs… mostly because I remember what everyone’s voices actually sound like now. That’s kind of cool, too. To hear each person’s specific voice talking as I read their blogs. At some points, I wondered if knowing the writer’s real voice and pieces of their personality I attributed to them in class caused me read their blogs through a lens. I could hear the subtlety and shyness in Ashley G’s work that reflects her nature in class. However, I also read through and watched her develop and take ownership of her writing throughout the progression of her blog… which was really cool.

The things I took notice of while reading everyone’s blogs was their own personal writing style and their “voice.” I don’t think I’ve ever read so many writings with “I’s” in them before, and you’d think I’d be less shocked after being in this class for a semester. I’m glad I read so many “I’s” though. I was excited to see the “I’s” because, to me, the “I’s” were where each writer asserted his/her self. That was the neatest thing about it, I think, is that I definitely got a sense of people’s personalities from their writings. Some of the blogs that stood out to me in particular were Ashley M’s and Jocelyn’s. Ashley is really funny and extremely conversational. Reading her posts was enjoyable because they were so engaging and fun, and they read so easily. I really liked Jocelyn’s blog because I thought she was a very captivating and intriguing writer. I don’t know if I can pinpoint exactly what it was about her writings that I enjoyed. I think she’s honest and open in her writings and it seems like she’s incredibly aware of the reader. Like she’s carrying on a conversation with someone over tea or smoothies or something.

I also really appreciated and enjoyed Margaret, Claire, and Kelley’s writings. They each seemed to assert their voices more and more as the semester progressed. All of their writings are very smooth - in that reading them is both painless and enjoyable. I like that Margaret questioned herself because it put her on level with her readers. I like Claire’s light humor and funny anecdotes because I found they sucked me into her writing - and I wanted to know more. With Kelley, I really enjoyed her use of analogies. I think she used both funny and really accurate analogies, and they help put her scenarios into perspective.

I think with all of these writers, their writings came alive from the page as I read them. It has been the coolest experience getting to read everyone’s work at the end of the semester - 1) because I can literally hear their voices coming from the page and 2) because I get to see how everyone progressed, what kind of great works they produced, and that (assuredly) we are all and all have been together in this entire process. I almost want to go back and read some more… In fact, I think I will go read what others had to say about the blogs. K Peace out:)

Okay.. I’m procrastinating. Again. Big surprise. But as I’ve been finishing up the last couple of blogs on the class blog webpage, I felt an overwhelming inspiration come to me and I couldn’t resist it. Over the past couple of days that I’ve been reading everyone’s blogs, I noticed that the more I read others’ writing, the more I questioned my own abilities as a writer. My thoughts have mostly been “oh man, she really asserts herself here. Do I do that?” and “man, his sense of humor is impeccable.” I notice all these wonderful characteristics and developments everyone in this class has been making as writers, and I think to myself “have I come that far, too?” I’d be mid-memoir on someone else’s blog, itching to hit the ‘Back’ button and click on my own blog link… just to see if I had taken ownership of my writing.

When I finally did click on my own blog (and ended up right here - writing this), I discovered I’m actually more worried than satisfied. Reading my first post, I think I took ownership of my voice. It sounded like the flow of my thoughts coming out on paper - a writing characteristic that I find I highly value from the different blogs I’ve read. But as time went on, maybe I became less secure in my writing. Maybe I was too focused or became inhibited by my awareness of my audience. Maybe I need to pretend I’m in my underwear while I’m writing. Or actually sit in my underwear. Point being, I’ll already feel vulnerable and exposed so my inhibitions can be thrown aside. I meaaann, if no one else is in the room - it works, right?

