I don't know about you, but for me, inspiration comes from the weirdest places. I used to think I was a bit of a freak for being inspired to write when by things like bad cooking or nice cars. I mean, who writes about that stuff? (Hopefully not the person reading this, or else you will probably be pretty mad at me right now...) Sometimes I would find myself trying to write what the world would define as a "normal" essay. Believe me, my 'school file' has its share of "What I Did This Summer" and "My Favorite Things." They don't turn out right for me. The general consensus is that they don't turn out right for anyone, basically.
Really, I'm on to something here. Just go with me, okay? Now, had I turned those sentences into my 'English/Literature/Composition 9/10' (What a grammatically correct name! Not.) teacher last year as part of an essay (Note: This is my first year being homeschooled.), she would've circled them in her classic bright red pen. I would receive a comment something to the effect of 'pointless' or 'detracts from your point.' My response?
So what? No longer do I find myself tied to the labor of penning an essay on such a boring topic that I stop writing and begin to wonder who will fall asleep first while I am forced to share my mindless drivel with the entire class of thirty-something students? Myself or my listeners? Perhaps the teacher. But hey, serves her right! She made me write this, after all. Don't even get me started on sharing my essays in front of the class.
Oh, wait, you already did. Oops! Well, here goes. Personally, I think that sharing your writing with the class is the most degrading thing a writer can possibly do. Could it be more obvious that the teacher is only trying to slack off and waste some of her lesson time to torture us to listen to other students' 'I-forgot-we-had-to-do-this-so-I-finished-at-3:00-am' essays? Not to me.
I find myself being very self-conscious when it comes to sharing my writing with other people in a face-to-face manner. Putting something like this on a website does not bother me in the least, because you are reading it at your own leisure (hopefully not the day after staying up until 3:00am to complete an essay) and not laughing in my face the entire time. Even when we had to have our so-called friends (Do friends write things on your paper like "This is stupid!" and "Terrible, man"?) 'proofread' (which always turned out to be more like 'make fun of') our papers, it was slightly better. But I don't need a proofreader. Got that? I'm just fine on my own. If I need some assistance, I will ask someone less likely to tell me how 'retarded' my essay is, like my mom or dad. I will not, under any circumstances, ask a 14-year-old who has been up until 3:00am the night before; is getting a D- in English; and to top it all off, never liked me to begin with!
So, what exactly am I saying, anyway? Good question. Let's go back to that inspiration thing for a minute. To give you an idea, let me dig you a little deeper into my mind. Why exactly did I write this exact essay, you ask? What was my inspiration? You. The one reading this. Deep down, I have always had a desire to share my writing with the world, but the confines of the public school classroom had me scared and afraid that it was 'not up to par.'
Now I say, yet again, so what? I happen to like my writing. You should too. If you don't, I will still like you. Hopefully, you will still like me. Now that that is settled, I will share with you a story about inspiration.
One of my favorite singers is a sixteen year old from New York City named Jesse McCartney. You probably haven't heard of him, but that's okay. Not many people have. The point is that he was recently sharing a story about a 'weird' inspiration that he had to write a song, and that story of his inspired me to write this essay.
His story was that he was sitting alone outside a cafe in Manhattan, just taking the sights and sounds of the world in (How rockstar-ish). He caught glimpse of a young girl, about five years old, eating her ice cream cone and looking content with herself. She wasn't caught up in the glitz and glamour of New York City, nor was she worried about the crime rate and tragedy that the Big Apple had to offer her, either. For the moment, she was peaceful and serene.
This leads me to the title of my essay, 'Take Your Sweet Time.' Don't we all need to pause and look around us? Enjoy the sights and sounds of the world. For a moment, do not worry. Don't think about arguments, homework, sickness, or poverty. Instead, fill your thoughts with laughter, happiness, friends, family, and joy.
But most of all, don't forget to take your sweet time.