Tuesday, August 2, 2011

MLIG: Who am I? What the heck is happening?

I am stuck in a mini-rut. I am currently sitting in a two-foot-deep pothole, grabbing my knees and peering over them at the shiny world around me, thinking about what John Song said last week, when I told him he wasn't writing enough.

He said: "I literally don't have anything to write about."

I told him I would give him some of my ideas. I have many ideas. So many, in fact, that I would like to list them, and tell you, in percentage form, how complete each essay is to being finished.

Alcohol and Peter: the 4-year relationship. (40%)
Money vs. Love. (5%)
Caring about other people vs. caring about myself (10%)
My experience at a publishing company (40%)
Going hipster (25%)
What exactly my mind thinks about when I'm sad (45%)
Recurring dreams (30%)
Comfort vs. Excitement (65%)
Fiction story #3 (35%)
The joy of being #3 (5%)
Staying inside my room all day (55%)
What I did today, for the last 7 years (80%)
Awesome memories from senior year (10%)
The curse of having 1,000 visitors in one day (90%)
2-month learning goals (50%)
Life philosophy: develop capabilities (65%)
How I learned guitar (45%)
My most embarrassing moment ever (35%)
Keys to inner confidence (75%)
Enablers vs. Blockades (25%)
Swearing off OKCupid (60%)
Leaving Yale, Parts 1, 2, 4, 5 (0%)
English classes at Yale: Anne and Michael (0%)

So. I have many nascent, inchoate thoughts I predict will be written in full when I return to Cupertino. What I want, though, is the motivation to write them now.

Problem is, I want them to be perfect, fully fleshed out paragons of brevity and wit, insightful and incisive, but lack the necessary mojo to pull it off. I am frustrated. I know I have insights worth sharing, but no motivation to polish them into forms communicable. I want to give birth, but my water hasn't broken. (Too much?)

Actually, that's not the real problem. The real problem is more insidious, longer-form: I'm facing opportunity-cost discomfort. I am sitting in my room on a Tuesday night, feeling sleepy-but-wired because of the coffee milk I had for dessert, and, at 11:17 p.m., feel as though it is much too early for me to be writing, because I should be doing something else -- talking! listening! watching! moving! flirting! -- something more compelling, something a 22-year-old with boundless energy should be engaged in. I'm distracted by the thought of going out, even though I know I won't. The thought is uncomfortable: everything I am doing now, or want to do now, is not what I should be doing, should be experiencing, given my environment and the comforts I have been afforded. This is a very first-world, first-class problem.

So first-world, and first-class, in fact, that all these negative and tedious emotions that produced my mood in the first place, well, they're luxuries that I can do without. So  poof. I'm gone.

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