To the thoughts that freeze my typing hands mid-sentence:
You frustrate me more than my terrier barking at the crack of dawn or my phone dying at the most inconvenient time. I do not know who or what you are, but I know I need to conquer you. Others talk about you all the time. They cannot finish their term papers or write an email to the scariest professor. You dig your nails deeper into my brain to paralyze my fingers because you know one important fact: I want to be a writer. I want to write novels, short stories, plays, poems, articles, scripts, journals, blog posts. I want to write anything and everything.
I often listen to your taunts that I am not good enough to be a writer. I know I would never make it to the Scripps Spelling Bee or be able to diagram a sentence if asked, but I have a basic grasp of the English language. I can identify the difference between a simile and a metaphor. I can string together different parts of speech to produce coherent thoughts on paper (although not usually in speaking). You tell me sufficient grammar is not enough. I must have exquisite style, you say to me in the voice of a past teacher. I must not use adverbs… or unnecessary dialog tags… or exclamation points… or capitalization… or any other element the writing world deems mediocre. I try my hardest to follow these rules, but you still tell me my skills are not strong enough.
Because I grew up in a relatively sheltered town and went to a relatively sheltered high school, I have no business wanting to become a writer. When Flannery O’Connor tells aspiring writers, “Anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information about life to last him the rest of his days,” I know she is not talking to me. You tell me I have not the memories nor the imagination to create worlds or characters worthy of examination. I will never be the next Suzanne Collins, J.K. Rowling, or J.R.R. Tolkien. Even if I pound writer’s block with a mallet hard enough to produce a crack, the inspiration that slips out is unoriginal. It is the same story told by dozens of authors before me, just with a different set of players.
When I draw inspiration from history and nature, you remind me my interests are not marketable. No one wants to follow the story set hundreds of years ago. No one cares about the story of a maid, of a slave, of a commoner. No one wants to read the dialogue between two lovers written by a person who has never experienced it herself. The public demands dystopian, adventure-filled trilogies complete with a love triangle and a predictable plot. You tell me I am a hypocrite for loving to read marketable books but not wanting to write one.
Most of all, you repeat over and over that I have not the time for such lofty goals. I must focus on my studies, my friends, my family, my life. You tell me to scroll through Facebook for a half hour or read that BuzzFeed article emailed to me. When trivial matters fight for my attention constantly, I lose focus on the bigger picture. I cannot draw up a character, create a scene or finish a chapter. You distract me until I can no longer remember why I write.
To the thoughts that freeze my typing hands mid-sentence, I hear you but I will not listen any longer. I will smash writer’s block into a million little shards, sweep them up and toss them over my shoulder. You hold no power over my ideas, my imagination or my dreams. Move onto someone else. I bid you goodbye and wish you luck on your future endeavors.
Cordially,
Emily
Contact Emily Schmidt at egs1997 ‘at’ stanford.edu.