Strangely enough, I actually tend to enjoy the act of writing a paper. For one thing, its much better then taking some sort of a test. An essay you can control, you can dictate, you can spend as much time on it as you want/need/have, it's a good deal. Tests make me itchy, all those people, all that pressure, it's practically contagious, and then there's the teachers, trotting around the room, peering, lurking, it's very uncomfortable. And all you are really doing is regurgitating information and working against the clock and wondering when this can possibly end and whether you will get carpal tunnel syndrome immediately afterwards and it's a very odd experience if you think about it. But papers, papers are great, you can relax, grab some coffee, dance around your room for a while as a study break, it's some fun. And typically I'm not bad at motivating myself on through it, but this year, well, this year was different. This year I just could not even deal with it. This year, I was going to have to try something new.
So, when my father announced his intention to come up to not-Yale and take some of my things back down home with him, I decided to hitch a ride as well. Back in the arms of my familial home, warm with the glow of not-Philadelphia and it's thunderstorms, I was ready to get some writing done. Right?
Well, sure. Eventually. At some point. The truth is that while I did indeed write what I had to get written, it was sort of a huge struggle to get there. All of my laundry was being washed, finally, and my only options for covering included several sweat-style outfits and various awkward looking t-shirts. Awesome. Decked in my KGB: Still Watching You (because come on, you know they totally are) and the sweatpants my father stole from my roommate by accident, I sat on my couch surrounded by books with titles like "Ibsen and his thoughts and feelings" or "The Surrealist Modernist Symbolist Soviet Reading of Strindberg" and trying to formulate this mythical being called a thesis from all the craziness all around me. It was deeply attractive, I can assure you. And there were times when I was absolutely certain that this just wasn't going to happen. I was just mired in the odd and wondrous world of Ibsen and Strindberg and their craziness and never going to escape. I was all for pulling up a chair and making a day of it. I figured, whatever, I'm already down in struggleville, I might as well set up shop.
However, some self-preservation instinct or the spirit of Strindberg himself, probably because he couldn't deal with my feminist attitude, decided to lead my poorly-clad self into inspiration, because I did get the writing done, and I must say, it's not half bad. As I rode the train back up to not-Yale this afternoon, curling my body into as small a ball as possible to avoid contamination from the rather smelly if kind young man who had taken the seat next to me, I was satisfied. I was also, for the first time in several days, fully and well clothed. Thanks, Strindberg. I owe you one.
Leah Franqui is a fairly interesting person/director/writer/reader/eater/drinker. She likes ugly dogs and dislikes her hair in the morning. She's a sucker for environmental causes and plays hardball with deals on chewing gum. She is a struggle.