If Essays were Babies...

It was one of those days that didn't start at all.

I was still some sort of conscious at 3 a.m. working on my essays, the memories of the evening earlier fuzzy in my memory.

I finally got to my page limit, (barely) sent my essays off to my mother to be edited in a few hours. I crawled into bed and fell into a fitful rest.

I awoke seven hours later to my phone going off. My mom texts me and tells me she's ready to go over my essays with me. They are due today at one.

I stumble upstairs to grab the house phone, because something's wrong with my cell phone's speaker, and whenever I talk in it it sounds really muffled to the person on the other end. Besides, I don't get reception in the basement.

But the power's out.

I stumble back down stairs, put on a bra and some jeans, shove all my school paraphernalia in my back pack. My laptop's battery is almost spent and can't go more than 20 minutes without being plugged in, and besides, I need the internet.

I grab a protein bar and capri-sun and dash over to the library. Even though I try to find a secluded spot (that's near a plug), I'm not totally out of earshot of the other library patrons. I call my mom and she offers suggestions, but whenever I try to respond, she can't hear me. I try yelling as much as I can, but she keeps going, and there a times when I need clarification, or I just need her to slow down so I have chances to fix errors.

It's not working. She can't hear me and I don't dare raise my voice in the library. I'm really tired and when I'm tired I get really emotional and so I start crying. Like full out crying in the library. I hardly care that I look uber pathetic: absolutely no make-up, a disgusting bun, glasses, a t-shirt. And I'm bawling.

I hang up and rush outside. I can yell out there, but I look around for one of those out door plug things and I can't find one. (I swear they're everywhere until you need one!)

Out of necessity I collect myself and call my mom. I can yell and not disrupt people, but my battery has limited juice and the sun is so bright. I try adjusting the brightness, but nothing works. My screen is just too shimmery. I move to the shade. No luck. I put my laptop on the bench and kneel down and lower the screen. I look stupid, but it works for a few minutes.

All the while my mom is telling me stuff I need to fix and stuff she thinks I can add to more safely manage my page-limit. I'm trying to focus and stay calm, but I see the green battery icon rapidly slimming down.

So I hang up again (it sounds rude, but she can barely hear me anyway). I waddle over to the Union as the tower clock strikes 11, only to find that my ordinary floor is undergoing some renovation, of course. I wander around frantically and finally spot a table near a plug! It's right by the men's bathroom, but sacrifice brings forth the blessings of heaven.

I resume my conversation with my mother, and after working for another hour, it's complete! Both of them! You know, writing an essay is kind of like having kids, and I just gave birth two twins. What labor!

I look back and wonder what I could have done better-- the copy editor in my nags that it didn't check enough. I should have read through just one more time. But I can't look back. I can't stop. I'm not out of the woods.

I eat Chinese food to lighten my mood. I'm exhausted, so I catch a shuttle because I'm lazy, even though it's actually shorter to walk... but the driver must be asleep because we don't take off for what feels like forever and so I decide to walk anyway.

The moment I step off the bus it takes off. Wonderful.

At work I'm told it's my last day. I'm happy. I'm sad. I'm confused about how I feel about people there.

This whole day I've had a hope inside me that a letter will be waiting for me-- a triumphant reward for the crazy past few days.

No letter.

But scrabble with one of my best friends! And a party with my beloved family!

(The real party was last night-- my grandparent's 50th anniversary celebration. More on that to come.)

I still have a final to take. One last one.

And then I'm off to the Shakespearean Festival! Rapture in my soul!

Imagine that You're Me

You know you’ve been up too late because you start freaking out because not all your pictures are the same shade of sepia.

You realize that you’ve been staring at a computer screen for more than 12 hours today.

You realize, with some horror and dismay, that this is a typical day for you.

You try writing your essay by hand, because that’s how you like to write your first drafts.

You start wondering what the story would be like if told from the monster’s perspective, not Frankenstein’s.

You sit for a few minutes trying to remember if you’ve ever seen Young Frankenstein. Maybe once, at a party, or something.

You remember that Young Frankenstein is a Mel Brook’s movie. So is the Producers. You’ve never seen The Producers, but you’ve heard it. Once you listened in the bathroom while the boys were watching it in your room. You went in the bathroom to study grammar so you could focus, but you really ended up listening to the whole movie. From the bathroom floor.

