Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.
Oscar Wilde
A Sleep Starved Student’s Guide to Writing a Last Minute College Paper
Having literally just stayed up all night finishing a sexy seven-pager for my post-modern literature class, the only thing on my mushy used-up mind is my English major’s late night mantra: WRITE OR DIE. I am at the point in my educational career where I no longer take tests. My grades are chunked out in writing assignments, most notably, the critical analysis or research papers. When the schisse hits the fan and it’s the night before a paper is due and I haven’t even started yet (quite often I haven’t even read the text yet) there are two things I ALWAYS do first: I light my Saint Jude candle (the patron saint of hopeless cases and lost causes), then I take my shirt off, turn my back to a mirror, and read aloud with vigor and vim the tattoo on my lower back: WRITE OR DIE. It’s my mantra, it has to be. If I’ve got seven pages to write before 8 the next morning, they have to be written. It’s not like a multiple-choice test where I can just walk in and guess my way through. If I don’t write, I die. My grade dies. The respect my professor has for me dies. A piece of my writer’s soul dies. So, to avoid death in all its forms I have adopted a sure fire strategy for writing those pesky last-minute papers. After the candle is lit and my mantra is sung, I follow these steps:
1.) First things first, do your research!
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
Gather up your sources like they are dying rosebuds and then spread them all around you. You want to have all of them ready and waiting to be placed gently in the beautiful floral arrangement that will be your paper. Imagine trying to organize a bouquet by picking it flower-by-flower, adding them to the arrangement as you pick them. It would look ugly, and if you treat your paper the same way, it will be ugly too. Doing your research first helps to organize your thoughts. This way you will know exactly what you have to talk about, and once you have that nice spread of sources in front of you, you are ready for the next step.
2.) Create an outline.
Get your dirty slipshod paper-house in order. Take those sources and form some sort of organization. It doesn’t have to be exhaustive, just get to know the flow. Know where it will start, and how the essay will build from there. I will usually type up my sources (or copy and paste them from articles) and then organize them by putting them in order of how I will use them. I absolutely love the feeling of looking at a long list of my sources; it gives me direction. While I don’t always know what I will say, I know that its basically a game of connect the dots, and my words are just the line between them. Once I finish discussing one quote, I can start heading to the next, and I never feel like I have hit a dead end because I always know where I’m going.
3.) Start writing. Just jump right into the paper.
The introduction doesn’t have to be perfect, just get your ideas down. Throw out a slapdash thesis and then get to the body asap. I like to think of my essay like a woman. If the introduction is her head, I don’t care whats in it at first, I care more about that rockin bod. Once she’s all dressed up and looking good, then I will return to the introduction and fine-tune the ideas.
4.) Take breaks.
As you write, take a short break every fourty-five minutes to an hour, every half-an-hour if you are a spaz. If you go too long bogged down in your writing your brain starts to overheat, and this is not something you want to happen early in the process.
5.) Eat food.
This is close cousin to step 4. Without food the body gets lethargic and apathetic, and whenever the body starts to go, the mind is not far behind. Even if you’re not hungry, keep snacks around. I love to munch on goldfish as I write, they are the perfect little companions because they don’t leave my fingers greasy and I never get tired of their appropriately bland mélange of cheese and salt. Eating also helps you stay awake, and in this case (when I’m not eating goldfish for sustenance) I like to suck on them until they are soft and then violently smash them against the roof of my mouth with my tongue—it’s a fun and tasty way to stay active and alert!
6.) Drink plenty of water.
Somehow as your body misses sleep it sucks away moisture from important places like your eyes and mouth. If you don’t stay hydrated your eyes get bloodshot and everybody you see the next day will think you are high or sick or just gross and treat you differently, and this is the last thing you want when you are barely able to function in the first place.
7.) Get sleep, if possible.