Concern #2: I think my posts sounded kind of DIY-y at some points, like “oh, writing is easy! Follow me, everybody, and I’ll show you!” A little bit Peter Pan-ish, a little bit Barney. So that made me wonder - am I achieving what I want to achieve? I want to sound conversational, not condescending. Am I trying too hard to write myself? To assume an Elbovian stance as a writer? I don’t even know anymore. I feel I’ve become more confused than self-assured. I’m comfortable with this state though - because I know this means I have room for growth, whether it’s on my own accord or inspired by a future writing assignment. In fact, I feel most comfortable when I’m writing like this. Free-writing. I’m just letting loose and letting my thoughts flow like water on wax paper. Yeah, they’re everywhere. And they’re unorganized. But they’re out there. And I’m okay with that. This is the security, the lack of inhibition, I’ve been looking for. I wish I had found it sooner, but I think I’m okay with not knowing exactly where I stand as a writer. If I were to know, what fun would that be? There’s so much still left to learn! I intend to get at least some of it…

Writing is Communicating: Using the Conversational Voice

What is writing? Is it this – right now? The characters I’m typing on the page to form words that you, the reader, can… well, read. Or is writing something different? I think every person perceives writing differently (hence, we develop writing styles). I used to think that writing – the “good kind,” at least – entailed having a spiritual connection with one’s words when writing them. My idea of writing had a sort of mystical appeal in this way, in that I believed some kind of inexplicable internal force was responsible for producing good writing. This force would overcome me during my writing process, like having a tiny articulate author in my head who emerged from his artistic café every so often to write papers. Have you ever experienced this? Well now, thinking about it, the idea of having a spiritual relationship with words on a page seems pretty silly to me. Seriously, consider it… it’s a relationship between a living, breathing being and thousands of inanimate characters on a page of paper. Stuck in place. Unchangeable… unless you have liquid White Out or a red pen. Or a lighter. How can we experience something spiritual with tiny black squiggles on a piece of paper? The idea seems ludicrous. They can’t talk back. They can’t criticize. They don’t even breathe. So, if this deep spiritual connection between the author and his words doesn’t exist, then how can we define writing?

Now, we have a problem. As writers, if we can’t have these living, breathing relationships with our words, then we potentially have been writing aimless, inane, and empty words for years. In which case, is everything we are writing entirely void of emotion or clarity? Is there a point to writing at all? The answer to this second question is yes, of course we write for a reason. And to the former question, no, to be completely devoid of emotion or clarity in all aspects of our writing would define one extreme end of a writing spectrum. The other end of the spectrum is the complete spiritual connection and congruency between us and our words on the page. Both situations present extremes in writing. Both are pretty unrealistic, and so, I find that all writers fall somewhere in the middle of the writing spectrum.

The type of writing that falls in the middle can encompass anything from academic writing to creative writing to writing using your “voice.” There are so many writing styles that exist in the middle range of the spectrum; but, the one I’m talking about emphasizes a vital concept that writers often miss: communication. Communication is the act of giving or exchanging information, by means of words, body language, or the lack of either of these in some situations. Communicating is what we should be doing when we’re writing.

Well that makes sense, right? Aren’t we already communicating when we write? The answer again is yes, but the focus is now on how we communicate. We should not be just forming words on the page for the sake of forming them; it should be an intentional process. We should consider what we are saying to the person on the other side of the paper. Ideally, our words will resonate with the reader because they will seem conversational to him; in a sense, the reader will be able to hear our voice in the paper. What do I mean by voice? I’m not necessarily discussing same voice that Peter Elbow describes in his argument for writing with voice. Not exactly that voice, but a conversational voice. Allow me to elucidate…

If we are actively communicating our thoughts – actively considering the way we communicate – our natural, conversational voice will emerge. This voice is the one you would use in conversation on a daily basis. It is uninhibited, unlimited, and bare. The one that you probably wouldn’t give much of a second thought to, because it’s yours… and you use it all the time. When your conversational voice emerges in writing, it’s engaging and captivating because it actually speaks to the reader. Your words will flow smoothly to the reader’s ears, like he is drinking a tall, refreshing glass of water. The reader feels like they are being spoken to with ease, not condescended on… and that can be pretty refreshing after reading more difficult pieces of work.

