Feardom

I'm at my computer -- clove burning in my Urban Outfitters ashtray, Hazelnut-flavored coffee cooling in my West Wing mug -- and I'm staring, afraid. Every once in a while I'll Alt+Tab to MS Word and look at the sentence I wrote. And I'll stare, afraid. But of what? Why?

I'm afraid that this paper I'm attempting to write on Passing will be something that Ann Snitow or Melissa Monroe would ask me to rewrite. I'm afraid that the admissions committees at the three schools I'm applying to will look at this paper, my writing sample, with a misunderstanding eye and discard it immediately.

I'm afraid that this is the first time I have brought this kind of passion to a paper about a literary text and won't know what to do with it. That I won't know what to do with the hours and hours of thinking, back-and-forth e-mails with the professors, and outlining I have done.

I'm afraid I won't be able to live up to the comments I've received via the aforementioned e-mail from the aforementioned profs regarding my thoughts: "intelligent"; "cogent"; "spot on"; "rich."

I'm afraid to start because I don't want to fail. But I can't fail if I don't start. And there's no chance of succeeding without the possibility of failure.

Meanwhile, I've just finished a pot of coffee. I clipped my nails. And I've just organized the "Musicals" playlist on my iPod so that the overture of "Jesus Christ Superstar" is actually where it's supposed to be rather than buried for some strange reason in "Bring in 'Da Noise, Bring in 'Da Funk."I agonized over whether to put the "Chicago" soundtrack in the "Musicals" playlist or the "Soundtracks" playlist. "Hedwig" is in the "Soundtracks" playlist, but it, too, was a musical. I don't have the soundtrack from the musical, but I have the movie soundtrack. Following this logic, then, I should put the "Chicago" soundtrack in the "Soundtracks" playlist. But it's in the "Musicals" playlist now. I don't want to move it. But this doesn't make sense. And that bothers me. I must solve this. I have never before felt such trepidation while trying to write a paper. I am excited about my analysis, and I know that there is something to it: Clare as Irene's subconscious. When she falls/jumps/gets pushed out the window at the end, Irene must at once face her inability to accept who she is as a black woman, and figure out how to deal with this reality that she's been refusing. Simplification. There's more to it. But oh how much I love "Ragtime." What a voice Audra McDonald has. Alt+Tab back to Word. That sentence is still sitting there, mocking me. I'm looking at 12 blank pages of my future. And I'm looking at 12 blank pages of myself. If I fuck this up, if I can't find a way to transfer the shit in my head to paper, then I will let myself down. I have finally, after a year and a half, been able to look past the text to something more, something deeper. I've challenged the narrator. I've refused to accept the characters as they've been presented to me. Rich. Cogent. Spot on. Intelligent. Yeah, till I have to write it down. But writing is not all. The last 10 days have taken me on some kind of freak ride that I'm a little uncomfortable with. I've been up. Down. Fucking pissed off. Frustrated. Lonely. Ecstatic. Confused. Compassionate. Silent. Stressed. And I have no way of getting it out. I'm tired. But I can't go to sleep. I have to get something written, so that when I wake up, I won't feel like a failure. I have exactly two weeks to complete two papers and a statement of purpose, take the GRE, submit my PhD applications, and write a thesis proposal. I'm pretty sure I can do it.

But there is no chance of succeeding without the possibility of failure. I need to write. But I'm afraid.