Writing and me: A difficult relationship

To those 0 of you who have visited this site and been disappointed that there hasn't been any real content, here I am trying to put up some real content.

So, I am a good writer.  Some have said that I am an excellent writer.  I have indeed gotten an A on almost every essay I wrote at the last possible minute (read: Every essay I ever wrote).

"But Hannas," you say, "Why do you put it off to the last minute?"

Is it because I'm lazy?

Is it because I'm scared what I'm going to write will be bad?

Is it because I don't like to plan?

The answer to all of these questions is a resounding YES.  But they are not the main reasons.  I am lazy, but I am lazy with my homework too, but I always do that at the first opportunty (yes, I am a college student).  I am scared that what I write will be bad, but it's not foremost in my mind, any more than John Petrucci is afraid he'll screw up an improvised solo before he goes on stage.  I know there's a possibility, and I have certainly written terribly before, but I know that it doesn't happen often.  I also don't like to plan, but that's because I enjoy spontaneity, and the thrill of having no idea what I'm going to do next.  I like playing Jazz for the same reason, it feels natural to me.

"You still haven't answered my question" you say, angrily.

Its because I find it extremely difficult to start writing.  Even if I have an idea, and I know what I'm going to do, something keeps me from starting.  I sit and stare at a blank page/screen for an hour or more before I write my first words, and even then it doesn't feel right.  It takes a while, a couple of paragraphs, before I can really write like the good writer I claim to be.  Allow me to give an example:

A friend of mine, who's identity he probably does not want revealed, and who has no screen name for me to exploit, asked me to write an "about us" page for a website he was building.  I worked on that about us for a total of three hours, and turned out 122 words.  One quarter of a page, with lots of spaces (because I used bullet-points to make it look longer).  That's .68 words per minute, for those of you counting.  What did I do with the rest of that time?

Easy, I slammed my head on the desk in frustration between texts to my girlfriend.

How about another example?  My high school forced me to support every point I made with two textual examples in each of the 8 5 page essays I had to write per year, so I like to work in pairs.

This one I am particularly embarassed of, and some of my readers will know exactly what it is.  I was working on a fan fiction for the Magic:The Gathering Expanded Multiverse project.  I had an excellent idea, wrote out a whole storyboard, then decided to (rather than write a novel) write it one chapter at a time and post it on the forums.  I didn't have a name for my main character yet, so I wrote the first two installments in first person, in the form of journal entries by my main character, and I was holding off on the third installment and first real chapter because I wanted to change it to third person, and I needed a name for my character.

About a month passed before I finally came up with what I was looking for, and I announced on the forum that I would begin writing again.  That was a month ago.  A fellow forum-goer and blogger bugged me about it, and still I haven't sat down and wrote, because I don't feel like I can start.

As you can imagine, I have been slow to post on this website for the same reason.

A Change of Seasons

I still haven't decided what to put on this blog, but since there\'s a precedent for poetry, I'll add some more until I start writing seriously.

This is a poem that won me an honorable mention in my local state's National Arts and Writing competition.

Ode to A Change of Seasons 

The sadness rests, the thoughts run through

Of the darkest of times: a death gathering heard,

But a funeral is given to who?

Surely to a brave soul belongs this word.

What is it changing seasons surely show;

What changes like the years, in one?

What great feelings does it bring to me,

What troubles does it help us know?

Of whom do we think in the bright red sun?

The disk brings bright thought of life to me.

The crimson sun rises in the distance.

It brings back memories of old, brighter days.

Days when my young mind was marked with innocence,

Then seeking knowledge was my way.

Like green leaves fading to orange and gold

That fall and blow away in autumn winds,

So the thoughts continue, though I struggle to hold on.

My own failures in my mind stand out bold.

Ignorance alone surrounds my lonely mind.

For the first time there is nothing to concentrate on.

The tunes take me to a dramatic change.

Years ago in the coldness of fall season

A man did in the hall arrange

A speech to avid students of reason.

The message he gave was “Carpe Diem!

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may”.

Then the student returned back home.

He appreciated life again and redeemed

Himself in the eyes of his friends that day,

Just in time, for then she was lost in the foam.

The seasons have changed and so have I:

From my youthful ignorance to aged wisdom.

The greatest lesson I’ve learned is in our reply

To time, to whom we all fall victim.

Times have passed that can’t be relived.

Life always continues, though it never goes straight.

But now as the crimson sun sets,

The knowledge from wisdom I will try to give

To my young son, it’s taught only by fate.

I’ve done what I could, at last I can rest.