By Christina Pineda
Just write for a couple of minutes, she says, as if that’s all it takes. As if there is a little switch in my mind labeled WORD FLOW, or STORYTIME with a tiny operator in front of it, ready to flip the switch on and off at a moment’s notice. Doesn’t she know that writing is an art, and these things take time? That passion isn’t instantaneous, and inspiration in no way comes when called? I write when I want, and right now, I don’t want. But…
Write what’s on your mind, she advises, so I do. crap, crap, crap, I write, because crap is what my mind thinks and my hand agrees. Why would I want to write what’s on my mind anyways? My mind is a dangerous place, with a million sharp ideas waiting to take hold. I write to escape the chaos of my mind. Crap, crap, crap becomes hell, hell, hell, because that’s what this class is quickly becoming. This must be hell is the foremost idea in my mind, because with time to write but nothing to write about, I am left in a limbo, drowning, in a sort of place I thought to be too ironic to exist, but it somehow does.
Alright, now pencils down, she calls, but my pencil stays in my hand. Writing is an art, and these things take time. Inspiration never comes when it’s called, but sometimes it can be felt.
Stop writing, she says, but I don’t. I’ll write when I damn well want, and right now I have art to make, and the time to make it.
Christina Pineda holds a BA in Politics and Government from the University of Puget Sound, where she learned to read between the lines of people, politics, and institutions. She writes to explore the spaces in between all of those things.