My winter break is a month long. It’s kind of excruciating. While I’m thankful to have a few days off from the intensity of school life, the days begin to drag and I begin to feel like a purposeless blob. I’ve set myself an exciting project to fill up my last two weeks of vacation, but it’s a big thing to take on solo (more details to come soon, I hope!). Though I’m really psyched to be doing this project, it’s requiring a lot of introspective writing, and I’ve hit a point of self-doubt. It’s not writer’s block as much as it is writer’s commitment phobia. I try and try to start writing what I need to, but it never turns out the way I like; it’s either too journalistic or too abstract, too juvenile or too precocious. The perfectionist in me is throwing a fit. After sitting around the house today, not making any progress and watching TV for (ahem) hours, I decided I just needed to get out and get moving. I walked about a half mile to a nearby park and nestled myself in a little clearing surrounded by pines, removed from the rolling grass of the park and with my back to the hills. I tried writing again for the project before realizing that it just wasn’t happening and that I needed to take a break from forcing it. Instead, I ripped out the page a I had written a single sentence on, crumpled it up into a little ball, and then unfolded it and wrote upside-down on the page. I just spouted, writing about anything I darned well pleased, and the rumply texture of the paper and the new orientation was freeing—I wasn’t trapped in the lines of the notebook anymore. For me, it’s really easy to just try and try and try without realizing that sometimes all you need to get started again is a good step back and a few deep breaths.