There will come a time, perhaps in the wee hours of the morning, when your mind has overheated to the point that your brain turns to warm slosh and begins to leak out of your ear. I think it goes without saying that it is very difficult to write effectively when this happens. It may seem counter productive, but if you think you can manage to get a few hours of sleep and arise bright and early and finish your essay with a fresh mind, then do it. You don’t want your conclusion sounding like a seventh-grader wrote it. This is a tricky decision, however, if you sleep and then don’t wake up you are screwed. Also, if you sleep and then don’t finish in time you are also screwed. So for the novice paper-writer I would recommend the full-on all-nighter to guarantee you finish, then once you can accurately gauge how well your sleep starved mind works under pressure, you can then try to throw a few hours of sleep its way if you trust it to finish strong the morning after. Also, when calculating how much sleep to get, remember that a REM cycle is an hour and a half. Getting the exact amount of sleep is critical and should not be undervalued! Don’t just crawl into bed and set your alarm for a random hour, sleep in increments of an hour and a half, no more, no less. If you fail to do this you risk the chance of waking during a REM cycle, and then you are zombie mode and you are really screwed. Eating alphabet soup and throwing it up onto your paper would be better than zombie writing it.
Following these steps will help you remain calm and collected the next time you are in the midst of a paper crisis. Just remember that it’s more important that you finish the paper, not that it be good. Also, buying your very own St. Jude candle wouldn’t be a bad idea either; you can usually find them at any grocery store for only a couple bucks, and they are super tall so they last for months.
As for me, I don’t even know how I wrote this. I didn’t sleep last night and I think almost all of my brain has leaked out of my ear at this point. I am probably just in writing-robot-mode. Beep boop beep. Preparing to conclude. Beep boop. So, in conclusion, I hope you bookmark this post and use it in a time of need. Follow each step and it will guide you safely through the psychedelic nightmarish night of writing you have ahead of you.
It is what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it.
Oscar Wilde
Why skit-soid?
To help explain the title of my blog it was inevitable that I would need to address “schizoid-ism” at some point. While I wish I had the time and energy to write an intelligent and concise introduction to the topic, I don’t, and I haven’t the slightest idea when I will. So instead, I am going to use a creative non-fiction piece I wrote for a writing class earlier this year. I’m not proud of the aimless hasty writing, but I don’t have the time to rewrite it, and besides, its unpolishedness gives it a raw human quality (remember, its okay to get naked emotionally).
I made a goal of posting here everyday, understandably there will be some posts that are good, as for the rest, lets just call them grey. Grey is undefined, neither good nor bad, nor trying to be either. It is as it is. (I have much more to say about grey, it will have to wait for a future post though as I need to stop working on this and study for a test I have to take in two hours).
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The Crisis of Identity: A Brief and Incomplete History of How I Learned I was Schizoid.
There was a very large period of time in my life’s relative small timeline when I did not know who or what I was.
I understand how cliché this conundrum can sound. It is a problem that is normally sounded, as if a trumpet, during the war of personal crisis. When one slows down long enough to let the world continue to spin while their head gradually comes to a complete stop, and like stepping out of an airport into a foreign country, there is that moment of alien clarity. Surroundings suddenly look different. Everything takes on a new, slightly distorted meaning, and the senses tingle and dance as they play ping-pong with the queer stimuli.
It is in these moments people shrink back in a terror of self-conscious introspection. They look at themselves in a mirror and do not recognize the imposter staring back. In this delicate moment of panicked anguish, they sound the trumpet of identity crisis.
Identity crisis is one of the classic and chronic banes of humanity. It is no water off our back. In fact, it is a King Kong of emotion that hangs from humanity’s neck like an overgrown baby monkey from hell. It alights on the unsuspecting, lights a fuse, and explodes in epiphany. This epiphany comes in infinite forms depending on age, gender, and all of those other stereotypical yet necessary human distinctions. This epiphany of identity crisis festers, demands its limelight, and spawns statements like mine above: “who am I?” “Who have I become?” “What am I doing with my life?” “I’m not like I used to be.” “I feel like I’m losing myself.”
I have great reverence for this great identity crisis. However, mine is of a different breed. It has a name, unlike those of mid-life crisis, fallen through friendship, or broken heart, my crisis is chronic and lasting.