Now that we understand voice, we should be able to communicate with it easily in our writing, right? Not exactly… Conversational writing isn’t the easiest form of writing to conquer at first; especially if we, as students, are used to writing academic-sounding papers. You know… the elitist kind with big words and abstract theories? Sometimes not the easiest material to decipher – for you as the writer or the reader. In order to write conversationally, we have to be uninhibited in our writing. Essentially, we should be able to think thoughts and produce them articulately on the page (and by articulately, I don’t mean perfectly, but in the way we intend to). To be able to communicate with the person who is living, breathing, reading on the other side of the page. We might think of the paper and the words as the soundproof glass between a prisoner and his or her family member during visiting hours. Not that the writer is a prisoner, but consider the scenario at hand. The phone we use to talk to the person on the other side of the glass is our writing device, our hands and pen. But we are sitting there, in orange jump suits, staring directly into the eye of our reader. Communicating, breathing, seeing the person on the other side of the conversation.

Okay, so we’re aware that there’s someone else out there. Someone is reading this. Right now. What’s next? Well, how do we write conversationally? The main characteristics of conversational writing are that it is uninhibited, free-flowing, and to-the-point. The hardest of these characteristics to obtain or understand is the idea that our writing is uninhibited. By uninhibited, I don’t necessarily mean stream-of-consciousness, but our ability to directly put our thoughts on paper without trying to mute the sound of our conversational voice before our fingers touch the keyboard or pen. Essentially, it would sound just like talking on paper. Seems easy, right? Yes, but this type of writing takes practice to get the feel of it. To practice, you can try a technique like Elbow’s free-writing, where you write your thoughts out aimlessly onto the paper or the computer screen. In this method, you are simply writing everything that comes to mind down on paper; so, your thoughts are actually on paper. By regularly communicating your thoughts directly onto paper, you will become less inhibited in your manner of conversational writing.

There are a couple of characteristics of language to keep in mind while writing conversationally. When communicating in this way, simplicity is key. I agree with Elbow in this manner - we don’t need to use huge words or academic language to get our point across. In fact, that kind of distracts from the overall point because as readers, we’re trying too hard to bite the big words. Think about it this way… we’ll use steak orders as an example. Most people use common everyday language when conversing with the people around them, which we can dub as medium-cooked steak. It’s much rarer that you would hear someone dropping something like “antidisestablishmentarianism” into their every day conversation. We can dub this kind of talk as “well-done” steak. Which one is easier to chew? The one that’s been well overdone or the one that everyone can pretty much sink their teeth into? I don’t want to “hate” on the wordy types, i.e. academics, show-offs, etc. Cause hey, “here here” to them if they have friends with whom they can use boisterous words, but using flashy words can burn the ears of any reader. The more simple language and syntax you use as a writer (like you would in a conversation) the easier it will be for the reader to understand what you are saying. You will communicate more effectively and more comfortably because it will seem like the reader is just hearing everyday conversation.

Ultimately, the choice is up to you, the learning writer. This is what we do as writers – we try different methods and see if the shoe fits, to be cliché. We don’t have to conform to a certain category all of the time in our writing; and writing doesn’t have to be a spiritual experience in order for it to be good writing. I often find though that if our writing is speaking to the reader from the page, we have accomplished something.

With conversational writing, the goal is to effectively communicate to the reader, to exchange information. Now, the conversation may not seem whole, because the reader may not have the opportunity to give information back to the writer. However, he has the opportunity to interpret the form of communication in whatever way he would like to. That can be intimidating for us as writers; but, the important thing to focus on is whether or not we are actively, effectively communicating to the person on the other side of the glass. If we are aware of what we are saying in our writing, then I think our goal has been reached. We don’t have to edit every single word that goes onto the page; but, I think we should be aware of the conversation we are having with the reader. If we always acknowledge the fact that we are communicating a specific message to a reader as we write, the words we are writing will feel more natural. As conversational writers, we will be more comfortable and confident with our thoughts sitting on the page, waiting anxiously for a reader to see them.

