I've Frequently Not Written Blogs...

When I promised a post on hyperbole by the weekend, I may have been exaggerating slightly... Between family visits, medications, and laziness, I haven't worked it into an actual post yet.

When I was in high school, I once didn't write a report about the Count of Monte Cristo. In fact, I've frequently not written reports about the Count of Monte Cristo (Eeeoooh!). Lets try this again, sans Rosencrantz...

In my senior year, I read the book, The Count of Monte Cristo. It's my favorite book. I outlined a report for school about futility of revenge and the incredible concept of hope. I wanted the last words of my report to be the final words of the book, "all human wisdom is contained in these two words: wait and hope." Those are epic words, beautiful words.

I wrote the first paragraph of my report. I wrote it about twenty times. I kept deleting it and rewriting it until I was so frustrated I could no longer work on it. When Mrs. Cooney collected everyone's book reports, I told her I tried but couldn't write more than a paragraph. I told her I would take the failing grade (which, in my infinite capacity for procrastination, was hardly without precedent). She looked at me for a long time, and said, "Do you think you're so hard on yourself because your dad is a writer?" And my heart sank.

She was, of course, entirely wrong. I was hard on myself because my dad AND my brother were really good writers. So there! Justin used to write great short stories all the time. One of the best presents I got for my birthday was a TMNT fan fiction he wrote me when I was little. He got a scholarship to study the Classics at Phoenix College. Then he dropped out because he was working full time, and, let's face it: he was studying Latin.

I was not a great writer. I was the artist. I could draw. Justin was the writer. Dad was the poet. Trying to delve into their domain was difficult. I felt forced to find perfection in the heavy-laden head of a fountain pen. I mean, keyboard, technically, I guess. Just pretend I'm scribing ye ole missive from somewhere in the late 17th century and make it work. It's poetical.

I ended up working for a month on that book report after school in her classroom. I think I managed to get three or four paragraphs finished by the end (The end being expulsion from high school for bad grades; which was sort of the exact opposite of ironic: more of a cause and effect). I never finished the report, but I learned something about myself, and I struggled through the anxiety of it. I always respected Mrs. Cooney for giving me that chance. Eventually, I even began to find my voice, my sarcastic, insane voice. And look where that got us.

Struggling on my current post reminds me of that feeling. Nothing comes together. Everything is a hazy cloud of information that I grasp only to have it slip away in gentle wisps of futility. I have a point to make, something interesting, but I can't formulate the concept correctly. So I get anxious. And I procrastinate.

We all have our burdens. The Count was betrayed by all his friends and imprisoned while they stole everything he loved. I have minor writer's block. It's perfectly equivalent. Shut up!

I'll finish it eventually. Until then, all human wisdom is contained in these two words: wait and hope!