I remember the moment when I realized that my identity was in crisis. It was when I was nineteen-years-old. I was a drifting vagrant for a couple months staying with different relatives in California and Utah. At this point in my life I had been out of high school for an entire year: away from friends, my immediate family, and my room (an incubator filled with books, video games, and television; warmed by their lifeless technological light I rarely ventured outside). Away from these things, I began to lose what I thought was myself. I remember the exact moment it happened, that moment of clarity when I looked at the world around me with foreign eyes, a world that suddenly seemed so different from the one “I used to know.”
I was sitting in the passenger seat of my grandpa’s Forerunner, he had just picked me up from the airport and we were heading back to his house in Sebastopol, California. I sat there in an awkward silence, speechless; I had nothing to say. Was there nothing to say? There had to be something to say. I used to be so good at talking to people, telling stories, making eye contact. Now I couldn’t even look over at my grandpa; eye contact had become uncomfortable.
I looked out the window at the passing cards in the oncoming lane of traffic. The people in those cars were all talking, laughing, enjoying one another’s company. How is it that I can sit here with my grandpa, my own flesh and blood, and have nothing to say?
Looking straight ahead I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He was concentrating on the road, he had a toothpick in his mouth which was typical. Every memory I have of him is not without that toothpick. I liked the way he used it. It was familiar to me. Comfortable. The way he would maneuver it around with his lips and tongue and it would make quiet mouth sounds. I watched him do this out of the corner of my eye, if I turned my head too far to the left he would think I was initiating conversation, and I didn’t want that…and I didn’t know why.
I loved the silence of that drive, but I hated it. It was more comfortable than speaking would have been, but it was suffocating. Like I was trapped, out of air, and I looked forward to getting home, as if I would open the car door and heave the outside air into my lungs, the calming cool air that makes up the center of a safety bubble I never knew I had.
This realization came almost five years before I would finally learn what it was that caused my identity pains. When the answers did come, they came as a result of two years of counseling at my University. I worked my way through doctors, watched them sit in their chairs and muse over the potential problems, heard them throw out terms like bipolar, social anxiety, manic depressive, obsessive compulsive, and even sociopathic. I watched them scribble prescriptions to counteract these problems and I swallowed every one of the prescribed pills. Nothing worked. What was my problem? I didn’t know, and neither did they.
It got to the point when I had had enough not knowing. After refusing to take any more bipolar medicine, because a) it wasn’t working, and b) for fear of getting priapism (when you get an erection that doesn’t go away and they have to physically drain your penis of the blood…*shudder*), I decided it was time to try and see a new councilor and see if he or she would have any new insights. Thankfully, I was referred to the “best psychologist we have,” named Lars.
The first time I sat down with Lars I remember immediately being set at ease. Lars is a small man who wears large glasses and a bowtie, as non-threatening as they come. “So what would you like to talk about?” he asks as he smiles and offers me a Diet Coke which I politely refuse and then reply, “ I don’t really know, I’ve seen everybody else here and they referred me to you because you are the best.” “Well, what seems to be the problem?”
I went into my normal spiel about how I hate being around people; how I have a very specific way I like to handle social situations. I feel like I notice too much and my mind reels. I worry too much about what I say and do when I’m in public, but then there are times I could care less. I can’t stand small talk. I have no set personality; it changes with my surroundings, mood, friends, or even the TV series I’m currently watching. I don’t like long-term relationships, or any relationships at all for that matter. I am good at intimacy, but only in spurts, and on my terms, I actively avoid it otherwise. During rare and exhausting moments I can soak up attention and bask in its warm center, but mostly I loathe it and want to remain unnoticed in the corner. I wish I could be invisible, so that I could be around people without being with people. I feel nothing towards other people, no feelings of love, loyalty, compassion, but also no feelings of hate, envy, or dislike. I feel indifferent. Apathetic. Unconcerned with the world around me, and content alone in my room away from it all. All these things and more. Lars listened patiently, offering insights as I went a long, but offering no real solutions.
