The Idea of an Essay, Volume 4

Narrative & Memoir 25 The Creativity Journey Michael Nuzzo Our plush couch is trying to swallow me. Its soft warmth is trying to trick my entire body into falling asleep. Any other time I would have given into this pleasure and let the world quietly slip away for an hour or two, but not tonight. I did not want to be here. Please don’t ask me a question… Don’t move, she might see me… If I don’t say anything, maybe she’ll give up… “Well,” Uh-oh, quick, think of something! “What did the hare do?” my mom asked. “Um, uh, well he, uh,” I stuttered. The room was dead quiet. I looked for an escape from this tortuous moment. The large windows which covered our entire wall, where perfect for daydreaming but would offer no such luxury this late at night. Instead of gazing into the large blue sky, or determining if those were cows or hay bales on the horizon, all I could see was the reflection of my mother staring at me, waiting for an answer. My mom has been trying to help me write this paper about The Tortoise and The Hare. I hadn’t started it, and, yes, it’s due tomorrow. She didn’t understand that I just can’t write. I always freeze. Every time I try to put my thoughts on paper, it is as if some evil villain locks the door that lets my creativity flow. I always have a difficult time writing. Ever since I can remember, the emptiness of a blank page begs the impossible. To me, trying to write is no different than trying to solve a math problem without being given the problem statement. I am scared to write because I don’t want to answer incorrectly. But still, I want to write, I want to be successful. Will I be doomed to continually stare at my blank computer screen as the clock ticks, or can I break this cycle? Our dim office was quiet. Not the kind of quiet you hear when you are nervous, but the quiet that comes with the relaxation after a perfectly completed task. The clock ticked quietly as a delicious aroma filled the air. My fingers were lightly touching the heavily used keyboard and my cheeks hurt from the joyous smile on my face. I looked at the small clock sitting on the windowsill to my left and thought to myself, “five-thirty, just in time for dinner.” I had