Pondering

In my 450 class, we read an article about finding voice as a writer. I assumed I had a great voice, since my transition from speech to writing was very smooth, thanks to a Charlotte Mason education. But my teacher told us that none of actually had a voice anymore; it had been trained out of us. "Psh," I said. "I'm a great writer."

But then I went back and read some of my blog posts from 2007. Ho. ly. Crap. I wrote stuff because I felt like it. Anything. Freewrites. One sentence posts. Out there. I wrote a story, a pretty bad story, and just posted it for anyone to read. I wrote all kinds of stuff. And I wrote it like I was talking to someone. And it was fun. People read it and liked it.

And now? Heck, I organized my last post like a handbook. I'm not sure where I missed the memo, but most people, make a point to not read handbooks. Plus, now I only write things that I think are "important." Whatever that is supposed to mean.

Freak. I've lost the whole reason I wanted to become a writer. To say something. To tell people things. To make things up. Now, all I write are formulaic analysis papers. All my paragraphs are the same. Claim, reason, evidence, discussion, summary. Over and over again. My thesis is perfect, beautifully worded - my conclusion perfectly restates and expands my introduction. Words, words, words, and nothing to say.

Ok, so maybe this post is a little angsty, which is partly because I've been awake since 4:30 this morning. I do recognize that academic writing is valuable, and it's good to make conscious decisions about writing, and learn to form an argument, and learn to do research and all the essay writing crap.

But really? Where did I go? Why am I not an expert? Why do I have to mimic what other people have done? I read Emerson for my lit class today, and he pointed out that young people are huddled in libraries studying the great works of Aristotle and Cicero, when Aristotle and Cicero were just young men huddled in libraries too. What makes them different from any of us?

Somewhere, I became afraid to write. Well, not afraid to write, just afraid to write stuff that mattered. It's easier to write something formulaic and "correct" because if a teacher doesn't like it, it's not really mine. I just didn't get the formula right. Writing about myself, writing about right and wrong, and beauty and pain - that's the stuff that's frightening. If someone doesn't like that stuff, it hurts. Writing well is an act of bravery.