After a couple weeks of meeting with Lars, he mentioned that he was fascinated with my dislike for intimacy, and he probed further, speculating on my anti-social and apathetic behavior and feelings. There was a passing moment when he threw out a term I had never heard before: schizoid. I asked him what it meant, and he replied something about not being able to have close relationships with others. I told him that couldn’t be me because I was able to have close intimate relationships with others, and in many instances I preferred them over shallow surface relationships with acquaintances or friends, but that yes, in general I would rather be alone. Not thinking anything more about this, we moved on and it wasn’t until two weeks later when I was listening to the recording of that session that I took the time to look the term “Schizoid” up online.
According to Wikipedia, Schizoid personality disorder (SPD) is a personality disorder characterized by a lack of interest in social relationships, a tendency towards a solitary lifestyle, secretiveness, and emotional coldness. SPD is not the same as schizophrenia, although they share some similar characteristics such as detachment or blunted effect.
Immediately I was captivated, and spent the next few hours researching all I could about SPD. This was my crisis! This was its name! This is what I am, a schizoid, but what does that mean?
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That is all I will include from the creative non-fiction piece. Here is a brief afterwards though:
I learned that it took so long to diagnose me because I am a rare form schizoid, a secret schizoid. Which is defined on wikipedia as:
Schizoid individuals who present with an engaging, interactive personality style which contradicts the timidity, reluctance, or avoidance of the external world and interpersonal relationships as emphasized by conventional definitions of the schizoid personality.
Secret schizoids present themselves as socially available, interested, engaged, and involved in interacting in the eyes of the observer, while at the same time, he or she is apart, emotionally withdrawn, and sequestered in a safe place in his or her own internal world.
This may all be a little confusing, but then again some of it may also hit home. We all experience crises of identity at one point or another. It would be impossible not to; especially in this crazy day-and-age of technology, where the “real” self is at constant odds with the self we project on the internet and other forms of social media. Schizoid doesn’t only refer to a personality disorder, it refers to anything that has inconsistent or contradictory elements. Don’t we all fit that definition at times? Aren’t we all a little schizoid? I would hope so. There is always more than meets the eye, and that’s a good thing. In a world where we all try so hard to be something, anything, everything, it’s good to remind ourselves that we are more than the sum of all of our technologically divided parts. I am more than what people think of me, and if that’s the case, people are more than what I think of them. Weird.
To end, I will quote the erudite Kanye West who in his song Power samples a line from the King Crimson song about the double nature of society. He ends his chorus and the song with the line:
21st century schizoid man.
The whole chorus is as follows:
No one man should have all that power
The clock’s tickin’, I just count the hours
Stop trippin’, I’m trippin’ off the power
(21st century schizoid man)
Kanye, thank you for reminding us you are more than just the douche bag who interrupted Taylor Swift at the VMAs, and that we should be more than just the shallow critics who all echo the same baa of condemnation in eerie unison. You’re right, why should we give you all that power?
A Dream Deferred
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Langston Hughes
[in-spuh-rey-shuhn]
As this is my first post—and the symbolic first page of the novel that will be this blog—I feel that it would be inappropriate to begin without acknowledgements.
To Brian Doyle:
For reminding me its okay to get naked emotionally, and inspiring me to be a better writer, witness, and human being. Who knows when I would have gotten around to writing if it weren’t for you.
To the laundry list of things I love, like, and even the things I don’t like:
Thank you for the inspiration. For the good, the bad, and the grey. To quote the tortured writer in one of my favorite movies Vanilla Sky, “You can do whatever you want with your life, but one day you’ll know what love truly is. It’s the sour and the sweet. And I know sour, which allows me to appreciate the sweet.” Also, “Because without the bitter, baby, the sweet ain’t as sweet!”
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Its funny the things that inspire us. Everyday things like music, conversation, art, home, church, school, the list goes on. We love these things, so much so that the word “things” suddenly feels inadequate to describe them. In any case, it is from these “things” we draw inspiration.
