Reconnecting With the Beauty of Writing

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Eve Iulo, Staff Writer

Ironically, protruding through my stubborn nature and breaking the grasp I so tenaciously hold on routine, exists my love for writing and the liberation which it induces. Expanding beyond the confines of syllabi and rubrics, creative writing is a breath of fresh air; cleansing one’s stress-polluted body of the objective tasks brought about through everyday busywork and allowing them to enter a realm of altruistic expression and creativity. Through such deliverance, we are granted the opportunity to reconnect with ourselves – our souls, our experiences, our minds – and in so doing, find ourselves transfixed in the boundless universe that is pen and paper – or more contemporarily speaking, finger and keyboard.

But what happens when this simple yet infinite pleasure of ours is no longer viewed as being such? When younger generations view it not as a privilege, but as a task? And when the seemingly bottomless mundane pit of mandatory assignments engulfs the authentic purpose of writing, only to regurgitate it back up as yet another dull to-do? These are all questions of which I could not have answered six months ago. For why would I, an avid writer, ever allow the monotonous tasks of everyday life to impede on the joy brought about through writing? Now, drained yet enlightened, I have overcome the four-month void that practically depleted my passion to a pulp: senior fall.

Through the endurance of copious amounts of college supplements, the occasional research paper, and of course, the infamous structural IA’s, I was forced to face the bitter reality of organizational writing. Imprisoned by word limits, criteria, and concrete expectation, what I thought to be seemingly limitless swiftly metamorphosed to stultifying. No longer could I ogle over clever motifs, nor lose myself in profound imagery. Abandoning my fondness for colloquialisms and neglecting the use of euphemisms, I found myself enveloped in the unimaginative and coerced into the humdrum of structural writing. 

No more did the opening of a fresh Google Doc generate a smile, for in consequence of this compulsory convention, writing no longer appeared to me as a witted, expressive release, but a meaningless task that – similar to all else that is academically obligatory – became quantifiable. This shift in perspective and diminishment of vehemence only accentuated the strains of senior fall. Pleasure failed to be found in the acuity of a pun, or the appreciation of a well-placed juxtaposition, and was instead derived from having nothing to write at all – which, in other words, was the equivalent to being drained of all ingenuity. 

Such adversity was not brought to consciousness until the fog of organizational writing was cleared through the clickings of “Submits” and “Mark as Dones.” Having reflected on this tedious era of detachment, hindsight has allowed me to realize how cunning the nature of structural study is, and how, almost insidiously, it protrudes its way the most genuine, untouched areas of our being – the areas that harbor our passions and ecstasies and conceal them from the grim possibility of losing their effervescence. Through four months of tedious busywork, these areas of mine arose to the surface and soon became host to the parasite that is structural writing, sucking me dry of any enthusiasm prompted through writing. 

Now, with a sigh of relief and the barriers of convention no longer fortified, I quell this parasite through the writing of this article.