Writing. Wrighting. Right-Wing. Rrrright-Ing. -Ing, -ing, -ing like an annoying ping, ping, ping. What the hell is it? It’s like trying to get a direct answer from a philosopher. Confusing and unattainable yet entirely adaptable and personal. Don’t judge my writing! Otherwise it means you don’t like me. But, I must learn to separate the two. After all, during the grading process the teacher does not have me sitting next to them explaining my rationale or intention. All they have is my paper. Is all of my writing reflective of me? Probably not. Funnily enough, I feel that the resume is the most bland and detached version of me. Here is a list of what I have done but not what I have learned. Sometimes, writing can be so sterile. This, then this, then this. However, not formulaic. For me, the familiarity of formula gives me comfort. Why? Because y is always equal to mx+b. That’s why. But this, I don’t like this here. Why? Because, because it doesn’t sound right. What? But doesn’t it fit contextually? Yes. But isn’t it sequentially and logically appropriate? Yes. But isn’t it grammatically correct? Yes, but it doesn’t sound right. I didn’t realize this was music theory 101. Read it and listen to yourself, see it just doesn’t sound right. It sounds fine. You should have heard the three voices in my head that were arguing this one out. Once 16 1/2 year old AP English student me got involved in the dialogue well, it turns into a red ink blood bath.
I am trying to write, but my cat is trying desperately to distract me. She is currently biting my pen as I write this sentence. I realize that the typed version of this may create confusion with my prior reference, but I can’t sit with my thoughts while staring at a blinding white screen. Why does it have to be white? Why can’t it be blue, or gray, or polka-dotted? Why blazing, blaring, devoid of all colors, white? And if you stare at it long enough, it begins to pulsate just enough to remind you that you are stressed and the the clock is ticking to your own heart beat which you would think makes you feel in control, but you can’t control time and you can’t control every heartbeat.
So, no. I don’t like writing on computers. And, yes. I have to admit to myself that I need my tactile reminder. Blue pen pressed between pointer finger and middle finger with my thumb pressed against the side of the instrument guiding my words as they touch down on paper. I need that physical reminder. Just like I need my other physical reminder. A hard callus formed on the middle finger of my writing hand serving as a permanent reminder of my previous imperfections.
(Continued in “On Writing in Iran”)