Miller describes the relationship between the writer and the text as the exactly the reverse of what it may seem. She says that the text actually writes the writer, the person, as we write. That sounds confusing. What she’s saying is, rather than Bazerman’s idea of having a “spot” that we assume as a writer, and writing to fill that position - we are developed and created on the page as we write. So, whatever we are writing is like our own personality at that exact moment coming out on the page. The text writes ourselves. So, if we are concerned with what the reader is taking from the text, we might consider the actual conversation we are having with them. In which case, it’s just like any other conversation - the reader or listener can judge us according to their own standards anyway. I think Miller’s ideas are interesting and her voice does sound very conversational when she writes. It makes it an easier read for the “listener” when the writer is conversational in their writing.

caffeine drowsiness. where it’s supposed to have the opposite effect, but you end up running on a crash-and-burn basis. Ready to go with your cup of joe, and then you flatline like a heart monitor. Or a kid who trips and falls on his face. A complete problem of inertia and energy transfers. Like the thought that when I touch this Starbucks paper coffee cup, it sucks some of my energy from my fingertips. That’s what makes the liquid shake and splash against the insides of the cup, what makes it spill out of the tiny mouth hole and onto my car console… or my gray stretch jeans.

I blame the weather for my mood. It sounds stereotypical, but that’s because it holds true for most people. The inside of my head reflects the clouds – gray, dismal, bland, homogenous. Nothing to get excited about. Nothing visually stimulating about them. Just… nothing. The only benefit is that sometimes the bright lighting from the whitened sky illuminates the yellow flowers and greening trees on campus. If only my camera battery was charged.

Sometimes, I give into the depressing feel of the gray days… and it creates something beautiful. Something unexpected. Like finding $10 at the bottom of your cereal box. Unlikely… but unexpected. It’s more than that though. It’s a creative type of unleashing. Where all of the energy that’s been building up is somehow unleashed. Maybe it hasn’t been building up… maybe that’s not the right way of putting it. It’s just been sitting there. Not being released because of inhibitions or responsibilities, things to do to or work to finish or sleep to sleep.

I worry that I’m too cliché. I don’t know if it’s controllable or not. I might have been constructed this way, to think and believe a certain way. Can I then consider college my deconstruction? I’m not sure if I thought myself for even one day before college. Wait… maybe I can think of two days. Everything else was owned by the world around me. I fell victim, captive, slave to my social needs. To other’s social inquiries. Unnecessarily, seeing as how I seemed to stand out in my own little dramatic way anyway. The sidewalk was my stage. My footsteps were my stage. They can be sometimes still. I’m not sure if I consider a bad thing, I just notice it more now. But if I don’t think about the fact that others are watching, I shouldn’t consider it a stage. Just spontaneous expression. Just how I feel and what I feel like doing, showing, dancing, telling, singing, expressing.

Words can never say enough. And sometimes I feel like actions fall short of accomplishing their initial intentions, too. What are we to do then? Try as best as we can. What good is it if you outwit other humans? We’re all going in the same direction ^^ up in years, and for some of us, hopefully location. Well then, how come that isn’t our main focus? It’s on the lateral. The tangible, the visible, the “real.” There’s nothing wrong in simplicity, I think that’s when and where we see the world most clearly is back at the basics… but we complicate things. We distort them. And then we lose ourselves in our own distortions because we are unreliable beings. Can we rely on ourselves truly? Changing, indecisive, uncertain, mortal creatures? My thought is no. We have to let go to the truth. To something greater that we know we can rely on and trust in. Something, or someone, a little closer to the ground than we would think.

Hashimoto discusses mostly Elbovian concepts throughout his essay. He affirms and discusses them in the beginning to set up his background for analysis. Then he slowly breaks apart Elbow’s ideas, piece by piece. I think Hashimoto’s ideas may be related to Graves’ in that he doesn’t necessarily condone Elbow’s idea of “voice,” but he finds writing can be good when the person writing finds a connection with his own writing.

Hashimoto compares Elbow’s ideas of voice to religion. He says they are very spiritual and it’s almost as if the authors of voice essays are evangelists calling from the pages to all student sinners, guilty of poor writing and in need of inspiration. I could agree with him in a way here, but I think Hashimoto exaggerates this concept greatly towards the end of his essay when he categorizes writers into two general categories of scientists and Christians in a creation vs. evolution-type battle. I think he overdoes his point here by exaggerating the situation, saying that all “voice” supporters are Christian evangelists and all academic, fact-seeking writers are scientists.

