It's been too long since my last update.
And by this, I mean "it's been too long since my last writing assignment at Pitt."
I've had high hopes of having this paper written by now. I promised myself at the beginning of the semester, "Sammi - do yourself a favor. Don't get work done on time: get it done early." So far, this promise has been broken at least once a week. In the case of this paper, multiple days in a row.
I received an email from my independent study leader (aka, a teacher for a self-paced class; aka, I should not be taking this). He suggested that, in order to stay on track with the course, it would behoove us to submit paper #1 by the weekend.
That was two weeks ago.
"Behoove," of course, was my word choice just now. Perhaps if he had used that word, I would have attacked the paper immediately, but that's all behind us now.
Last week, I decided to be a good girl and write this paper. Then a friend of mine suggested we go to a bookstore together and both work on our respective assignments and as anyone could guess, that quickly fell by the wayside. Though in my defense, I did try - I got as far as the heading for the paper. I even inserted the page numbers in the footer. According to my own writing process, I'm already a tenth of the way there.
So now I am sitting in the David Lawrence building on a Saturday, having been asked to take my brother to his ACT testing here, and once again I'm faced with the unrelenting temptation - nay, desire, to completely slack off and allow myself to be distracted. I even planned for a way to distract myself: I brought not one, but two novels I have either started or want to start reading. These, however, will be last resorts.
First, I started combing through my hair with my fingers. It's too hot and humid to bother straightening my hair, so it's wavy, tangled mess and certainly needs for this to be done.
Once I can't do that any longer, I decide to at least make a go at the paper. I get out my laptop, my book, my notes. I decide to jot down an outline. I realize I have no pen, no pencil, not even a marker with which to write. But I am in a college lecture building's lobby, so I decide to go on a pen hunt. I've had many classes in this building and have often found abandoned pens on tables, under chairs, or in the middle of the lobby, having fallen from the backpacks or purses of their previous owners.
After about seven minutes of this, I realize I probably look pretty silly crouching about in this way, so I resign myself back to the table with my laptop etc. and decide to just take the notes on my computer in a Word.doc.
And as fate would have it, Facebook calls to me and I waste fifteen minutes checking it and then my email.
And now, we come to this: me updating. I must ask myself the question - why do I do this to myself? I know that I am a good writer, that I could (and do) pull words out of a hat and, with little effort, splatter them on a page like a modern artist. And, like the modern artist's audience, my teachers seem to deem them as masterpieces. Does this make me proud to say this? I'm merely stating a fact. But perhaps even recognizing this fact makes me proud. No - humble writers wouldn't mention this...they wouldn't stall the way I do, either. They'd see this ability as a gift not to be squandered, a weapon only to be used in the most dire of situations, to be held back for only the emergency situations.
I know I'm wasting my potential by doing this. I know I could be putting so much more into my work, so much more depth, so much more detail.
I broke my nail. Great, now I'm a proud, vain writer.
I need to stop this. End of. I need to write my paper.
