The Bowdoin Orient

April 13, 2001
Volume CXXXII, Number 21

How to write a paper when your muse has completely vanished

by ACADIA SENESE - COLUMNIST

   So, here I am. Waiting for divine inspiration to strike. I've been waiting for a while now, and well, I am yet to be struck. I'm not sure if my hair is supposed to streak white as it does when lightning strikes, but whatever the consequence, I know that I'm just not writing. Usually my muse hides in waiting 'til deadlines loom, and then she reveals herself. But this week, well, I think she's on vacation, and who wouldn't want to be? So, yeah, this muse thing really isn't, well, amusing. Patience only lasts so long when impending due dates are in just a few hours. Maybe she just doesn't know where to look for me. I've been hiding in the library all week; it's conceivable she thought I fell into a black hole, a vortex of time and space that is essentially the definition of a library. In fact, I'm here right now, in the basement of Hawthorne and Longfellow. What an interesting place this little computer room is.
   The guy next to me is making faces at his computer screen-I wonder if he can see his reflection or the paper that he is writing demands that he make faces. Making Faces 101, now there's a course I should try. How does one begin a paper for that class? "If one must make a face, it is better to do so in the privacy of one's home, but if the aforementioned is not at your disposal, make sure that the muscles of your face contract in an upward fashion into what has been coined a 'smile.'" Maybe I should ask him. The girl on my right has checked her email five times in the past two minutes-talk about obsession. I secretly mutter "Girl, if he was gonna email you, he would have done it already. Saturday night was like four days ago, get over him. And no, you are not getting that fancy tube top back." followed, of course, with a few finger snaps on a zig-zagging hand.
   Actually, this is pretty fun. Here I am. No one knows what I am doing-which is, of course, watching and writing about the people around me. Little do they know the intention of this little observation exercise. That is, of course, the beauty of it all. I just have to play cool. Yup, typing away, I've got this Huge paper due tomorrow, yup, that's right, for my sociology class. It's a doozy. In fact, I better keep typing. The guy right across from me just sat down. An interesting fellow. I wonder what he is working on. Looks like government class. Ahh, another aspiring politician. I wonder what his take on the Jesse Jackson trip to China is. He looks a bit stressed. The paper is probably due tomorrow morning, and from the looks of it, well, he just hasn't started it. I could do his internal monologue for you, but I'm afraid it would appear as a series of asterisks and dollar signs.
   And finally, directly behind me, (Yes, I turned around to look) is Mr. Surf the Internet himself. Doesn't he have work to do? Or does he have that much money invested in stocks that he has to check the Dow every ten minutes. (Alright, maybe he's an econ major). But still, who has time to surf the web? Next I think he'll be checking out I'msosmartidon'thavetodowork.com. Yeah, it sucks just knowing everything. Maybe his computer will freeze on him, mid-stock check. Heaven forbid he be forced to go outside and enjoy the nice weather. Oh, and then there are, of course, the floaters of the computer room. Bouncing in and out, here and there. What an energetic bunch. But must they insist on making a grand, rambunctious entrance everytime they walk in, as if a gale a force just blew them in. They know all of us stuck behind a computer are going to look. Who wouldn't? I'm going to lay down an extension cord right across the doorway, then let's see how grand the entrances are.
   From the looks of it, I think I'm the only sane one here. "Look" and "sane" being the two operative words in that sentence. My muse is outside basking in the sun, that I am sure of, and laughing at me the whole time she does. But in the meantime, I'm gonna breathe in some very stuffy air, turn to the guy next to me and stick out my tongue, email the girl on my right, steal the stressed-out gov major's coffee, ask the guy directly behind me if he heard that the stock market crashed, and tell all the floaters to stop distracting me. Can't they see that I'm writing a paper?