I prefer the balance (leaning towards the side of voice) that Graves presents, and Hashimoto discusses briefly. Hashimoto incorporates all three authors into his essay in a way, including Bartholomae. Hashimoto talks about the benefits of writing without personal voice and more for the facts. He discusses how the writer can still shift the point of view or details to make a factual writing more interesting, but at the same time it doesn’t necessarily reflect the individual writer’s voice or personality. Hashimoto essentially states that voice can be good in writing, but it doesn’t necessarily define good writing. Writing can be effective and entertaining in several ways other than just maintaining and discovering your own personal voice.

can I string these together on a thread like art? can the moment reflect the slightest thought, the whisper or hint of a coherent idea, floating along lightly through my mind. and can I describe the picture of my mind. it’s three-dimensional, spacious, the thoughts and pictures flowing together in space. light, weightless, sometimes rapid sometimes lingering. how do you describe what you picture? maybe, to start with the calendar. I envision it in a large circle, bigger than the size of my mind. Maybe that’s where it is, that it’s not limited to the physical space in my head, but my mind is actually unlimited space-wise. it goes on infinitely like the universe. or what we theorize the universe to be. okay, so back to the calendar… or trying to describe how my mind envisions things. gosh, is it like having my eyes turn inward to my head? like a projector on a movie screen, no… more like a spectator to an entire tank of undersea life. maybe even an ocean. there are no boundaries. and I’m drifting back into the thought of friends. how can we bear to make that connection? between the inner workings of our minds and the outer workings of our lives. our relationships, our “daily tasks,” the things that preoccupy our watches, our individual second tickers. Like time would move any faster or slower for one person. It maintains a pace, supposedly… in an imperfect world. If that makes any sense. It doesn’t. Time is completely manifest. It only speeds up when you’re not paying attention. When you’re caught up in the good. Time should be measured by your heartbeat. It goes by faster when your heart is racing, and it slows down when your heart slows down. Maybe that’s how it was intended to be. Maybe we do measure our lives through our hearts, view it through our hearts, remember it through our hearts. Maybe the components of time are found in our heartbeats, our emotions, our cries and yells, our tears and laughs, our heartbreaks and periods of growth and everything. Not by the actual watch, or the stopwatch, or the traffic lights, or the calculators, or the systematic devices of this world. But by ourselves… by our ideas, by our ambitions, by our heartbeat – the thing that actually keeps us going during the day. This makes alarm clocks seem so arbitrary. We’re selecting a single moment in time to wake up, when I think it’s actually much better to wake up to your heartbeat (health doctors approve – sleep to your natural extent… if only). Anyway… I tangentalize. Yup… that’s a word. why not? exactly. Oh boy… to think about thinking. What a great gift. I’ll call it meta-thinking. Yeah… meta-thinking.

*I intentionally left this one in its original, connected, one-large paragraph state. I feel like it was difficult to separate any thought from the other because it was one big flow of thoughts and connections. Literally just me typing out what I was thinking at the time. Yeah… just felt like justifying that:)*

Slowly, drowsily, I felt my eyes begin to sink helplessly into my head. The teacher’s voice grew hazy and distant as I kept trying to keep my lids up. They were impossibly heavy, like each one had a one-pound weight tied to the lashes.

“Maybe if she wasn’t so boring, I would be able to maintain consciousness,” I thought when I woke up to the sounds of flapping notebooks and squeaking chairs, groggily readjusting myself in the fold-up seat.

“One second, class,” my professor said in her high-pitched whispery voice. “Don’t forget that your Biennial papers are due to me next class.”

“Crap,” I thought. “I already have a presentation and a test due at the end of this week, and a paper for this class is the last thing I’m concerned about.”

I hit myself in the head for ever considering taking the class in the first place. History was never my forte, let alone art history. I guess I thought it would make me cultured or something. All it ended up being was a time burden in a classroom that was really conducive to sleeping conditions.

I spent the five-minute walk between my class and my dorm room planning out my time schedule for the rest of the week. With a test on Wednesday, a presentation worth one third of my grade and this paper due on Thursday, the paper took last place in my schedule with the assumption that I would procrastinate and finish it late Wednesday night.

