Albeit cliché, I must be inspired to write. Only when the words flow from the internal monologue to fingers to computer keys as methodically and artfully as playing a piano concerto can my sentences be seamlessly mused into existence. When I am in this “zone,” writing is a pleasure. It becomes a game of eloquent expression and wordplay, a puzzle, if you will, with the goal being to state your argument with some pizzazz, some style. However, in anxious anticipation of the upcoming midterm exam I blog to you today not of those ideal moments of writing bliss but of the phenomenon un-affectionately known as writer’s block. It never fails to rear its ugly head right on cue, that “I’m drawing a complete blank” leading to overwhelming anxiety (that is to say, PANIC), and once that sets in, I can pretty much kiss any chance I had of passing goodbye.
Oh the torture! It intensifies while sitting for two hours in a suffocating classroom, clocks ticking, pencils scratching, pages turning, stomach churning. The pressure is on in this pressure cooker: what to write; how to explain; what I mean, what the author means; what is tone, style, metaphor; metaphor for life, death, the pursuit of happiness, of freedom, freedom from this hell called an exam, which tests my skill as a writer. Writing that was fun is now torture.
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