You remember who those boys were, and decide to Facebook stalk them.

You try to switch your Facebook back to normal, US English; a language that you haven’t used for several months on that website. (UK English, then Spanish, then Pirate.) As you’re trying to find English (Why are they not in alphabetical order?) You come across Esperanto. You cannot help but wonder WHO IN THIS WORLD READS FACEBOOK IN ESPERANTO? So you do the logical thing and change your Facebook to Esperanto.

You notice that Esperanto’s a lot like Spanish. Which reminds you that you have to buy a Spanish textbook that costs $200 and is sold only brand new at the bookstore, AND NOWHERE ELSE!

You then fondly turn your thoughts to the new planner you bought at the bookstore, and the beautiful crimson 5 subject notebook with the U’s logo on it. You can’t wait for fall, because then you’ll be too busy to breathe. But you have your planner! And with a planner, all things are possible.

You rejoice because all things are possible. Like passing your English class. It can happen. You just have to write your essays! You’re half-way done with one of them, which is nice, but you remind yourself that you still really need to buckle down and get going.

You know that the only way to get going is to have a beautiful new pair of shoes on your feet to take you where you want to go! So you search the World Wide Web for the perfect pair of Mary Jane pumps. You find them.

You have to tell your sister and mom about them, and ask for advice on whether it is taking the risk to buy shoes online. You also have to ask if I should get the shoes in mustard or gray. (Two of your favorite colors.)

You decide you are almost ready to conclude this blog post, and thus begin thinking of a decent title. You struggle at this, and sarcastically remind yourself that this is why none of your headline suggestions will ever make it in print.

You have read the newspaper for years, and even now you study it with more fervor than ever before so that you can become acquainted with the subtle nuances of the art. So that you can be a good copy editor and page designer.

You suddenly realize how many incomplete sentences fill your blog post! Your soul is suddenly drenched in horror, repulsion, and trepidation. But you try to stay true to your word and not delete major things! So you leave them. Because that is what you said, even if it is wrong. Because sometimes you write things that are wrong, but you write them anyway, because they must come out of inside of you, so they don't boil and rot and corrupt you.

-Meg

p.s. Do you know what's ironic? I'm horrible at writing headlines because they aren't complete sentences, yet this post is riddled with half-formed, crippled sentences. WHAT IS THIS?

Pens

I used to stick straight to mechanical pencils, but this year I have learned to love pens. There is a subtle satisfaction to using ink, a sense of permanence and professionalism. The stark contrast between the stale white and stagnant blue to the dark, rich black is beautiful.

Pencil smudges and runs together, but it is nice for math, where lots of erasing is required (at least for me). When I do err using my beloved writing weapon, I have to ground it out by scribbling. That is one reason I prefer the pen: I am more conscience of perfection because I don't like scratching out my mistakes. Things just turn out better. A writing utensil should be very willing and generous. Creativity is severely harbored if one has to continually engage in ridiculous activities such as shaking and scraping the carpet in an effort to persuade the ink to come out.

For me, blue pens serve a different purpose than black pens. In a pinch either will do, but I have certain notebooks that are in black ink and others in blue. Blue is a bit more creative. Of course, it can’t be too bright, then it is classified as a ‘gel pen’ the legend of the nineties. No, it has to be dark, fairly mild and very inky.

Black pens suit me for such tasks as lists, homework, and other practical jobs. Black pens tend to be easier to find when one is out and about, and thus makes reaching consistence in a notebook simpler.

Pens, overall, are an important tool for any writer, student, or inhabitant of the planet. But I cannot conclude before extending a commentary on one of my most favorite sort of pen: the red pen.

Red pens are for fixing mistakes. Many fear this color. Perhaps because they believe it symbolizes danger, fire, communism, or love (even though those are scary things). I take it is as a symbol of constructive criticism. When I get paper back with a lot of little red markings, I know that my piece is just about to get a face lift, and that makes me happy. When I wield a crimson crayon of my own, I feel powerful knowing I am righting the wrongs of incorrect grammar usage.

In conclusion, I love to use pens for the reasons stated above. I love their inky smoothness and their tendency to advocate getting it right on the first try. I love creative that spawns from the tips of them, and the moral and grammatical righteousness for which they advocate.