The dorm room door slammed a little bit too hard behind me as I dropped my book bag on the floor and walked over to my computer. My roommate looked up from her desktop and gave me an anticipant stare. She waited for me to acknowledge her gaze before she began talking. I had guessed what she would say before she began – the day-to-day topics, like dumb things people in her class had said that day or how much her professors intimidated her. Usually, I would nod my head and give her several “uh huhs” and “oh no’s,” but this time I returned the favor with my own detailed plan of my schedule for the week.

I didn’t think she would care. I knew she wouldn’t care. No one ever really cares about what your own hectic schedule looks like when they’ve got their own to cater to. I kept talking anyway, hoping she had suggestions for how to better manage my time. She was always better at that kind of thing anyway.

Fast-forward to Wednesday night. Halfway through working on my business class presentation around 7 o’clock at night, I realized the paper may actually have a chance at being decent if I hurried. I felt my body tense up from the pressure – the kind of academic adrenaline you get when you’re on a deadline and running out of time. I hurried through the rest of the presentation and was done by nine.

“Sweet,” I thought. “I still have at least five hours to work on this paper.” Two in the morning never seemed too late that semester. My roommate would regularly go to bed around midnight, which is when I usually started my work. She told me she was a light sleeper. I would get nervous every time she shifted in her squeaky loft, hoping that my typing wouldn’t wake her up into a sleepy, disgruntled wrath.

9:10 PM. “I still have time,” I said to myself with confident reassurance. I knew I was lying to myself, seeing as how that’s usually what a person tells himself at the beginning of the procrastination process. I ignored my own warnings (and likely, those of my roommate’s, since she would usually serve as the maternal figure and scold me in these situations) and spent the next fifty minutes doing floor exercises and scanning the surface of my face for imperfections in the bathroom mirror.

10 o’clock. I settled myself down in the wooden dorm chair with the butt groove carved into it. The butt groove served no purpose, I thought, seeing as how it was an inevitably uncomfortable chair and my butt would go numb after ten minutes of sitting anyway. I had already lost focus and let my mind wander

10:02 PM. My mind was stuck and in need of a topic. The extent of Wikipedia’s knowledge would have to suffice in order to develop a thesis statement quickly. I pulled up the Firefox browser on my computer and typed “Biennial Italy” into the long, narrow white box. I still didn’t know what the Biennial entailed, so I read up on it on the Wiki site and learned that it was an internationally-renowned biannual art exhibition in Italy. Apparently, esteemed artists from several different countries would come to their respective pavilions and put up their incredible art displays. “Cool,” I thought. The exhibition lasted for several months in the year, allowing anyone and everyone to travel and see the acclaimed pieces.

“If only I were in Italy,” I said to myself as I clicked on a series of links to find an art exhibit that appeared interesting to me.

The assignment we were given was to research and formally critique and compare two different artists at the Biennial. The objective, I guess, was to use what we had learned in the class to reflect on an actual current day event. Essentially, she wanted us to be the snobs in the museum who breathe, taste, and live art.

I kept searching through several pictures of the exhibits, interesting tidbits, and critiques on some controversial artists. I found a really cool genre of art that involved electric work. There was a Japanese man who combined science with art to create an interactive form of media for people who observed his art. He covered a room in light bulbs, and then at either end, had two metal poles standing when you walked in. The people who entered the room would grab the metal poles, and it would measure their pulses. The light bulbs in the room flickered to the pulses of the last one hundred participants.

There was another woman who created controversial, sexually-themed art in her neon wall poems and other unconventional forms of art. These two candidates were by far the most interesting people I had read up on. Electric art was innovative and new, and for once I felt way more interested in art than I had for the entire semester.

Before I began writing, I reread the instructions several times to make sure I approached the paper in the right way. The professor stated that it must be a “formally-written critique.” I gave a snide “hmph,” knowing that from an art history professor, “formally-written” meant beating around the bush and using lots of academic language to sound like I knew what I was talking about.

I was incredibly unmotivated and disheartened by this. For once, I had discovered something I was passionate about in art history. The idea of dumbing down the passion and excitement with academic language and a five-paragraph format I felt was incredibly unappealing. I didn’t want to be restricted by the “correct essay form” that had been instilled in my head since the beginning of high school.

