Student Blog: Rewrites

Imagine, if you will, the following:

You've spent several days sitting at your desk. Half heartedly clacking away at your laptop keyboard. Thinking a lot about writing, but not actually doing it. You have a deadline to meet. In the fall, there's going to be a staged reading of a musical you've written. It's a piece you've worked very hard on, and you're very proud of what you have so far.

But it has problems. You recognize the problems. There are scenes that need to be expanded, lyrics that need to be clarified, key signatures that need to be altered. There's a very specific to-do list hanging on the wall. The solutions are clear. You know what you need to do.

But you can't bring yourself to do it.

Rewriting can sometimes be tedious and arduous. At times, it feels like the joy has been seeped from the creative process. A lot of the work is very technical. There's less spontaneity and opportunity to revel in creative joy. There's also a weight on your shoulders: you're so close to finishing. Finishing the song, the draft, the script. You know the pure euphoria you'll feel upon completion. You know that with a little more elbow grease, you can make a hat where there never was a hat.

But there's no hat yet. It's not finished yet. And you know you have to finish the hat, but it's hard. You want to take joy in what you've created, but you can't do that yet because you haven't concluded the process. But you know that in your heart of hearts that you're close. You're in the home stretch.

It's all you think about. While you drink your coffee in the morning. While you're at work. In bed at night, you stare at the ceiling thinking about what to do. How to fill in the gaps. But you can't bring yourself to sit at the desk.

You try moving from the desk. Sitting outside under the pine trees, listening to the kids next door play. You make yourself a new kind of tea, hoping that maybe mint tea will flip some switch inside you that chamomile won't. You play all sorts of music. Bach and Schubert symphonies that you haven't heard in years. When that doesn't work you try Copland. Then Bernstein. Then Sondheim. Finishing The Hat plays, and you struggle to enjoy one of your favorite Sondheim songs. It just reminds you of what you should be doing.

You think about taking some time away from the work, since you're clearly stressed out. You think about playing video games, but you figure that's a waste of time. That particular thought is omnipresent, slowly chipping away at one of your only hobbies.

You try starting Breaking Bad, since you've never seen it. It's incredible. The characters are well crafted, and the plot is engaging. But you can't fully enjoy it.

You take a long awaited and meticulously planned weekend trip to Washington D.C. It's somewhere you've never been but always wanted to go. You go with one of your best friends and her roommate. You sit on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial at night, watching the Washington Monument's reflection under the starry sky. It's stunning. That night is a life changing experience. You think about writing the entire time.

Back at your desk, you ignore your laptop screen and take out your phone. You catch up on the news, reading every news story possible. Obama turned 60. New York has a new Governor. There's a delta plus variant now. You read every comment on every article. You spiral.

Slowly, you start to remember why you're writing in the first place. Someone has to take the world and feed it through some kind of artistic future. Reading the news, as dreadful as most of it is, gives you fuel. It helps you brainstorm. It keeps the gears turning.

The gears turn as you drink tea. The gears turn as you listen to music. As you play video games. Watch Breaking Bad. Travel to Washington D.C.

You start to understand why it's called a writing process. It doesn't happen instantly. It's gradual. Keeping the gears turning is an important part of it. It makes the eventuality of putting pen to paper easier, more reflexive. You understand that "Finishing The Hat" means just that. A hat. Not the whole painting.

You take a breath. Remind yourself that you love this. That the work is worth it. That there's literally nothing you'd rather be doing. You know you have the right words inside you, and that eventually they'll come out. Above all, you remind yourself it's a reading. Things are allowed to be imperfect. This is your playground. After all, that's all writing has ever been. A playground of language and ideas. So, you make another cup of tea and boot up Spotify.

Then you grab the monkey bars.

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