Having just been recently inspired and witnessing the phenomenon first hand, inspiration has been on my mind. One of my habits (I haven’t decided if it is good or bad yet, so I’ll call it grey) is needing to look up the definition of words. The Dictionary app on my iPhone is like crack to a word addict like myself. I’m not entirely sure why, but I have this silly fear of using a word the wrong way. Maybe its because I am an English major and should know what words mean, or maybe its just because I enjoy words and their play; either way, I like to word walk the word talk.
Here is what I found for the word of the post: in·spire. For the sake of space, I will only include a few of the definitions (if you really want them all, you’ll have to look it up yourself; you might as well just get the Dictionary app if you don’t have it already).
[in-spahyuhr]
verb (used with object)
- to fill with an animating, quickening, or exalting influence: His courage inspired his followers.
- to produce or arouse (a feeling, thought, etc.): to inspire confidence in others.
- to animate, as an influence, feeling, thought, or the like, does: They were inspired by a belief in a better future.
- to communicate or suggest by a divine or supernatural influence: writings inspired by God.
- to take (air, gases, etc.) into the lungs in breathing; inhale.
- Archaic
- to infuse (breath, life, etc.) by breathing (usually followed by into).
- to breathe into or upon.
Inspire is a cool word. Its a human word. It helps explain how we communicate with each other; important because in my view, communication is the essence of life. It’s what I’m doing right now. I’m communicating with you, and you like it, your reading this aren’t you? But more importantly, I hope I am inspiring you. That might sound weird, to read a blog to be inspired. Who does that? Keep reading, you’ll see.
Many years ago I remember reading somewhere that the root of inspire means “to breathe life into,” and that definition always stuck with me. The image that initially comes to my mind is a mouth to mouth thing. It reminds me of the time when I would pin my little brother down and put my mouth over his and breath into his lungs. While fun to do with siblings or a girlfriend, this is not the kind of inspiration I am talking about today (maybe in a future post). I love the epistemology of words. While we may not use them in their traditional or original sense today, understanding their history helps us to understand their “true” meaning. Inspire is one of those cool words that has an awesome secret meaning.
Being inspired means to have life breathed into you. It implies an interaction with another living thing. The wind can blow, but only living things can breathe. Because of this association with living things inspiration has been irrevocably tied to life in my mind.
Those “things” that inspire me? Well they aren’t really things at all. Things in themselves cant breathe. They cant connect to me on intellectual, emotional, physical, or spiritual levels.
What I’m really trying to say is that those “things” we love so much, they are people. Musicians are the music. Friends are the conversation. Artists are the art (Note: I have a thing for cheesy alliteration). Families are the home. You get the point. People breathe life into whatever they touch. And the great thing about it is that it’s contagious. Some of the most beautiful things in life are a product of chain reactions. We are ultimately a product of cell division. The lightbulb in your room, its power is a product of an electron wave. I always like to imagine electricity passing through a wire like “The Wave” through a sports crowd; and just like a sporting event wave, a chain reaction of inspiration is a beautiful thing. Whether it’s a musician channeling life through his or her music, or connecting with a friend who is giving you metaphorical CPR, inspiration travels just as fast and as efficiently as electricity.
So, in the spirit of inspiration, I’ve committed myself to taking deeper breaths of life. One of my favorite quotes is from the movie Shadowlands about C.S. Lewis’s life. After seeing a student stealing a book, Lewis confronts him and asks him why. The boy replies, “We read to know were not alone.” Isn’t that just so true? You probably agree but I’ll throw out a couple of cliches to prove my point anyway. We are a brotherhood of man. No one is an island unto himself. I’m going to use the word synergy now and don’t cringe, I’m aware how cliché it has become because we beat it to death in team building activities and the like, but cliché or not, something beautiful happens when we witness the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. When we open our minds, hearts, and (occasionally) our mouths we find ourselves being inspired, filled up with life like a proverbial balloon, one that can never pop and whose circumference measures happiness.
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