Blocks

We are already a third of the way through April. Weird. When I think about how quickly a year begins and ends, I usually remind myself that it is only 365 days. There's just not that much to it.

I'm taking an English Composition 1 class this semester at college. It has made me realize how much I take for granted that I can write. Just recently I've given more thought to what writing actually is, and I think it's a complex process. Like breathing.

Writing is made up of so many simple processes for instance: thinking, spelling, intention, comprehension, memory, imagination, analyzing, stress, and translation. There's probably more to it than that. Some of those things are the path down which I walk to write; some of them run along side the path throwing rocks at me as I go.

The most recent assignment I have been working on has nearly driven me crazy. It almost makes me not want to write anything anymore. It has reminded me how much work writing can be, and what a chore it is to drivel on about something about which I could not care less. Even though I take it for granted that I can do it, I'm kind of appalled at the feeling of necessity to fulfill an obligation to meet an expectation to prove it.