One thing about me (that my fellow copy table friends can attest to) is that when I start talking, it’s hard for me to stop. I can go on forever about topics I find interesting — volleyball, sharks, the various books I’m reading, Taylor Swift lore, et cetera. It’s not just about hearing myself talk, but rather about how excited these topics make me. 

However, I have been staring at this previously blank page for multiple days, trying to figure out what the heck I’m going to write. 

That’s the thing with me. I prefer being told what to write, or, if it’s my own idea, having a set-in-stone outline for it. For instance, I know that in the next volume, this will be a “goodbye” letter to the Ram. I can’t write two “goodbye” letters, because that’s silly. So, this From The Desk can be just whatever my heart desires.

The whole “do whatever you want!” thing makes me anxious for some reason. I’ve always been this way, looking back on my life. As a double Virgo and an oldest sister, I’m known to be somewhat of a control freak, as well as an obsessive over planner. Changing plans makes my skin crawl, and letting go of whatever level of control I have in a situation makes my hands shake. 

Now, you would think that having full creative freedom to write to my heart’s desires is the perfect solution to my control freakness. Well, you’re wrong. Because if there’s one thing I hate more than a last-minute change to long-term plans, it’s pulling thoughts out of thin air. 

In a way, this FTD is allowing people to see the inside of my brain, my relatively unregulated thoughts and emotions. Allowing people insider status like this is relinquishing control. It’s one of the reasons why I am often terrified to write for the Ram — I don’t want people to edit my articles, to see the drafts of thoughts before they’re perfect. I have spent my entire college career thus far sitting at the copy table in B52. I have seen the editing process play out in real time. I have personally been part of the editing process. I don’t want people to see my writing the way I have seen everyone else’s, just looking for things to fix and polish until it’s perfect.

I keep looking at the word count writing this. By this paragraph, I’ve passed 400 words, needing 300 more. So what else can I write about for another 300 words? My love for the ocean and the craving I feel to be in the water? How I miss my dog and the way too short life she lived? What am I doing to calm the overwhelming nerves of junior year and needing to figure out what I’m doing with my life? Where is my home and how do I justify having multiple places feel like home? What else is there? What else have I not already said out loud, not wanting to burden people with the same old words over and over again?

500 words done now. I’ve switched from my laptop to typing this on my phone, sitting on a bench at Union Square Park listening to my “autumn” playlist on Spotify despite the annoying heat of early September. 

Maybe I’m so anxious over this article because of doubt, of not wanting to hurt myself over peoples’ opinions on whether this is a good article or not. Before I submit an article, I have other people read it, just to make sure it’s okay to send to the Ram. My best friend Grace said this article made sense when I sent her screenshots over iMessage — I’m not sure why, but I trust her judgment enough. 

“I’ve got a hundred thrown out speeches I almost said to you.” A beautiful lyric from “The Archer” by Taylor Swift that I’m finding quite relatable at the moment. There are so many things I want to say, but none of them feel right. I’ve written and deleted multiple paragraphs of this article, trying to figure out what works best with whatever is running through the rest of the page. Maybe nothing is working, and I’m just trying my best. Who knows, because I sure don’t. 

700 words. I’ve made the minimum. I don’t know what is more relieving, the fact that I don’t have to pull more words from thin air or the fact that I’m done before the deadline (you’re welcome, Nicole). Maybe both, maybe neither. You got to read a play-by-play of my thoughts, complaints and existential questions. Maybe you’ll skip over this article, and I don’t have to worry about what you might think of me. Maybe you’ll read the whole thing and decide I’m slightly crazy. 

I don’t care anymore. This period of creative freedom is over, and I can now copy edit alongside my friends in peace.