On writing

And taking the never-ending countdowns day by day

Whenever I plead to my mother for a bit of life-changing advice, she tends to say the same thing: “Just take it day by day.” I scoff; it will never be that easy. What about these huge weights sitting on my chest, following behind me attached to my hip, seems like something I can be patient about?

This semester, I took my history capstone course, the objective of which is to write a substantial research paper around the topic of “travel writing.” This class was my worst nightmare: I had to, on my own time, research and write at least 20 pages on a topic I am unknown to over the course of a whole four months. Barring the fact that I wrote a 17-page paper in about four days in the spring, this task daunted me. I was to be in charge of the process completely: choosing a topic, researching, writing, with very few benchmarks to make sure I was on track. And as it nears the end, I’ve realized I’ve loved every second of it.

I’ve been writing for a long time. In middle school, I wrote shitty plays with my best friend. When I was in high school, and thought I had met the love of my life, I wrote poetry in my notes app that contained such big feelings I knew nothing about. I notice, through those pieces, how truthfully I felt, and how precious it was to be able to feel such depth. In college, I began to write journal entries, starting with recapitulations of my days that I was worried I would forget, and becoming a way to, again, process feelings so big I couldn’t bear them. And then, at some point along the way, I stopped. I’ve written, since then, academic paper after academic paper. Verse has slipped through the cracks and been replaced by an ability to argue research in long form.

I don’t mind, though. I’m almost there, almost finished with my substantial research paper on a foreigner’s experience of Chinese martial arts in front of me, and I’m so proud of it. Even though I don’t realize it, I’ve taken it day by day. I’ve watched those around me do the same, little by little. My mother is counting down the days until her retirement, and though I know she’s excited, she’s soaking up what will be her last days of employment. My father is counting down the days until his next rehearsal starts, playing a titular role in an iconic show. He’s spent his time studying the script, the character, the words, so that he can glean experience out of every single day once he steps into the rehearsal room. My roommates count down the days too: Matt processes each day’s work as it comes in an honest way, ready for whatever he has to do to get to the finish line. Aliyah counts down every moment, every second, immediately prepared to meet the next challenge. We’re all counting down to something, and when that passes, the next countdown begins. Existing patiently within the days between is the beauty of what our nature is and what it could be.

No matter the form or function, I will write. It’s essentialism emerges out of my habits. Before I go to sleep, I imagine what the next argument in my paper should be. In the shower, I write and rewrite my thesis in condensation on the wall to pass the time as the conditioner sits in my hair. I thought I needed it to be done and out of my life, but I don’t. I want to enjoy the process, the delicious feeling of my brain searching for connections within a source. The satisfaction of looking up and seeing I’ve written a page in one breath without blinking. I want to enjoy the countdown. And while I’m enjoying it, I’ll know that what lies on the other end will be even sweeter, the next countdown more enjoyable when I enjoy it too.

A journal entry of mine from last December:

“It’s often hard, it seems, to exist patiently. School days are jam packed with tasks I find loathsome to my inner spirit. It is now winter break; I am filling my days with meaningful tasks, though small, like the laundry that has piled up. Again. I finally washed my sheets! Matt and I take a moment to sit in the sun. It’s already been a long winter, and it’s only December. Yesterday’s rain is remembered in the dampness of the ground as I go to take the compost out… / I will continue to be patient, and thoughtful. Live within every breath I take. Look up at the clouds so they know I’m still here. Life cannot be to just exist. Grab it by the balls and make it more.”