This format had become an increasingly haunting notion since I started college. See, in high school, I used to follow the rules and do exactly as I was told. And when it came to writing papers, the rules were straightforward and redundant: “never start a sentence with a conjunction, don’t use first or second person.” Straying from my teachers’ rules and guidelines was unthinkable, because they were older and knew everything of the world… right? Well, that’s what I thought in those years.

Then, I don’t know when, why, or how; but somewhere in my transition from an oblivious high school student to an opinionated college student, I started questioning authority. I ignored the rules I had learned in English class and considered it more effective to start sentences with “because” and to use “I’s” to emphasize my persuasive points. I decided that I could make up my own rules, and I didn’t need to beat around the bush with formal third-person talk just to please my teachers.

I sat silently in front of the blank Word document for about five minutes, staring and wondering how I should approach this “formally-written” academic paper. After my eyes began to sting from the blinding whiteness on the screen, I gave up trying to find a way to fit my paper into an academic mold and gave in to my own style of writing.

I wrote almost in contempt for my professor, or at least for the assumptions I had made about her. I associated all writing rules I had ever learned with my professor, making my mal-tempered feelings towards her slightly exaggerated. Exaggerated or not, I felt convicted; compelled to write something brilliant. I wanted to write with attitude and expression. I wanted to create something that was interesting and captivating and ignore all the rules of academia.

I began to write my introduction my way. I felt like I was on a verbal parade, punching and kicking into the air with excitement and a newfound energy. With each sentence, I grew more and more excited at the sound of my voice, the thought of my professor’s potential anger with the informality, and the critically-acclaimed reviews I was making that would deserve and receive an “A” (in my opinion).

I used graphic descriptions, like saying “[art] rushes through our corneas to grasp four more senses, trigger our emotions, and send our minds on a sensual whirlwind.” I found my voice in these descriptions; they felt more pure and vulnerable than the emotionless words that usually inhabited my papers. They were tangible, vividly imaginable, and different. This is the goal I wanted to achieve in the first place – to connect with the reader and grasp their attention.

I felt like a badass artistic rebel on a creative high from the fight against formality and academia. The clicking on my keyboard stopped. I stared at the chunk of writing on the page before me and read what I had just created. Getting excited at the energy and the power I felt as I read on, I invited my roommate to hear my brand-new masterpiece.

“Anna, you have to hear this!” I said, already boasting about my powerful paragraph.

“What is it?” she asked me.

“I wrote the introduction paragraph for my art history paper and it’s awesome. It’s really informal, which could be bad because my professor wants us to write a formal review. But here, just listen and tell me what you think.”

I read it out loud to her, maybe too quickly from the lingering energy. She was my biggest critic, so I knew she knew what a good paper should sound like. I finished reading it and waited for her response.

She looked back at me with a huge smile across her face. She laughed and said, “Ohh man, that is awesome! You’re right, it’s not formal at all, but I think it’s pretty good.”

“Yeah, you do?” I asked. I was beginning to feel wary of professor’s reaction.

“Yeah,” she said, reassuringly. “I think your professor will have to appreciate it anyway. It’s a good piece of writing, and it’s not typical or boring like the usual formal paper. You should keep it as is.”

I smiled and thanked her in return as I pivoted on the butt groove in my chair to keep writing. The academic adrenaline rush I got from that first paragraph carried me for about another paragraph or two, then (I admit) there were some slightly more bland paragraphs, and a spicy conclusion to match the introduction.

I didn’t ultimately know what my professor’s exact reaction was when I handed the paper in. It was close to finals time, so we wouldn’t get them back to see comments or our grades. I assumed she had a relatively good reaction, though, because (to my surprise and delight) I got an A on it. I smiled and shook my head affirmatively when I saw my grade on Blackboard.

To be honest, I didn’t expect an A. I was thinking B+ at best, and I would have been happy with that. I think my egotistic half expected an A, but my sensible half thought the professor would be repulsed by the intense details and somewhat abrasive writing style. This paper was more revolutionary to my personal writing style than I had expected, though. I had successfully turned in my most vulnerable paper and received good feedback from a member of academia.

So then, did everything they taught me in high school go to waste? Had all the sentence diagrams and grammatical guidelines been defenestrated with the five-paragraph format? No, it wasn’t that dramatic. But, it did help me realize my potential as a student writer in any class. I had slain the academic beast for the time being, but I would still face the court’s judgment for years to come. There was no escaping the type of professors like my art history professor who had certain expectations and restrictions for their papers; but, I had gained more confidence in my newfound writing voice that could spice up any typically bland formal paper I would encounter in the remainder of my academic years.

Have you ever heard of the kind of people who sort of black out, write for three hours straight, and when they come back to reality, they’re blessed with a three to four page paper, double-spaced in 12 point font? I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging, but I happen to fall into this category of writers. I call this ability “the force.” I’m not exactly sure how to explain the force to someone who has never experienced it before. If you have experienced it, sweet… then you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, or if you don’t understand “the force,” hopefully I can enlighten and maybe even inspire an inner force within you.

An inner force is hard to explain. Just like falling in love, this force difficult to understand if you have never personally experienced it. When I experience the force, it feels like there’s a secret box in the back of my mind that unlocks and unleashes another part of me. And no, I’m not schizophrenic. I just happen to have an alternate state of mind chillin’ in the back of my brain. Right… so that’s what the force feels like to me, but how it comes about? That’s a bit different.

First, it involves extreme procrastination. For example, if I was given three weeks to work on the paper, I would usually have to begin the paper the weekend before it is due. Well, that’s just me. But the build-up of adrenaline I get from worry and the incredible time constraint helps the force to grow inside of me.

Okay, so after I’ve successfully put this huge paper off for about three weeks, I have to sit down and organize a list of ideas. The best way to usually get my brain flowing is to set up an outline in five-paragraph form (how original, I know) and take it from there. I’ll start filling out ideas for my three nuances with quotes from the text, three main points, etcetera until I’ve got about a page’s worth of outline. Alright, I know you might be thinking that this seems really boring, tedious, and unconnected to the force. But really though… it helps. I think this outline is the second component that really gets the force moving inside me. When I lay out all of these ideas in front of me, it builds up the force inside me that’s itching to connect the ideas on paper and just write.

After I’ve set up my outline, I feel like a success. I pretty much feel like I’m done, to be honest. But I can’t let myself get ahead of myself, because I still have to write my introduction. This is where I harness my force, where it unleashes and starts flowing. I have to just start writing whatever’s on my mind. Even if it doesn’t apply to the subject exactly or if it’s really ridiculous and any professor who read it would absolutely shun me, I write it.

Now the weird thing is that I don’t personally feel like I unleash the force. I think it just flows over me. Like a bucket of water being dumped on my head (in a good way… if that makes sense). It’s a refreshing awakening. As soon as the verbiage starts flowing, I can feel it slowly building up inside of me. It takes over my mind and I get into “writing mode.” The ideas are flowing, my fingers are going at rapid speed, and I just write until the ideas stop coming. It’s not that I write for literally two hours straight, because there are some breaks in there where I have to stop and consider what I’ll start typing next. So, the force isn’t really so much it’s own being as it is like a writing high or adrenaline that keeps the words flowing in my mind.

The best way for me to explain this whirlwind of phenomenal verbiage that I call “the force” is to say that it’s kind of like a drug injection; like a substance inside of me that sends me on a temporary writing high. It influences all of my output for a temporary amount of time. To clarify, the force is not another being lurking in the depths of my mind, waiting to reveal itself to the world as my schizophrenic alter-ego. No, the “force” is more of an in-tune connection between my writing and me that is fueled by a lack of inhibition. By harnessing the “force,” I am allowing a true form of ourselves to be revealed in our writing.

I don’t expect that by the end of this paper, you will suddenly be overcome with “the force.” I’m not even sure if I explained it to a point where you can understand it. Because, in all truth, the force is only a name for an essence we all may hold inside. The force could just be something that works for you when you are writing your papers. I’m not devaluing everything I have just told you about this magical experience of the force. It’s like I said, the essence of “the force” for me is allowing myself to be uninhibited in my writing. It is the self-critical, can’t-do-it attitude that brings us down as writers; but, as corny as it sounds, if you believe in yourself and allow yourself to be uninhibited, the real force may be at the tips of your hands.